Another tale of bats (part 3)
In the early days of 2024, I began a PhD program. Bats and doctoral programs have only two things in common. The first is that both are challenging. The second is that for my program, I am to go to Norfolk, VA, where Old Dominion University is located, for two summer residencies as part of my online program. More on that another time. Back to the bats.
This year, the day I returned from residency, overwhelmed from being away from work for two weeks, overwhelmed by all the reading and writing I had to do in two weeks, and overwhelmed by the Microsoft CrowdStrike error that grounded flights for two days (I got stuck in VA for those extra two days), I returned home to a bat in the wall and a husband in need of rescuing.
By now I've become accustomed to the skittering and flittering of the bats in the wall or at the foot of the attic stairs door, but on this occasion, this was one bat too many.
While my husband watched from the living room, I grabbed a set of tongs, a wooden spoon and a Tupperware container from the kitchen. I dug my beekeeping gloves out of the glove bin in the hallway. I pushed my chittering Sphinx cat out of the way and got on my hands and knees to pry the bat out of the crack into which it had wedged itself between the wall and the floor.
While that last line may not make sense, imagine an old farmhouse built in the early 1900s. The beautiful oak floors have come apart in places, and the walls have seemingly pulled away from the floors in other places. There are gaps between the original woodwork of the pictures windows and the original trim in the playroom/parlor/ put-the-dead-body-on display room in the 1900s.
And it was in this crack between the wall and the floor under an old window that the bat had wedged itself, probably looking for a dark place; probably trying to escape the cat's taunting.
I shoved the handle end of the wooden spoon into the crack, pushing gently against the bat. It scratched and chirped, driving the cat toward the wall. But it didn't dislodge itself. Instead, it pushed a wing out, probably trying to get traction to get further into the impossibly small space it already occupied. I grabbed the wing with my gloved fingers, skipping the tongs, pulled the bat out enough to scrape at it with the spoon, and pushed it into the Tupperware.
We released the bat out back, hopeful it would live to fly off into the night, but the damaged wing said otherwise. Despite the stress and ick that these creatures bring to our lives, it's not their fault our house is structurally welcoming, and we don't want to hurt or kill them. But as with all things on the farm, sometimes this just happens.
This really was the last straw, and next year, that fabled, magical time in the future, we're going to seal up the house and (hopefully) say good bye the bats and their in-house adventures.