Bats or just batty…

Common pipistrelle, Pipistrellus pipistrellus, common house bat, a much better photo I took from Wikipedia.  I guess this is nothing compared to the bats awaiting us in Africa. 

One night years ago, after falling asleep with the TV on, I awoke to see a bat fly in front of the TV screen.

Terrified of bats I bolted out of bed waving my arms and screaming, scaring Tom to death. After turning on the bright overhead light and looking around the bedroom, not finding a bat, he assured me it was a bad dream and to go back to sleep. I swore I’d seen a bat.

Two days later I was cleaning one of the upstairs guest rooms to find a dead bat on the inside of the screen apparently dying after trying to escape. I jumped for joy! I could hardly wait to show it to Tom when he’d return from work.

It was less of an “I told you so” than a “see, I’m not crazy” when I rushed him when he walked in the door that evening.  Of course, I had picked up the dead bat (much to my surprise) wearing a thick rubber glove saving it in a paper towel to show him. He shrugged his shoulders, “Oh, it’s a bat.” 

Little gratification was found there. 

Why is it when women are proven “right” that we don’t jump for joy when we prove it?  And yet men will gloat for days?  Ha!

After that experience I became less afraid of bats, merely preferring they don’t fly around me, touch me, or live with me.  No more screaming while running around in circles when spotting a bat flying nearby in the night sky.

A few days ago, walking down the mile-long hallway in this house, I noticed this clump on the floor in a corner of one of the nooks and crannies, meaning to toss it many times as I walked past, never having a handy paper towel. 

My blurry photo, taken zooming in with a shaky hand when  I realized it was a bat.

In my old life, I would have picked it up as soon as I saw it.  Now, living in a more relaxed environment in someone else’s house, I thought, I’ll get to it, whatever it is.  It wasn’t moving so I wasn’t particularly concerned.  Besides, it was neatly tucked away into a corner.  I thought it was a small clump of leaves.

Finally, yesterday afternoon, realizing that Santina was coming to clean today and not wanting to leave it for her, I grabbed a couple of paper towels to remove the pesky intrusion, leaning in closer to get a better look. It was a dead bat. I didn’t scream. Instead, I took a photo.

I must admit that a bit of the old fear gripped me keeping me from holding my hand steady as I zoomed in to take the photo. Thus, the blurry photo.

Calling Tom to come to see, he made a mad dash to the hallway from the veranda. Looking closely as I had done, he said, “Oh, I thought it was potpourri!”

Need I say, I laughed so hard I cried, repeating over and again, “Potpourri?” I’m still laughing as I write this.

He ran to the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan, scooping it up, taking it down to the garbage to dispose of it. Surely, it flew in over the past several nights when we had the windows-without-screens opened when the temperature was in the high 90’s. Gee, I knew there was a reason I didn’t want those windows wide open at night.

Good thing we don’t have a TV in the bedroom.