It’s been over a week since my husband high-tailed it away from the bat situation on a loosely scheduled trip to visit an old friend combined with three days of windsurfing and camping on the way home.
(Please see Living With A Bat and The only thing worse than a bat in the house is an angry bat in the house. for full history.)
I’m not giving away any secrets when I mention my husband is weak-kneed and chicken-livered when dealing with critters.
While he’s been gone, my routine consisted of work, added dog-walking, and trying to exercise—I ran once. As I fought off a nasty cold, commenced a rigorous screenwriting commitment, and met with the bat guy expert who had bat-proofed our home a year earlier, yet couldn’t explain how this bat got in nor was he able to find it to remove it…
I also had to squeeze the rest of the hours in the week to deal with the bat myself.
Yes, I know I looked like a nervous Nelly crazy woman to the neighbors and I owe at least three of them a great big party.
They’ve come to my rescue when I needed help inspecting the sticky traps, as I shivered with fear in the background.
They’ve checked on me when I sat in my car in the late night and wee morning hours with the door to my house wide open after I jerry-rigged a path from the basement and opened all the ceiling tiles to lure the bat to come out.
That plan was aborted when two curious raccoons started sniffing their way inside.
The neighbors gave my car battery a jump when it wouldn’t start because I finally turned on the radio during those combined 6 hours of open-door vigilance and listened to a wonderful NPR program, “For Love of the Game” which ironically featured a spot about a 34 ton BAT.
The tenseness mounted all week: Is the bat in the house? Did it get out? Did it get caught (again) in the sticky traps? Did it shut down and die? Was it now flying loose somewhere in the rest of the house? Does it have rabies like the last bat? Where IS it? Popular opinion among those who don’t live and walk around my home with permanent baseball cap hair, is that the bat got out and I missed seeing it. Dare I hope?
Meanwhile, my husband offered suggestions and critiques, and sent me photos of the beautiful sunsets and sunrises he was enjoying. Yaay for you, honey. I rather un-gently suggested he not quarterback me from 3 states away and one particular morning when I received his splendorous sunrise photo, my knee-jerk reaction was to send back my sunrise photo; our dog pooping.
When I have that thank you party, I will also invite all our friends who listened and offered support, advice, and a place to stay during this latest bat drama.
It’s becoming anticlimactic, but last night, after almost 24 hours of silence, I heard the bat in the drop ceiling.
He was doing laps over the sticky tape obstacle course. All my efforts to free him had been for naught. I can’t decide if he’s super smart not to get caught or super stupid not to go free when I rolled out the red carpet? I imagine a little bat smile, but don’t know if it’s idiotic or smug.
It’s Sunday and my husband should be on his way home. It’s getting too cold to continue camping.
Upon his arrival, I’ll hug him and kiss him and tell him how much I’ve missed him. So will the dog. (The cat; not so much.)
Glad you’re home, honey. That bat you thought I’d take care of while you were gone? He’s all yours.
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