HUMOR | PERSONAL ESSAY | FUN WITH BATS

When Squatters Move In and You Haven’t Moved Out

Entertaining wildlife in your home

It had been a miserable day already. To add insult to injury, around midnight I was innocently lying in bed, quietly reading, when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. You try to convince yourself that you didn’t really see any phantom vision. Then you see it again.

Please, God, no! This cannot be! I thought.

Yea, verily, God said. It can be.

Lo and behold, there was a large bat zooming around in my bedroom. It had a wingspan of about 10 inches and kept circling and swooping at me, with evil intent, I was certain. Suffering from severe heebie-jeebies, I managed to lure him out of the bedroom and closed the door. (He may or may not have been gleefully chasing me).

I warily settled back in bed and picked up my book, my heart still pounding. After a few minutes, I was lulled into a false sense of security.

Then that little bastard got back in and the real fun began.

The battle commenceth

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the ridiculously small broom we have. Its saving grace is that it has a festive zebra print handle. It’s good for glamorously sweeping the tile, but for serious battle with flying vermin, not so much. However, it was the only weapon available, and I got serious with it. I kept twirling around swinging at the invader, my favorite ratty nightgown flapping in the breeze gaily.

Don’t laugh. Bats are fast — you have to step lively.

I smacked him good once, and he hit the floor. Victory was at hand! But as I bent over to admire my work, the wretched beast came back to life and made a beeline straight for my face. I swung so furiously at him then that I spun around, got dizzy, lost my balance, and fell against the dresser, upon which perched the brand-new, très expensive OLED TV.

Yikes!

I barely avoided smashing my nose on the corner of the dresser in the process.

At that point, I conceded the battle (discretion is the better part of valor, after all) and beat a hasty retreat out of the bedroom door once again, with Mr. Bat in hot pursuit.

I flung open the garage entry door to the left, in hopes he’d go out there, only to see him soar majestically up into the balcony area of the second floor and disappear.

He may or may not have thumbed his little bat nose at me as he flew by.

I scuttled back into the bedroom, slammed the door, laid the broom and a big towel (for professional bat trapping purposes) at the foot of the bed, then waited. Mr. Bat did not reappear, but I still slept uneasily with a pillow over my head, periodically jerking awake thinking something had touched my face.

Exterminator guy enters the picture

The quasi-professional exterminator guy (aka our handyman) came and did his thing. I’m sad to report that after $500 and the desecration of the huge, beautiful pot of flowers on my front porch, which apparently were right where he needed to set his ladder, I found myself once again hiding in my bedroom with a towel stuffed under the door because Mr. Bat decided to grace me with his presence once more that evening.

Predators like to toy with their victims.

I imagined he was seeking revenge for the swat I’d given him last night, as well as the untimely disappearance of 10 of his closest friends.

Taking matters into my own hands

I declared all-out war and made a quick trip to Walmart to gather weapons to add to my arsenal that up to this point had only included a dinky broom and a bath towel.

I was on a mission. We in the hinterlands of Indiana know a thing or two about how to deal with bats.

I’d hoped to regale my Facebook friends with a successful bat eviction tale that fine morning, but alas! Mr. Bat apparently took note of my preparations for his involuntary removal and went on the down low.

I would really, really have preferred to know where he was.

I was rather looking forward to our duel if only to be able to tell my husband that his wife is bad-ass.

In other news, said husband, charming lad that he is, commenting from the safety of the commercial vessel where he was working, helpfully suggested that Mr. Bat was “probably hanging inside a coat” in one of our closets.

Oh, for the love of all that’s holy! Jesus take me now!

Return of quasi-exterminator guy

The handyman/bat guy arrived again, and, for an additional $500, discovered another merry band of 10 bats in the small attic over our garage, for a grand total of 21. When he went away, so did the bats. At least for awhile.

It wasn’t long before they found a way around the screen he’d installed to keep them out of our attic.

Interfering do-gooders

At this point, friends began lecturing me on the positive attributes of bats. Why, aside from their hobby of dive-bombing innocent bystanders, they eat all sorts of mosquitoes and other pests! One went so far as to say I should “become friends with my enemy.”

Well, Becky, that’s all well and good for you to say, but if you were fighting off a flying furry creature zooming at your face in the middle of the dark, dark night, you might feel differently. Get away from me.

Final observations

Bats are creepy as f*ck. I don’t care what they eat or contribute to society. I can admire them intellectually, but when they want to shimmy under the covers with me and throw a leg over — Houston, we have a problem.

Thanks for reading. I appreciate you, always. Never hire your handyman to rid your house of bats.

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