Two days ago, as my husband and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home, a high-pitched squeaking noise erupted from somewhere. Baffled, we began walking around the room. Was it the cable box? Nope. Was it the DVD player? Nope. Was it one of our laptops? Nope.
The noise reminded me of the days when my cassette player would eat a cassette tape, causing a whirring noise. But it also reminded me of my childhood. My Grandma hated mosquitos. So, as we settled into her big bed at night, I would muffle my mouth and make faint, high-pitched squealing noises that would delay bedtime for hours as Grandma insisted that the bug be located and extinguished.
But this noise wasn’t from a piece of equipment or a prank. As it turns out, there was a bat in our ceiling. The creature was chirping and scratching, clearly unhappy with his circumstances. We can only assume he was hibernating in our home until something roused him, and then he just wanted to find an exit and hunt for food.
At about the same time yesterday evening, the bat joined us in our family room. My husband spotted him first as he flew through the kitchen doorway. I grabbed my phone and dove under the afghan. I called my mother. “Mom, I’m under a blanket on the couch. A bat is flying overhead.” We chatted as my husband retrieved his tennis racket and disposed of our guest. He’s pretty sure the bat worked his way through the walls until he located an exit, probably in the basement.
As we went to bed my husband commented, “For someone who is so tough about so many things, you sure fall apart over a little bat.” And he’s correct. So, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m not afraid of the bat. I just can’t face what has to be done to deal with the bat.
In the eleventh grade I took Advanced Biology, and I loved it. I enjoyed dissecting those huge, dead frogs, creating intricate drawings of their internal organs. But when we studied amoebas, those little one-celled organisms, I had difficulty.
“Now, using your scalpel, cut the amoeba in two,” instructed our seasoned Biology teacher. I slid my petrie dish under the microscope. I adjusted the focus. There it was, my amoeba, darting back and forth in the water, enjoying life — a free-spirited microorganism.
I couldn’t do the assignment. I couldn’t use my scalpel to cut that little one-celled organism in half. I motioned to the teacher and explained my dilemma. “It can’t feel anything,” she whispered. I had heard this same mantra from my dad when I wouldn’t put a worm on my hook during a fishing expedition. “How do you know?”, I asked. She smiled. “Just do the assignment.” Nope. I took an F instead.
So, could I extinguish a bat by smashing it with a tennis racket? Perhaps. But, for now, I’ll just take the F, thanks.
