Batty over bats

In general, I’m not a fan of bats. They simply don’t conform to my notion of cuddly critters.

And there’s that whole vampire thing. Not that I believe in them, but it happens that I’ve been binge-viewing season one of Buffy, Vampire Slayer and simultaneously reading The Twelve, Justin Cronin’s follow up to the best-selling literary fantasy, The Passage, about a race of vampire-like creatures created by some creepy army scientists.

After dinner last night, I settled in to watch a little Buffy- and I have to admit I watch the show more for glimpses of the ever-so-young, thin and hot David what’s-his-name, than for the drama. I thought I heard Jack mutter something from the dining room.

“What?” I asked, pausing Buffy reluctantly just when David entered the scene, and taking off my headphones.

“There’s something flying around in here,” he said. No big deal, I thought. Is there ever a time when several annoying winged creatures aren’t airborne overhead? All they have to do to gain entry to our habitat is slip through one of the ubiquitous holes in the place.

“It’s big,” he said, just as I turned and laid eyes on it. But I couldn’t really focus on the thing, it was moving too fast. I jumped away from the computer after it seemed to fly right for me.

“Is it a bird?” I asked, feeling a little silly about being afraid of a bird.

“I think it’s a bat, said Jack, who had joined me against the far wall in the living room. I’ll get my rake.”

In the back of my mind, I could hear my mother telling her story about the time the bat got into her bedroom and got tangled in her hair. I pulled up my hood, even though my hair is only about two inches long.

Jack stood in the center of the room, trying to herd the bat towards the door. He was proving a slippery opponent. He circled the room furiously, veering towards Jack’s wintery landscape, hanging over my computer. Finally, he slipped behind the painting. “How are we going to get him out of there?” I had visions of cleaning up bat shit from behind my computer every morning.

“I’ll get him out,” said Jack, wielding an aluminum yardstick. He rattled the painting, but the bat neither emerged nor squeaked. He dragged the stick along the back of the painting. “Can you see him?” he asked, pulling out a corner of the painting.

I could see him. He looked like a yo-yo sized ball of fur. “He’s so small,” I said. “Don’t hurt him!” Back in my college days, one of the guys on a camping trip had killed a bat at the urging of a gaggle of screaming females. The poor thing had uttered a heart-wrenching squeal as it died, and afterwards, it hadn’t seemed threatening at all…

I decided to ask my Facebook friends for advice. Some interesting suggestions popped up, most of which involved capturing the creature. I did a Google search, and found an easier solution. We turned out the lights and opened the back door. Good bye, little fella.