Despite any allergy unpleasantness, I have bid a forceful adieu to the veritable hell that was this summer and greeted the fall’s cooler weather with open arms and open windows. I slept soundly Sunday night, enjoying the evening’s sub-70-degree temperature and looking forward to the month’s electricity bill if I could keep my A/C shut off for the month. And so Monday morning, I closed all my apartment’s windows and went to work with a fair amount of pep in my step, well-rested and looking forward to pants, sweaters and boots.
After an excellent day, I returned home, chattering away on the phone with my beloved, sharing this and that as I put away my shoes in my bedroom. From the corner of my eye, I spied something moving in the air, and thought to myself, “well, bugger, I let in a moth last night.” I turned around to check out my intruder in flight, only to realize it was much, much bigger than a moth. I shrieked into my phone “OMIGATHERE’SABIRDINMYROOM!”, quickly threw open one of my bedroom windows, and scurried out, slamming the door behind me, leaving my boyfriend to wonder from across town if I had just been massacred.
I perched on my couch, heart pounding in my chest, giggles erupting like ill-timed belches. I figured, well, we’re both a little freaked out here, so I decided to give the bird a moment to itself to figure out that it was time to leave my high-rise apartment and find a tree somewhere. After what I felt was a fair time-out, I cracked open my door, and there it was, zooming around my ceiling fan like a horrific, high-speed carousel. Thinking that perhaps it was freaking out with the fan and the light and probably couldn’t see the window at all, I slapped off the light and fan and closed the door.
So anyway, once again, my new winged roomie is left to his devices in my bedroom, and I’m hoping he’ll finally settle down and get the heck out of Dodge. I’m already thinking through cleaning up after he leaves because, I mean, he’s been in my house ALL DAY. UGH. And, once again, I crack open my door, turn on the lights, and, for a very brief moment, I think he’s gone.
But then… I look up.
And there he is.
Hanging from my ceiling.
It’s a g*d d*mn bat.
Look, I’ll stop right here and fess up: I am a total wuss. I’m not proud of my shrieks or sheer panic, but I guess you don’t really know what you’re made of until you’re faced with fear head on, furry wings and all.
At this point, I really start to decompensate. Every time I visualize trying to shoo the flying rat out of my home, my next prediction is that it will turn around and clamp onto my face, screeching like the Dickens (oh, wait, that’s probably just me…). No… no… I just can’t. I call my parents, and they ask where my boyfriend is. I call my boyfriend, and he asks what I plan to do: “well… I suppose I could move….” Finally, when he realizes this problem is NOT going to solve itself, and nor can I speak coherently, he asks if I would like him to come over and help.
At last my knight in shining armor arrives, and he gets straight to the task at hand (no chatting here; this boy is up past his bedtime). “Let’s get this done!” He bravely marches into my room with my wimpy broom as his fearless lance, and I slinked behind him, peeking around door frames and emitting little squeaks as he approached my foe.
C. quickly pins the bat to the ceiling with the brushy part of the broom while we (and by that I mean “he”) think through our next moves. First—the hunter that he is—he inquires as to whether I’d be okay with him hitting it with a hammer and just killing it. “Please no!” I cried. “It’s all my fault he’s in here; please please don’t kill him.” C. sighs, and we move to strategy #2 (bat is still pinned to the ceiling, by the way, to which I groaned “ahhh, is he dead?!?!”).
C: “Okay, do you have a large cup?”
And off I scampered to my kitchen, wrenching open cabinets to find a suitable implement in which to capture my trespasser. I return with a to-go cup from Gloria’s, plus a large, handled pot. C. finds my cup too small and my pot too big, but we go for the too big pot, and up he climbs onto a dining room chair, hoisting the soup pot to the ceiling, trapping the little bat inside. We slowly pull away the broom, ensuring the bat stays with the pot, and once more, C. finds himself standing with arms overhead while we (he) plot(s) our course. Ultimately, he slides a folder between the ceiling and the top of the pot, we tie a cord to one of the handles, edge the pot out my window as we close the window as much as possible, and then we let go, ending Operation: Bat-Be-Gone. My knight bids me farewell, and I’m left alone in my spooky apartment to search for evidence of the bat (none found thus far, thank goodness; guess he was snoozin’ all day long), and to clean up in the aftermath. And, finally, after about two hours of trying to calm my jangled nerves and skittering heart, I enjoyed a deep sleep in my air conditioned home.
I looked for the bat on the ground outside my window this morning, thinking perhaps he didn’t survive his plummet, but he was nowhere to be found. I hope he’s licking his wounds in a cozy cave somewhere, NOT plotting revenge…