But last night, Smokey the cat came downstairs with a live mouse in his mouth, a playmate he let run just to chase. We were not amused.
To me, bats are a horror; mice are, well, rather cute. No matter, neither are proper houseguests. We got him--or her. But the process reminded me of days gone by. . .
_______________________
It's the time of year when bats are in the rut. I know, I know--it's an expression given only to large and wild mammals, like buffalo, but when they're in your house, bats are, in fact, large and wild mammals. Three honored friends of mine, inside a week, recommended earnestly that I see this summer's box-office hit, The Dark Night, the latest Batman reprise. Last week I thought about it--seriously. This morning, I'll take a pass.
Bats are no one's favorite houseguests, even though they seem not to care at all about your cleanliness. They are totally unwanted, but they somehow sneak in anyway, even though we'd do--and have done--just about anything to keep them outside, whereever it is they (literally) hang out.
Over the years they've decided to flitter through our old house four or five times, I believe. The last time it happened, we called in some Faulkneresque family who took our bucks and promised in very colorful language to rid us of them for a year. Their promise held true, but that was three years ago.
Two nights ago, my wife stormed downstairs in the early a.m., to tell me that she'd seen one hovering over our bed. Someday I'm afraid I might just lose my wife to a snake, but bats, for some reason, don't undo her. She was--as she always has been--relatively calm about their bony flittering. Together we went back upstairs, but the little bugger was not to be found. Which is not at all nice either.
So last night, just after dusk, she went upstairs for something and found our guest whirling and twirling through the upstairs hallway. I positioned myself at the foot of the open staircase and yelled and screamed when he (it's the rut, you know--this is a male, for sure) tried to make a getaway. Finally, we got him in a room.
Now listen. I spent the best years of my life on a baseball field--little league, high school, college, even post-college. I played fast-pitch softball until I got too slow, slo-pitch until I got too stiff. I may well have hit dozens of home runs at fifty years old. But, last night, armed with a racquetball racquet, I swung madly and awfully, like an old blind man, at a hovering rodent, whose knuckleball antics had me feeling my age. With an old t-shirt in one hand and that racquet in the other, I swung at a thousand curveballs, simply trying to make contact as he circled the room, time and time again, turning me into a real whirling dervish. All I wanted to do was knock him down so I could get him the heck out of the house. I'm sure I could turn the video into a comic feature.
The first time we had a bat--twenty years ago--it was my father, here visiting, who finally grabbed it. He took it outside and squashed it, like a bug, with the heel of his shoe. Rather surprised me, in a way, my father being such a peaceful man. I remember killing them too in the past, angry as a madman.
But I've let a few go over time. I know very well that they have a wondrous appetite for bugs and such, that they're healthy little critters who've simply been stung by rather untoward looks and horrifying flight patterns. But this one--our first in years--this one was going to die.
And I'm not apologizing. Here's what happened. The more I missed, the angrier I got. I might well have struck out sixty times before finally getting exactly the pitch that I needed. He strayed too close or his radar went flat; all I know is that I whacked his skull with the metal edge of that racket and he went down as if shot, coming to rest with his legs up in a rather delightful posthumous position. I carried him out in a t-shirt.
It took me ten minutes to get my breath back, as if I'd spent that long at least in the batting cage with an overeager machine. Maybe it was all that blasted swinging and missing that got me mad, got me really angry, but whatever it was, when I finally whacked him--a sound I remember fondly--I was as happy as I've ever been with a clutch hit.
This morning I'm not proud it took me a thousand madcap whiffs, but I'm happy as a lark that our visitor has departed.
It's the time of year when bats are in the rut. I know, I know--it's an expression given only to large and wild mammals, like buffalo, but when they're in your house, bats are, in fact, large and wild mammals. Three honored friends of mine, inside a week, recommended earnestly that I see this summer's box-office hit, The Dark Night, the latest Batman reprise. Last week I thought about it--seriously. This morning, I'll take a pass.
Bats are no one's favorite houseguests, even though they seem not to care at all about your cleanliness. They are totally unwanted, but they somehow sneak in anyway, even though we'd do--and have done--just about anything to keep them outside, whereever it is they (literally) hang out.
Over the years they've decided to flitter through our old house four or five times, I believe. The last time it happened, we called in some Faulkneresque family who took our bucks and promised in very colorful language to rid us of them for a year. Their promise held true, but that was three years ago.
Two nights ago, my wife stormed downstairs in the early a.m., to tell me that she'd seen one hovering over our bed. Someday I'm afraid I might just lose my wife to a snake, but bats, for some reason, don't undo her. She was--as she always has been--relatively calm about their bony flittering. Together we went back upstairs, but the little bugger was not to be found. Which is not at all nice either.
So last night, just after dusk, she went upstairs for something and found our guest whirling and twirling through the upstairs hallway. I positioned myself at the foot of the open staircase and yelled and screamed when he (it's the rut, you know--this is a male, for sure) tried to make a getaway. Finally, we got him in a room.
Now listen. I spent the best years of my life on a baseball field--little league, high school, college, even post-college. I played fast-pitch softball until I got too slow, slo-pitch until I got too stiff. I may well have hit dozens of home runs at fifty years old. But, last night, armed with a racquetball racquet, I swung madly and awfully, like an old blind man, at a hovering rodent, whose knuckleball antics had me feeling my age. With an old t-shirt in one hand and that racquet in the other, I swung at a thousand curveballs, simply trying to make contact as he circled the room, time and time again, turning me into a real whirling dervish. All I wanted to do was knock him down so I could get him the heck out of the house. I'm sure I could turn the video into a comic feature.
The first time we had a bat--twenty years ago--it was my father, here visiting, who finally grabbed it. He took it outside and squashed it, like a bug, with the heel of his shoe. Rather surprised me, in a way, my father being such a peaceful man. I remember killing them too in the past, angry as a madman.
But I've let a few go over time. I know very well that they have a wondrous appetite for bugs and such, that they're healthy little critters who've simply been stung by rather untoward looks and horrifying flight patterns. But this one--our first in years--this one was going to die.
And I'm not apologizing. Here's what happened. The more I missed, the angrier I got. I might well have struck out sixty times before finally getting exactly the pitch that I needed. He strayed too close or his radar went flat; all I know is that I whacked his skull with the metal edge of that racket and he went down as if shot, coming to rest with his legs up in a rather delightful posthumous position. I carried him out in a t-shirt.
It took me ten minutes to get my breath back, as if I'd spent that long at least in the batting cage with an overeager machine. Maybe it was all that blasted swinging and missing that got me mad, got me really angry, but whatever it was, when I finally whacked him--a sound I remember fondly--I was as happy as I've ever been with a clutch hit.
This morning I'm not proud it took me a thousand madcap whiffs, but I'm happy as a lark that our visitor has departed.
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