I am not a squeamish 59-year-old. No, I can work as hard as my Malawian army with very little fear of an early collapse. Come rain or shine, I bring my side.
This pissy side only extends to the flying fraternity. For some reason, I have a fear of flying bugs and bats. Rather embarrassing when a fat body tries to make itself small if you ask me, but when the flying beastie comes around, there is no holding back. It’s every woman for herself. We have had a resident bat living in our sunroom for many years. He gains access to the outside world by some little tunnel in the roof. Unfortunately, this little tunnel also has a side door into the sunroom, so on occasion, we have had a very confused bat and a screaming mother going around and round in the house. First, the bat comes flying by, and mother is running in the other direction, crouched and holding her head, then Batty changes direction, and Mother is running in front with Batty hot on her heels. I really hate being this person. I have a mouth full when a woman cannot do things for themselves and needs saving. It is like the Universe takes great pleasure in torturing me. The fact that my family will rather stand and watch or video me makes it even worse.
There has also been the odd occasion that Batty has swooped into our bedroom whilst I am lying under the covers watching television. This has not ended well for anybody. When I scream my girly scream, my usually unfathomable and reserved husband loses his shit. Especially when I spark all the dogs into a howling session. Coupled with my frenzied “Open the door, open the door!” from under the covers, it just brings out the Wilde in him. His legs have now hit the ground running, and Mr. Cool is not so cool as he struggles to open the sliding door, desperate to stop the craziness around him. In the interim, Batty is flying around in circles over my head, and I am in the throes of a convulsion. All of this when we are supposed to be winding down for the evening, getting ready for bed. By the time the bat has vacated the room, I need one of my special tablets, my husband is in a huff, the dogs are so excited the entire room is screaming to be saged, and it smells of a fart. I cannot honestly say it is all dog fart; I am just happy I didn’t shit myself.
One little bat…
One night I was sitting in the dining room, and I heard a “plop” on the floor. I didn’t pay much attention to it until I saw a little black thing crawling towards me on the floor. Much to my amazement, it was Batty. Without a blink of an eyelid (this is how I roll. If you are an injured animal, I will go the extra mile for you), forgetting my fears, I scooped him up ready for CPR. It was the middle of winter, and it was icy cold. Not the time of year for a bat. I managed to keep him alive until the next morning, and I quickly took him to the vet practice where they phoned the bat support group (really… who would have thought) and he was whisked away for treatment.
Three days later, I got a phone call from a lady, and she told me she was the one that took Batty in. According to her, he was so emaciated that she had a battle on her hands to save him. After all the drama, she wanted to come and release him at his home so he could go back into hibernation in his little hideaway. I had no problem with that, and that evening, just before sunset, she released him in the street in front of my house. He circled us twice and swooped straight to the sunroom where he disappeared. She told me he was quite old, and she was amazed that he was still around. Now, not once in all of this did I turn into my screaming twin. When I saw him on the floor, all I wanted to do was save him. I wondered how he had made his way through all five of my sleeping dogs and a cat lying on the table. It was like he knew he had to come to me.
Three weeks later, I was standing in the kitchen making supper when I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. To be honest, I was cooking, drinking a glass of wine, and singing at the top of my voice, so I just shrugged it off and continued. The next moment, Batty swooped over my head, glass went flying, and the ladle disappeared in the pot. Chaos ensued with barking dogs and hyperventilating mother.
Batty was back.
This love/hate relationship has been taken to new heights, especially when Batty gets lost in the house, makes a wrong turn, and ends up playing “mayday! mayday!” in our room. Things get pretty rough, and one night my son took a video of me becoming a cringing mess in the middle of our bed. I didn’t like what I saw, and I had a few hard words with myself after that.
It hasn’t helped. Things escalate pretty quickly when Batty makes an appearance, and all good intentions go flying. Back to screaming, crawling, and hiding under any object I can find while the dogs run around barking and looking for the human intruder that Mom is fleeing from. The bat doesn’t even feature on their radar as it swoops over them.
One evening, not too long ago, I was at home, and it was pouring down with rain. The next minute, Batty arrived, swept past me, and took a tour of the house. As I knew there wouldn’t be any help arriving soon, I took my wine and moved to the veranda. Batty could have the house to himself. That’s where Christopher found me hours later. The house was in darkness, all the sliding doors open, and I had been sitting outside with my dogs until they deserted me and went back to their indoor beds. Obviously, bats are not high on their list of dangerous objects.
I need Jesus. The end.