At first, when I saw it’s little shadow zipping around my office walls, I thought the light from my computer screen had attracted the largest moth ever captured.
How wrong I was.
I don’t know how the mangy little critter managed it, but there he was, fluttering like a broken umbrella around my room with those fleshy wings. I, ever the calm, collected one, dove head first out of the office, pulling the door tightly behind me.
As Guy was sleeping far too soundly for my liking, and was actually drooling on my pillow, I felt no guilt about waking him up to save me from the much afeared, wing-ed beast. As Husband was hauling himself out of REM sleep, I let him know of his mission: Get the bat out of my office, but for goodness sake, don’t hurt him.
I felt compelled to add that little bit at the end on account of our last Bat Incident.
Several months ago, upon finding a bat in my mudroom, I asked my loving spouse to perform one of his many husbandy tasks and “Get rid of it.”
To me, the animal-loving vegan, this meant, “Please gently remove the harmless mammal from my home and reunite it with it’s family out in the wild.” To my husband, this meant, “Please swing at that horrid little creature with a tennis racquet, bouncing it off the floor several times.”
I stood, horrified, mouth gaping open, watching this tiny, leathery creature, writhe in pain on my dirty linoleum floor.
I immediately started sobbing uncontrolably, and insisted he take the small victim outside.
I am happy to report, however, Batty was gone in the morning. I prefer to think this is because he regained consciousness during the night, and was able to fly, if perhaps a little wobbly, home.
This makes me feel better than the other alternative, where distraught bat relatives come to carry off his corpse, all the while planning revenge on the evil giant who killed their brother.
Anyhow, back to the present.
My valiant knight dragged his hairy arse out of bed and, putting clothes on, (he has heard the myth that bats like hair) rode to my rescue with sword and shield. Well, make that pillowcase and a roll of cellophane.
The plan was to urge the bat into the pillowcase with the cardboard roll.
The bat, of course, had other plans.
It took us about ten minutes to locate the little beggar. All we had to go on were his tiny, nails-on-chalkboard screeches, which seemed to bounce off the walls.
We finally found him wedged behind a bunch of books on the highest shelf in my office. It amused me to watch Guy grab a handfull of paperbacks, throw them to the ground, squat, and cover his head.
Where was I?
I was valiantly covering the exit so the bat could not escape. Okay, so I was peeking at Husband’s progress through a crack in the door, shut up.
Regardless, Batty decided he didn’t like being up so high, so he flew under another bookcase. Guy, the raving genius I married, then used the cellophane roll to herd him out from under the shelves and intothe pillow case.
And what was done after such pains were taken to insure Batty’s prolonged life and liberty?
Husband opens the window of the office and violently shakes the pillowcase empty. As the office is on the second floor, I’m assuming I’ll find Batty plastered to our gravel driveway in the morning.
Poor little bugger.
Didn’t stand a chance.