When bat things happen to good people

Alternate titles for this post include "Getting the Batman to Cometh Back," "The Curious Incident of the Bat in the Night-time," and "Mother Nature, What Did I Ever Do to You?"

Previously on About Some Boys: Anithe relates an absorbing tale about how bat exclusions are done, why her house needs one, and why the previous homeowners didn't know about the bats. Join our intrepid heroine now as she shares an even closer encounter of the bat kind.

So, it's Saturday night, around 10:00. The kids are asleep, Dragon is off having fun in California, and I am relaxing on the couch and watching an episode of Medium. (Good one, too.) I am briefly distracted--was that something I just saw out of the corner of my eye?--but decide that I am crazy and turn my attention back to the television.

Unfortunately (at least this time), I am not crazy, as is soon evidenced by a flying creature zooming across the room. I briefly wonder if it is a bird, having recently had the family of birds living in one of our eaves called to my attention by a neighbor, but after a couple of seconds realize that it is not squawking, not issuing forth any white splats, and not feathered. In short, it is a bat. You know, the type of creature that was supposed to be GONE from the house after the bat exclusion? Yeah, one of those.

After letting out a few girlish shrieks (which is OK, as I am a girl), I get up and take a few minutes to observe it, having researched via Google what to do in this very situation. The bat whizzes around the room at a furious rate of speed, circling the ceiling frantically, and it becomes apparent that the bat does not want to be anywhere near a human--its radar is in fine working order, and it neatly avoids me every time it completes a lap. This reassures me slightly. I grab a T-shirt, thinking perhaps to trap it under a T-shirt and escort it outside, but bats fly awfully fast and have excellent radar, and it dodges the T-shirt expertly. Then I try holding open the front door, thinking perhaps it will fly out, but even passing by a human on the way outside is too much for it to contemplate...and it flies into the kitchen. I chase it in there, still holding the shirt, close the door to the upstairs and thus the sleeping children, and lose sight of it. Oh, dear.

Thinking "Oh no! It's gone in the basement and I'll never find it down there," I flip on the light in the back hall. Nope; having had enough of Crazy T-shirt Waving Lady, it's decided to hit the deck and hide by the recyclables. I drop the T-shirt on it, grab a bowl, and remove the T-shirt as I place the bowl over the bat, which is sort of cute up close. (But I still don't want to share a bedroom or living room with it.) Then I put the T-shirt over the bowl and call the local bat rescue lady, who a couple of months ago said she'd be happy to come pick up any bats I might encounter, but she does not answer. So I decide to leave the bat contained until morning, see what advice the Humane Society has, and sleep at my parents' house until then. The children wake up slightly when we get there; Boy Wonder falls asleep again readily, but Action Hero wants to stay up playing peek-a-boo with Mickey Mouse and a blanket. Yawn.

In the morning, I call the Humane Society ("I trapped a bat in my home last night. As far as I know, it is still under a bowl which is underneath a T-shirt. May I now retrieve it and bring it to you?"), and they say, "Sure, bring it in; we'll take it from there." (They also say, "You're so logical about this! Most people call up in a panic, asking if we can send someone out to pick up the bat--which, being a nonprofit organization, we can't--because they'll NEVER EVER GO IN THAT ROOM AGAIN. Thanks, it's nice talking to you.")

But alas, when I (along with my dad, for moral support) go to retrieve the bat, it has escaped. Mother Nature is far wiser than I am, it would seem. I try to be rational about the whole thing, and decide that if it can get out from under a T-shirt-covered container, it can certainly find its own way outdoors. But I do spend a few minutes complaining ("Why do I have to have bats? And birds? Why can't I just have the occasional centipede? Sure, they're hideous, but at least they don't whiz around the living room at 40+ mph!"). And I do call Batman back, saying, "I hate to tell you this, but there was a bat in my living room last night!" and he will stop by this week to inspect and, hopefully, re-exclude.

Despite my thinking that I will never be able to sleep again, the kids and I pass an uneventful night back at home. The bat rescue lady, who was out of town, calls back just before bedtime, and we chat briefly about my encounter. She also feels that the bat could probably find its own way outside, and suggests that the bat was probably a baby bat just learning to fly. I had been thinking that too. From what I've read, adult bats are very good navigators; once they've been roosting somewhere for a while, they know which crevices lead outdoors and which crevices lead to rooms that contain shrieking humans brandishing T-shirts, and make their choices accordingly. Baby bats, on the other hand, are lousy navigators and will crawl through random openings, making them somewhat likelier to end up freaking out in my living room.

BatWatch 2007 remains in effect, however, and the return of Batman is eagerly anticipated. And, as mothers often do, Mother Nature has the last word. This morning, I noticed a dark spot on the living room carpeting. As I got closer, I thought it was dryer lint. And after I turned on the light, I realized that it was...a centipede.

Mother Nature has a fine sense of humor.