Twas the night after Christmas and all through the house,
I was screaming like a little girl because of die fledermaus.
Anyone who knows me is aware I do not react very well to bats in the house. At. All. It’s an irrational fear, I know, but it is what it is. I just don’t like them and get freaked out by them. For everyone else, this is great entertainment, including the bat. So, along with the obligatory stockings and gifts and Chinese take-out, a goddamn bat decided it would be fun to fly around and scare the shit out of Kevin.
My brother and mother handled it well. The dogs didn’t much care one way or the other. But me? I was on the kitchen floor in the fetal position, holding my brother’s dog, trying to go to my happy place (I didn’t find it).
After the bat made one pass over our heads, he was nowhere to be found. A search party ensued, which included my mother’s neighbors, who are adept bat hunters. I chose to not look very hard, for fear that I might actually find the bat.
After a couple hours, the search party was called off. This bat was in hiding. So we slept the night with a bat somewhere in the house.
Long story short, the bat came out the following night while I was on the phone with DirecTV, setting up my mother’s HD receiver. I never saw the bat because I bolted for the door when I heard the commotion. Wielding a 30-year old tennis racket (the official weapon of choice when hunting bats), Shawn swatted him out of the air. After a brief struggle, the bat was returned to its natural habitat…post mortem. Shawn, you should know, is not a hostage taker.
I look forward to Christmas with my family, but here’s to hoping our Christmas tradition no longer includes hunting for a bat in the house. Then again, every time I scream like a little girl, an angel gets its wings.