My television obsession ended abruptly on the final night of Shark Week. I actually didn’t get a chance to watch the last episodes although I had every intention of hunkering down for a good 3 hours. My plans fell awry because just as I was about to turn on the boob tube, a bat, yes a BAT! got into the house and was swooshing and flapping around my head. I’ve had past dealings with bats. It’s an exhausting and terrifying ordeal because they’re so hard to catch even though they look like they fly slowly. I think it’s because they swoop and dive at your head when you’re trying to reign them in.
Now before you think I’m a bat-catcher, I have to clear things up immediately. My darling husband is the real bat-catcher. He has wrangled, on numerous occasions, numerous bats. Therefore if my darling husband was home, I’d have dispatched him pronto on the bat-catching duties while I found my ass-groove in the couch and plopped onto it until the following breaking dawn. No luck, no husband and no hope of him returning anytime soon. This was the scenario: Bat looping and swooping. Me screeching, ducking, running, hiding and swearing. Things got far worse when the cowardly terrier ran out of the room with his tail tucked between his short legs. Perfectly timed. The very moment it occurred to me to unleash the hounds from hell upon the nefarious winged Rodentia, I got a good look at my wimpy dog’s hastily retreating rump! Arrrgh! Why do I have that stupid dog if he won’t do anything but eat, sleep, poop and quake in fear?
Capturing this thing was realistically looking highly improbable. My Plan B (donning a bag on my head and hiding in the cabinet under the sink until help arrived) was a few swoops away from becoming reality. I swear this is true because every time that bat swooped, it buzzed the top or side of my head. I was positive it was going to get caught in the fire hazard that is my hair (not a big hair-do fan, not a big salon fan either) and it terrified me. Every few seconds the bat took a weird, swoopy circumnavigation around the rooms then it would land on the same picture frame. For those of you yelling at your computer about what I should have done while it was echolating around the inside of my house, Yes! Of course I opened all the windows and doors! But it never varied it’s flight path except to swoop at me regardless of where I was standing–all right, make that from where I was cowering and screeching.Enter the savior. The second bad terrier. The one who chewed every sock in this house, who picks fights on a daily basis with Rottweilers and pit bulls, who destroyed the legs and rungs of kitchen chairs and who habitually runs away to terrorize small children. She charged into the room snarling and foaming at the mouth (I have no idea where she was all this time–probably digesting my favorite smartwool sock) and began leaping into the air, yapping and snapping as she tried to catch it. The bat retreated to the picture frame instead of taking another weird swoopy-loop around the house (and into my hair). It didn’t move because the now good bad dog kept yammering away at it until I got it into a box.
I was rather nonchalant in my offhanded manner of telling my husband I did a catch-and-release of a bat. He acted duly impressed, especially when he heard how quickly I dealt with it. Then I confessed and described the true scenario and what he would have come home to if the good-bad dog was as useless as the cowardly-bad dog. It’s funny how that upset in my routine squashed my television ardor. I haven’t watched it since.