Some of you may remember that last August, I wrote about a bat that came swooping into the TV room upstairs, sending me into paroxysms of panic. (I don’t think I’ve ever used the word paroxysms before, but it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?)
When my mother and dad lived here, and before that, my grandparents and great-grandparents, there was an occasional unwanted winged creature. However, when Bing and I moved in in 2004, we had a new roof put on and – voila! – problem solved. Until that fateful August night last year when a stupid bat didn’t get the message that we had a state-of-the-art roof and barged right in. I, of course, screamed bloody murder, then phoned the police, though I think perhaps they had already heard me – they’re only a few blocks away.
A very nice young (he looked about 14) officer came with a tennis racquet and took care of the interloper.
Since then, I have positioned my own tennis racquet (actually it’s Bing’s – I never played tennis) next to my recliner. I vowed if it happened again, I would take care of it myself – after all, I told myself, I can swing a tennis racquet as well as the next person. I would be ever so brave, I told myself.
So two weeks ago, as I was watching a late movie, in flew a HUGE bat. HUGE. My vow to be brave lasted a half a second, if that. I again ran screaming from the room, slammed the door and called for reinforcements. Another nice young officer (he looked 17) came, tennis racquet in hand, and stunned the critter while I cowered in the next room, still clutching my racquet. “Molly, do you have a towel?” he called. I did, and handed it to him through a crack in the door while closing my eyes. He carried the towel-wrapped monster outside and it flew away.
By this time two other officers in their lighted police cars came in case there was a need for backup. I held up my racquet and told them weakly that I had served as backup. “So you were prepared this time, Molly,” one of the officers grinned. It was my hero from last year. I was really grateful to all of them. (Another had come a couple of months ago when I thought a flute-playing intruder was downstairs. If you didn’t see that column
, never mind – it’s too complicated to repeat.)
Anyway, I was so grateful to these nice youngsters in blue that I brought a plate of fudge to the station a few days later.
I made it myself.
Which they probably figured out without my telling them – it didn’t exactly set up and was more like fudge soup. Oh well – I’m sure they have spoons in their break room.
Besides, perfectly formed fudge is vastly overrated.
Watch for a new book, by Scott MacDonald, Think Like a Dog, due out in 2017. Scott’s book, Saving Investa, is available on Amazon.com now.