Bats in my belfry

"Let's move to the woods," she said.
"It will look like a postcard in the winter," she said.
That was the logic behind my wife's desire to move to Concord Twp., Ohio, an up and coming Cleveland suburb who's motto is "Leave no acre of land unsubdivided." I mention this because as our township's housing expands exponentially, living space for most of God's other creatures decreases likewise. When that happens, they look for other places to dwell and/or snack. Evidently, our house has become known in the animal kingdom as "Bob's Diner."
Especially for bats. Not the Louisville Slugger type, but the rodents with wings type. Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing against rodents that a little nuclear bomb couldn't take care of, but as of late, these creatures have taken a perverse liking to our home. Over the last year we have had several of these things get into the house and fly around making Sandy and I and occaisionally my daughter, well, idiots. I know for Sandy and myself it's not a long trip.
Most of the time it is usually just one bat at a time, but we did have a rodental honeymoon couple visit us for a couple of days, as evidently, Niagara Falls was closed.
Since moving here, we have always had the occaisional visit from squirrels, chipmunks, field mice and the odd snake here and there. That's to be expected, we live in the woods for crying out loud. But bats give me the creeps more than watching Nancy Grace on TV.
Here is the typical scenario. I will be sitting in the living room watching a ballgame or enjoying a periodical and I will become aware, not by noise, but by peripheral vision, that I am not alone. Sandy is almost always in bed when this happens, so I figure either she has sprouted wings or there is a bird in the house. Birds in the house would be a treat. At least they make noise when they are around so you know what in the hell they are. Bats, on the other hand, are silent, stealthy creatures that you don't know are there until they cause serious cardiac arrest. Sandy, having heard me say a very bad word, indeed, will venture out of the bedroom to see "What is it this time?" I will tell her about the bat, or she will see it fluttering around like a giant moth, and she will scream like George Bush being told Bill Clinton is his daddy, turn around and flee back to the bedroom, close the door and tell me to get it out of the house.
I don't know when I became the official critter remover in our home, but sometimes it is best not to ask these questions but to act. And act I do. I proceed to do my best Groucho Marx walk, scurrying around trying to open doors and windows thinking this little creature, with a brain the size of a congressman, will get the idea he's not welcome and go voluntarily out of the house. You look like Groucho walking because bats do not fly so much as dive bomb. It can be quite a vision, a fat little bald guy, crouched over scurrying around trying to find a net, sheet, towel or any damn thing that I can catch Dracula in, and get him the hell out of here! Sandy, ever helpful, can be heard upstairs behind closed doors yelling, every two seconds, "Is he gone yet?" Meanwhile my dog, Ginger, has by now gone into full "there is something going on here" mode, and reacts the way she always reacts, by barking her brains out. I like to think Ginger is a smarter dog than most. She isn't. When she finally sees the bat, kamakazeing around the living room, she somehow thinks the helpful thing to do will be to try and jump up and catch it.
Invariably, the pandemonium dies out, the bat gets tired of laughing its fool head off at us, usually lands on the window blinds and takes a nap, making it a little easier to put a towel or something on it and shooing it outside. Crisis over for the time being.
So kiddies, if you're ever thinking of moving to the country, remember, God gave every silver lining a dark cloud. Gotta run, I heard there's a Bela Lugosi film tribute on TV.

Love
Dad