The following is an excerpt from an old journal. Thankfully we no longer live in the same house!
Bats in the Attic, Bats in the House!
There are bats in our attic, and I do not approve! The loveseat where I sit and write abuts the tired old door leading to the attic, and last night I heard critters bumping against the barrier. It isn’t my jumpy imagination, of that I’m quite certain. Mr. Kitty is my proof. He was attentively glued to the door last night and continues his guard duty this morning. Even as I write, he pounces forcefully at the crack between door and frame, and an unsettling series of screechy ticks and horrible hisses ensue. My heart races and I soar from the sofa, notebook lifted defensively in a shield-like motion.
Bottom line is this: I don’t like bats. Not one bit. My husband is happy enough to house the bats upstairs. He insists that they are wonderful, harmless creatures, effortlessly holding the bugs at bay. I don’t doubt their value, but I am less than enthusiastic to be sharing living space. I’m sure they’re sweet as honey when they’re outside in their intended habitat, but winged rodents in my home flying at my face is not my idea of an ideal start to the day! I might not feel such strong aversion if they hadn’t already slipped into my house three times, terrifying me as I sat alone, contemplative in the early morn. But they have. And, so I do.
The first and worst surprise was when, entirely unassuming, I was greeted by one of the little critters flapping up from under the couch where I sat dangling my bare feet. At that time I was totally unaware that the attic was a bat cave of sorts, and was beyond baffled as to how the critter managed to get inside. I managed to shoo it out onto the screen porch where it immediately disappeared. Wondrous. It remained concealed there all day long and only when darkness again fell was I able to cautiously prop open the screen door and release the winged visitor into the night.
The incident has since re-occurred. Twice.
Just before bed last night, I heard something bump up against the door, right by my head, and I flew off the couch again. I laid an old green bath towel at the foot of the door and wedged the loveseat snuggly up against the attic entrance so neither bat nor curious hunter-cat can crack it open without extraordinary effort. Now all I can do is nervously sit back and see if the fortress hold up against my tiny winged attackers… I’m not sure my nerves can withstand a fourth bat attack. (9/6/12)
(Originally published on my old blog, Interim Arts, on May 23, 2013)