Monday, August 4, 2008
Above: a bat Lane spotted at Frontenac State Park, wedged in one of the educational displays. (Note: upside down, his little feet are sticking out--this one is alive and snoozing.)
In our house last night: a bat swooping through the living room and dining room. It was near-midnight and I was reading peacefully on the sofa when this black thing darted around, and with my head ducked, I scampered upstairs, waking my long-suffering husband, whispering, Bat. In the hoooouse. Then I clung to his legs while he struggled to wake up. A pause. Then I whisper in the dark, Do they, um, bite? I pulled on a hoodie, ready to go downstairs, ready for this bat to swoop a bit more, but he was no where to be found. I don't know what happened to the bat. It's somewhere, maybe folded into the bookshelves, waiting for night. My husband said we should usher it into the basement, perhaps let it take care of some of the buggies down there. I prefer to imagine he's a literary critic, checking out my collection, opting for Fitzgerald over Faulkner.