The Rural Voice, 1979-07, Page 39Goingbatty
Or what do you do
when the flying creatures attack?
BY YVONNE REYNOLDS
"The winter is past, the rain is over and
gone, flowers appear on the earth; the time
of the singing of birds is come, and the
voice of the turtle is heard in our land."
Thus did King Solomon know when spring
had arrived.
At RR 2 Kippen, we have a sign that is
just as infallible—the unmistakable whirrrr
and fearsome cry of a bat practicing
aero-bat-ics in our bedroom at 3 a.m. on a
warm May morn. My husband's reaction is
instantaneous—he pulls the sheet over his
head and yells at me to DO SOMETHING!
I do. I duck down under the sheets beside
him.
However, that is only my initial,
cowardly reaction to an unexpected and
unprovoked attack. After five years of war I
have picked up a few tactical tricks.
I call into my son's room. "Where did
you store your bat-minton racquets last
fall?"
"In my closet," a muffled voice replies.
He must have taken refuge under the
bedclothes too.
When I think the bat is at the apogee of
its circuit, I warily uncover my head, ooze
out of bed, feel around for slippers and
housecoat, and dress for bat-tle. Previous
"close encounters of the third kind" have
convinced me four yards of blue chiffon
held up by spaghetti straps makes a rather
flimsy bat-tle dress.
After arming myself with the racquet,
my first manoeuvre is simple and primeval.
I run downstairs emitting high-pitched
shrieks, hoping desperately that the bat
will understand and also descend to the
first floor.
Then, I turn on a lamp to guide and
encourage it.
Soon, among the ghostly shadows of a
strange unfamiliar -looking dining room,
one shadow begins to move above my
head. From the corner of my eye (the
corner pointing south) I sense movement at
floor level also. Our Himalayan cat has
come to my assistance. I am no longer
alone on the bat-tlefield.
Blue Pandora's enormous eyes shine like
twin searchlights that have locked onto an
enemy plane. She utters little squeaks of
anticipation. Blue Pandora is a mighty
hunter who has proven her prowess with
housemice, fieldmice, and moles. She gets
her kicks by leaping from ambush at
unsuspecting Bantam hens, then sitting
back and enjoying the resulting commo-
tion. This new adversary circling overhead
looks like fun. I spoil everything by
scooping her up and locking her in the
.y
close my eyes and thrust blindly. Thud.
I've connected.
The bat lies vanquished at my feet,
glaring up at me with malevolent eyes and
screeching revengefully. I hurriedly scoop
it up on the racquet, execute an Olympi c
dash to the door, and dump my defeated
foe on the verandah. My fingers fumble on
the door's unlocking mechanism while the
bat struggles groggily to its feet.
bat -room. She utters squeaks of annoy-
ance.
I open the dining room door, lock it in
position, and begin my game of one -
handed bat-minton. No net, no backboard.
As the bat comes close, I swing. Whoosh. I
miss. 1 try again, a powerful backhand
smash. Close! Here it comes once more.
This time I give it an underhand that starts
two inches off the floor. Chris Evert, eat
your heart out! It's coming round again. I
by Sarah Schuessler
If it tries to re-enter the house, it will be
bat -tern up and .bat -on. The charge will be
justifiable homicide instead of assault and
bat-tery
I don't covet Solomon's wisdom or his
wealth. But I do envy him his tranquil
transition from winter to summer. I'm
firmly convinced that his palace had no
attic.
And I'll go to bat for that opinion
anytime.
THE RURAL VOICE/JULY 1979 PG. 37