Hello, You Must Be Going

I have absolutely no interest in what lies in peices at the base of the fireplace. I am sure it is a gore-fest. No thanks.  I will remain in the darkened kitchen.  The boys can scoop up the carcas in the dark with their x-ray glasses on. 

Kate and I clink our beer glasses. The deed is done. The curtain has fallen on the drama.  The beast has been slayed.

Karl appears in the kitchen, rips a few papertowels off the roll and says a few patronizing words.  He returns to Bo and the deceased and we roll our eyes.

And then Karl turns into a 10 year old. Holding the dead bat in a wad of paper towels, he re-enters the kitchen, the shit-eating grin having returned to his face.

"Look what I have!" he says, moving into the kitchen and in our direction.

We squeal and turn our backs. If I can't see it, it isn't there, right? 

He's right behind us, threatening to put it on some part of our persons. I am sure it is just to see the eternally cool girls go completely ballistic, squeal like toddlers and do the Get It Off Me dance.

Not on my watch.

I pick up the cast iron skillet from the sink and spin around.  In the most deadly serious tone I can muster I threaten to brain Karl with the skillet in such a way that his mother will cry herself to sleep at night when she sees what I've done to him. 

Shit-eating grin still affixed to his face, he leaves the kitchen through the back door, trots down the steps and places the cadaver in the trash can. I am sure it will smell like a bed of roses by trash day.

He returns with a pitcher of beer.

"What do we have for food around here?" he asks as he pours another round. (Bo is polishing his gun.) 

"I have one Bubba burger, no roll. And some banana chips." Read that, "Nothing. So don't get any ideas about Betty and Wilma creating a feast for Fred and Barney just becasue they hunted down the brontosaurus."

Kate says, "I have hummus and crackers." 

Karl snarks, "I was just thinking I'd love some hummus and crackers!" 

And I was just thinking, "Don't put the gun away so quickly, Bo. I think I may eventually want to blow my brains out."

We eat hummus. We drink beer. Kate discovers she also has a jar of peanuts in her purse. (What?) Karl discovers Jack's home-infused lime-cilantro tequila and some glasses.

It's turned into a fraternity party.  And it is only 8 pm on a Friday night.

Show Time

Bo has a beer. Karl has a beer. Kate and I each have a beer.  And Kate and I set about examining all the gear Bo has brought with him for his premeditated rodent murder.

A gun. A real gun. It is heavy. Like a brick.

A flashlight. Will we be shooting long?  Will it be dark by the time we hunt it down?

As mason jar full of little round coppery pellets.  A whole mason jar. There must be 5,000 pellets. How lousy a shot is he?

Karl takes Bo to look for the bat. Thankfully it is still clinging to the stone corner of the fireplace, though Trinket is long gone, having grown bored with the lack of chase.

They return to the table to prepare for battle.

While they are deeply engrossed in planning the attack, Kate and I duck into the kitchen and text Charlotte.

"This is becoming quite a production."

"Did he bring Becky?"

He'd bring a Becky to kill a bat? She must be a beauty.

"No he brought someone named Bo. Who brought a gun."

"Oh."

And then "Let me know what happens with that."  As if to say, let me know if my house is still standing or looks like war-torn Berlin when it's over.  I am tempted to go pound the For Sale sign into the lawn now.

According to Karl and Bo we need to turn off the lights.

Oh do we now?

I'd turned on only one. I turn it off.

"How about the candles?" I ask.

"No!" they reply. They evidently like the mood lighting.

Figures.

They walk into the living room. They are wearing goggles. They look ridiculous.

Karl has the flashlight. It is a green light. The bat can't see the light but we can.

Hello, the bat can't see his own feet.  Kate and I keep going into the kitchen to giggle about how serious an undertaking this has become. But we go along with the high drama of it all.

Karl shines the light. Bo takes aim.

He fires off 7, 8, 9 shots. I am cowering in the kitchen with Kate, certain that the stuffing from the sofa is floating gently to the ground after the shoot out.

Then Karl says, "I think you got him. Let me get a towel." 

And with that, Kate and I are shreiking again.

Bat Man and Robin?

I fill the pitcher again. I am anxious to get things rolling but I think I need to appease the Gods of Have No Right To Ask For A Favor This Heinous first.

Karl and his shit-eating grin take a seat wedged between me and Kate on the step. It is clear that he feels like a celebrity. A superhero. The BMOC.

Karl tells us that this was his second distress call about a bat today.  The first Mayday came from a lesbian he knows in the neighborhood. He told her she was on her own.  Kate and I evidently have much more appeal  as non-lesbians, not that anyone's sexual preferences are up for discussion.

Karl wants to see the bat.  I volunteer to show Karl the cat/bat demonstration.

We walk in tiptoeing like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. We turn the corner. Trinket is posted on a chair looking intense.

Not wanting to seem like a nut I don't actually engage Trinket in conversation this time. Instead I look where she is looking...staring down The Beast.  At the stone fireplace surround.  At first I see nothing and I think I am going to have to Dr. Doolittle my way through this. Then I discern a  twitch. The bat is clinging to the stone corner of the fireplace. I point it out to Karl.  Somehow without shrieking.

"Eeeww, " he says. "Yep, there he is."  And then after a moment, "What's in his mouth?"

With these words I am on the run again.  One flying rodent is enough. If it has now caught itself another I may just have a stroke.

Karl stops me. "Oh, it's nothing to be worried about. It just looks like he caught something. He's just covered in dust balls."

Clearly, while in her pursuit of the bat, Trinket has mopped under all of Charlotte's beds with it.

Still, I am beginning to pit out again. I suggest more beer.  Like a moth to a flame, Karl follows me out.

We join Kate again. She's refilled the pitcher. "So,  Karl. No butterfly net. You've called Bo and his gun. What does it shoot? The bat IS inside the house."

I am picturing a shotgun.   "Yes, Karl. Remember that this is my sister's house. Not a hunting blind."

"Well I fix everything in the house anyway so if something doesn't go exactly as planned, or is shot to smithereens, I can fix it right up."

Oh good. We'll never get rid of him. I am beginning to feel nice and warm inside toward the bat. Maybe we should let it stay? I am sure Charlotte would prefer that her house not be reduced to splinters. I suppose I could call her if it turns into the OK Corral.  As I run down the street screaming, that is.

A car pulls up. A mild-mannered, bookish-looking man steps out. The Bat Whisperer?  An exterminator?  The Constable coming to haul me away in handcuffs for violating the noise ordinance?

No. It's Bo.

And he indeed has a gun.

Bat Man - The Beginning

We click on the first site. I am almost breathing normally now.

Kate reads to me. "Getting rid of a bat is very easy."

That's easy for you to say.

"You should try to get rid of the bat as quickly as possible."

Like I'd keep it around for the entertainment value.  And so much for that anyway. The bat has been hanging out with us for about an hour already.  Grubby little freeloading varmint.

"Bats pose a particular threat to your household pets as they are filthy.  They have been known to carry lice and ticks and fleas and are often diseased.  They may carry rabies and could infect your pet if one is bitten by a bat."

Joy.

"Cat's are especially at risk because they are intrigued by bats in flight and will hunt them, often catching them in mid-flight."

No shit, Sherlock.

"Once a bat is discovered, carefully place a tea towel over it. Pick it up gently and take it outside, talking to it softly to calm it."

Calm IT?!  Calm ME!

Once outside, place it on the ground and set it free. Step away from the bat to remove yourself from its path. It will not retaliate. It is grateful to have been released."

Seriously? Who wrote this? An Animal Psychologist? 

"Eff that, " Kate says. "Where is this Karl person?"

And as if summoned on demand, Karl pulls up to the house in his truck.  We literally squeal with delight.

Karl saunters up to the top of the stairs to say hello, shit-eating grin and all. I introduce Kate.

"So, Karl," she says. "Where's your butterfly net?"

"Oh, I'm not using a butterfly net," gloats Karl. "I have a secret weapon. I called Bo."

"So Bo has a butterfly net?" Kate jabs.  I am laughing out loud on the inside (where it counts) at the image. Two grown men running around with a butterfly net in pursuit of the elusive bat. I imagine lamps crashing and chandeliers swining and much brick-a-brack on the floor in smitereens. Not to mention the swearing.

"Oh no. No butterfly net," Karl responds. "He has a gun."

A gun?  Really?  The bat's body is as big as my thumb.  It's going to be a long night.

Same Bat Channel

I fill the pitcher. Kate and I sit at the top of the porch steps. I tell her the latest developments. She says there must be 1,000 ideas on the Internet that will give us some clue how to rid ourselves of this little bat problem. After the first pint, she'll get her iPad from the car and we'll Google a few ideas we can live with.

We sit. We sip. We wait for Karl.

And occasionally I panic.

What if the bat has gone into hiding? What if we can't find it ? What if Karl gets here, makes a sweep of the house, finds nothing, and decides he has more important things to do? Could we even begin to close our eyes to sleep knowing that there is a winged beast, who is very likely mad as hell and feeling vengeful, lurking in the many dark shadows of Charlotte and Jack's cottage?

So every few sips, I go on a recon mission. I creep into the house quietly, hoping to sneak up on the bat without sending it sailing all over the room in a flight of pure panic.

Each time, I find Trinket perched somewhere looking as though she is on high alert.

Trinket and I are on the same wave length. We get each other. I talk. She talks. I swear she knows what I say. What I think.

I can't see the bat when I come in and scan the room. I ask Trinket for her expert help. (After all she found it in the first place.)

"Where is it, Trink?"

Each time, she jumps down from her perch and as she lands, the bat scrambles from its hiding place. Unfortunately, it also begins to fly shortly afterwards.

Trinket is evidently tracking the little SOB. And I am apparently incapable of doing much more than run around the room shreiking with the maturity of a six year old.

I dash out another door and onto another section of the porch. I circumnavigate the house and rejoin Kate on the top step. I tell her that the good news is that as long as there is Trinket, we'll find the damn bat.

But I am a little scared for Trinket. Where the hell is Karl?

Kate goes to the car and returns with her iPad. She starts a Google search - get bat out of house- and 2 billion sites are returned.

OK. Maybe now we'll get somewhere. Karl or no Karl

Same Bat Time

The next few minutes are, in my mind, not unlike a silent film. The ones that are just a little too fast. Where the characters run around and change directions, and move so fast you can't tell what they are doing.

Me and my broom and my iPhone were a lot like one of those films. But I was anything but silent. 

I ran in every direction as the bat flew, again, in every direction. I was running into things, up and down the stairs, blindly around the room, attempting to get away from the bat, who was flying by sonar, of course, and not take my eyes off of it. And all the while I was screaming. One long, high-pitched Oooooooohhhhhmyyyyyyyyyyyggaaaaaaaawwwwwdditsflyyyyyyyyyyyiiiingriiiiiiiiiightaaaaaaattttmeeeee!

Charlotte is telling me to put a pair of underwear on my head.  I am baffled at first but she explains that a pair of panties would keep my hair from flying in all directions.  God only knows I'd be found dead on the scene if the blind bat flew into my Big Hair and got tangled there. I was sure I was having a stroke as it was.

I refrain from stopping to find a pair of panties to jam on my head (I don't have a free hand, anyway) but I tell Charlotte that I'd heard that if you encounter a flying bat, you are supposed to whistle. The whistle somehow scrambles their radar and they drop to the ground. If I could do that, I swear I'd beat the little bastard to death with the broom so fast his little ugly head would swim.

I try it.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to whistle under these circumstances?  I had a better chance of singing every verse of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

Charlotte is thinking fast though. (It must be very compelling to hear your sister screeching as if being murdered while a filthy flying rodent chases her around your house.) She has asked her husband, who is listening to the drama unfold from the driver's seat, to call some people. His brother, who lives a few blocks away, and Karl, who has done all the renovations on this house.

He gets Karl on the phone. He's on his way. Charlotte warns me that Karl will want to stay and have a beer with me and Kate when the job is done.

I tell her I don't care if he wants ten beers, so long as he gets rid of the bat.

Seriously. At this point, I'd part with a kidney if he wanted one.

But knowing that Karl was on his way in the Bat Mobile, I am calmer. Trinket is hiding under the bed and won't come out. Keeping an eye on the bat, who is climbing on things now, instead of flying, I get my glass, a glass for Kate, and the pitcher and head outside to wait in relative peace.

Kate calls and is nearby but lost. I walk out to the street to great her.

And not suddenly, this all seems hilarious.

Bats In My Belfry

It is Kate. I answer and immediately begin screeching very high pitched run on sentences at eardrum breaking decibels into the phone. I am breathing hard when I am done. I need a paper bag.

Kate says, "I didn't catch any of that."

I am heaving now. I slowly repeat most of  what I screeched moments before, only this time, two words at a time. And as an alto.

Then she screeches. But only for a moment. She needs directions. My brain is scrambled from adrenaline. I fumble through the names of streets and lefts and rights and landmarks and make her turn around in error about three times.  I am not great with directions on a good day and this is not a good day.  I am no longer a walking talking adult person, I am a two year old curled up on a dining chair, near the laundry room door. I have made myself as small as humanly possible. The fetal position actually with one hand out to hold my iPhone to my ear. (We'll call it the iPhetal position.)  I will not take my eyes off the bat, and it won't take its eyes off me.  I have no idea where the cat has scampered off to. My shrieking surely have her a headache and took all the fun out of catching the bat mid-flight. I am frozen in place.

Kate has a few minutes of driving to do and she lets me go to attend to the bat. It is her way of kindly telling me, "I'll ask a stranger for directions, thank you."  I call Charlotte for moral support. She's dropping her kid off at college and I need the moral support. Go figure.

Charlotte answers on one ring. "Hello -ho!" she says brightly.

I muster all the calm in my soul and say, "Ok,FYI,  I am washing the towels from your bathroom. And um, Momma's having a heart attack because there is a bat in your house."

She screams. I scream. She's confused. She thinks I am in her regular house.

"No," I say. "I am at the cottage! And Kate is coming up because she thinks her husband is an asshole, at least for tonight and she's coming to keep me company. And Trinket caught a bat."

We go back and forth asking and answering - and screaming to be honest - all the while with me in the iPhetal position and not taking my eye off the bat. Charlotte tells me where the broom is. I get it in my sights. I am not moving and drawing attention to myself without a really good reason.

And then I tell her I think the bat might be dead. Good Kitty!  You killed the bat!  Hooray.

But as soon as these thoughts cross the surface of my brain, I see it twitch. It has been laying there, stunned, flat on the floor with its wings outstretched since I noticed it. And it is now twitching. It gets one wing under itself. And then the other.

I slowly make my move for the broom.  The bat is preparing for takeoff.