I Hate Bats

  

So, I saw this goddamn bat flying around when I walked into my room early this morning. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and I'd been downstairs watching television. I grabbed something from my hamper to whack it, and it landed on the little bench that I sit on to tie my shoes. I kicked the end of the bench, breaking one of the legs, and I pulled it away. The bat was then on the floor, so I whacked it some more. I fed off its anguished squeaks. Somewhere during all this I smashed my hand on the bed post. (I will survive without medical attention.) The bat then crawled under my bed. I briefly considered burning the house down, but then I shut the door, shoving some dirty socks from my hamper under the door to keep evil incarnate contained. 

As I felt the haunting spectre of death close in on me, I shut myself in the bunkroom and shoved more dirty socks under that door. The cats were on their own. They're up-to-date on their rabies shots. I'm not. I’m not even sure the VA would give me a prophylactic rabies vaccine. So much for the PACT Act and taking care of America’s heroes. Thanks, Biden.

This is when I first posted on Facebook last night. I was not comforted by all the “relax” and “bats just eat bugs” bullshit.

Being tired and hopeful that the bat was relatively secure in my room, I went to sleep.

This morning, my wish that there were no more bats and that I'd forget the whole incident having not come true, I bravely opened the door, very bravely indeed (spoiler alert). I summoned the cats to give them some cat food to eat, and Dave didn't show up. 😬

Who ate whom, I wondered, planning to crowdfund a statue to commemorate his valor. Then he showed up, tail a-poof. I fed him and then sat on the couch, steeping in my anxiety. 

I napped intermittently and ate and watched some woodworking and science videos on YouTube. Did you know the guy who invented leaded gasoline also invented chlorofluorocarbons? What a dick, right?

Anyway, finally able to muster the willpower to surpass the anxiety, I went upstairs and got my meds. I told Daphne that I would reduce the number of times I threaten to have her put down by five percent if she would just go kill the bat. She just gave a pathetic, needy mew, so I told her I’d increase it by ten percent. That bitch.

I surveyed my bedroom, wondering where that bastard was hiding. I'd have to burn the linens and any other fabric the bat may have touched and/or looked at. I threw things at the curtains in front of my closet, hoping to startle it into flight, dishtowel in hand and ready to swat the bat from the air.

Nothing.

I shut the door and then went downstairs to get some water to take my medications. Venlafaxine can be rather unforgiving if you miss a dose. I won’t suddenly get super depressed, but I will get a bad headache.

Then I noticed something inside the door of the spare room. It was the bat. I thought of all that had happened that day. I saw the socks under my bedroom door that had been pulled away, probably by the cats. They can’t stand not being in there, so I didn’t think much of it. Dave’s floofy tail, a sure sign of his anxiety, I ignored. I had been comfortably sitting and watching television while a bat was loose upstairs.

Sure, it was a likely, now, disabled bat, certainly injured by one or more of the whacks I rained upon it with the dishtowel, but I grabbed a bigger towel in the bathroom, trapping the evil one underneath. I saw the bat move below it, so I grabbed it where the bat was. I threw it out on the porch, frantically trying to shake the bat from the towel.

Then there it was, crawling off the top step. I’d clearly disabled it. Hopefully, it will go tell all its bat friends and acquaintances to stay away from TedHouse. And I don't care if bats don't support bats with disabilities. Hell, I hope that bat gets fired from its job and has to bum for cigarettes and food scraps in the streets. I hate bats.

I’m going to sleep in the bunk room again tonight. It stays cooler in there anyway.