Today is to update your ad campaign.
A few weeks ago my friend Tracy was telling me what I thought was the most amazing story ever. So I asked her to share it with all of you. If you dare tell me this story is not enthralling, then you, sir, are an ass.
My Epic Encounter With Flying Mammals
or
Why You Shouldn't Mix Ceiling Fans With Echolocation
or
Why I'm A Super Hero
By Tracy Lyons
I loved my apartment - and had loved it through my two
years living there. It had a great location (I could
walk just about anywhere in Ann Arbor) and it had
great style (built in the 1800's with all the fixin's:
tall ceilings, big windows, great molding, wide
staircases... basically great character).
The age of the building provided a few challenges,
such as drafty winters, stifling hot summers, and the
occasional long term critter tenant would show up
conveniently just after I had paid rent. Cockroaches
were the first tenants, but that was two years ago,
ancient history. But now as I was getting ready to
move out I thought I saw one again. Not fun, but I
had been hard core before (always a flip-flop at hand
to smash the errant bug) and I only had two weeks
until my move out date so I figured I could handle it.
The night after I saw that returning cockroach I slept
fitfully; Thinking about bugs as you drift off will do
that to you. So at 3:30 in the morning when I felt
something hit me in the head, my first reaction was to
sit bolt upright in my bed and dig through the pillows
and covers to find the big flying bug that bombarded
me. Pillows flew in a panic - but nothing lay in the
bed.
And that's when I saw it.
A dark shape made swift circles around the perimeter
of the ceiling. HOLY SHIT IT'S A BAT! I dove under the
covers, whimpering "why do I live alone?" over and
over.
So what do you do when it's the middle of the night
and there's a bat in your bedroom? I didn't have a
clue, and the whimpering really wasn't getting me
anywhere. So after much debating, I reached my hand
out from the covers and grabbed my phone.
My landlord sounded surprisingly awake for the hour.
Awake, but unenthusiastic about my situation.
Apparently people don't like to be awoken at 4 am when
they are on vacation in Canada.
He instructed me to get a tennis racquet, hit the bat,
scoop it up in a towel, and throw it back out the
window.
It wasn't until after I hung up the phone that I
realized I had screens on all my windows. How the
hell did this bat get into my bedroom?
So now I was faced with a choice: die of asphyxiation
under my covers, or possibly die of a bat attack as I
searched for a tennis racquet.
It took a lot of verbal coaxing to go for the latter.
It sounded something like this, "Tracy, you're a
grown-up. You can do this. Ready, on the count of
three: 1, 2, 3!" And I ran/crawled out of my room
with a pillow over my head for protection. I slammed
my door shut and proceeded to find my weapon of
choice: an old Prince with faded purple tape on the
handle. And lucky for me that I never put away clean
laundry right away - because in the middle of the
living room was a basket with freshly folded towels.
Now I was armed and ready, and the moment of truth was
upon me. I crept back to my bedroom, opened the door,
and turned on the light.
Nothing.
No movement. No fluttering. No rabid attack from
above.
Now I know that bats are small and are good at hiding,
so I was ready now and on the hunt. If I had to crawl
around in my own house with a pillow on my head like
an idiot, then I was going to find this bat, dammit!
So, sneaking from place to place I searched behind
picture frames, between slats of the radiators, in the
plants, under the dresser...
Nothing.
Could I have imagined it? Awoken from a deep sleep
while dreaming and made the whole thing up? After my
original cover dive I did not peek out at the bat
again... The alleged bat.
Exhausted after an hour of looking, I fell asleep with
the light on and the tennis racquet in my hand.
That was night one.
My bat story the next day was exciting, but not as
glamorous as I had expected. Most people suggested
that I had imagined it or dreamed it up. And by the
end of the day, I thought there was a darn good chance
that I had.
I felt confident throughout the evening that there was
no such thing as a bat in my apartment. But as
bedtime neared, I became more and more nervous. I
wasn't sure what to expect - but oddly enough I truly
hoped to see the bat again, if only to prove to the
world that I hadn't hallucinated the whole thing...
though now it would seem that hoping to encounter a
bat another time might not be the best proof of
sanity.
Armed with information from this website, I went to
bed that night with tennis racquet, shoebox, and piece
of cardboard close at hand. This time I'd be ready.
And sure enough, a fluttering by my head at three in
the morning.
I jumped up, shut my bedroom door, and turned on the
light. I felt brave until this moment. Now I was
face to face with a very real and very frightened bat!
I sat crouched in the corner, ready for a humane
capture with a shoebox in my left hand - and ready to
defend my life with the tennis racquet in my right
hand.
Now in my recollections, this next part of the story
took hours. In reality, it was probably less than 20
minutes.
Crouched uncomfortably in the corner, I waited and
waited for the bat to land so that I could capture it
beneath the shoebox.
The first problem was that turning on the light also
turned on the ceiling fan. Apparently bats are unable
to cope with rapidly turning fan blades... or at least
this one's echolocation wasn't up to par. It kept
getting hit and falling onto various shelves and items
in the room. Ah, so that's why it had hit me in my
sleep the night before! I had the fan on while I
slept. I may have solved one part of the mystery, but
had no intention of a humane capture of a dead bat, so
I turned off the ceiling fan.
In theory, now was when the bat would try to land.
The fan was off, the light was on, and I was ready
with a shoebox.
Attempt #1 at landing: the puppets. Bad choice. The
puppet fell over and the bat was tossed back into its
frenetic circling of my ceiling.
Attempt #2: the blinds on the window. Unfortunately
the cheapo venetian blinds bent under its weight and
the beast tumbled to the window sill before taking
flight again.
Attempt #3: on the wall. Perfect for a shoebox
capture. So I bravely approached it, and watched it
carefully for any signs of impending attack as I got
ever closer. My nighttime intruder was actually
pretty cute. Fuzzy brown face, whiskers, long nose,
big ears. All folded up on my wall, it wasn't any
bigger than the palm of my hand. But apparently I
admired it for too long and it either lost its grip or
saw me coming. I screamed as the thing came at me and
flew the perimeter once again - This time without
showing any signs of wanting to land again - This time
while circling way too close to my face for me to
tolerate it much longer.
Picture this:
I'm crouched again, but this time talking to the bat,
saying "please land, bat. I don't want to have to hit
you with the tennis racquet."
But with another terrifyingly close lap near my face,
I knew the moment was upon me. On its next round I
stuck the racquet in its path. And with a soft but
solid thud, the thing was motionless on the ground. I
was on it immediately with the box, and scooted the
piece of cardboard underneath for a solid capture.
Not exactly humane for the bat, but I needed to be
humane to myself too. How long could I really crouch
there like a fool and actually talk the bat into
landing in my shoebox?
I released the bat into the night from my front porch.
Mission accomplished.
I hadn't imagined it. Instead, i conquered it!
I may have slept the night before with a tennis
racquet in my hand; I may have whimpered in excess
under my covers; I may have crouched in the corner of
my room all night; but I rocked that bat, dude. I did
it!
And I hope I'll never have to do it again.
Can you top Tracy's story of animal encounter? Just try me.