Village Squire, 1980-05, Page 18SIX ACHERS
Yvonne Reynolds and her husband, a
retired Canadian Armed Forces officer,
settled In rural Huron County six years
ago. The antics of one dog (daughter of an
Immoral Sheltie), one house cat (Himalay-
an aristocat), one barn cat (don't ask) and a
fluctuating number of chickens and goats
keep her supplied with more than enough
material for a regular monthly column,
beginning this month in Village Squire.
GOING BATTY
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 turtledove is heard in our
land." Thus was King Solomon informed
that spring had arrived.
At R.R.2, we have a sign that is just as
infallible the unmistakeable whirrrr and
fearsome cry of a bat practicing aerobat-
ics in our bedroom at 3 a.m. on a warm
spring night. 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 just my first, 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 his
bedclothes too.
When I think the bat is at the apogee of
its circuit, I .ly uncover my head, slip
out of bed, feel around for slippers and
housecoat, and dress for bat-
tle. Previous "close encounters of the third
kind" have convinced me that 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.
1 run downstairs emitting high-pitched,
shrieks, hoping desperately that the bat
will understand and also descend to the
PG. 18 VILLAGE SQUIRE/MAY 1980
first floor. I turn on a lamp to guide and
encourage it.
Soon, among the ghostly shadows,
something 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-tle field.
Blue Pandora's enormous eves shine like
twin searchlights that have locked onto an
enemy plane. She utters little squeaks of
anticipation. Pandora is a mighty hunter
who has proven her prowess with house -
mice, fieldmice, and moles. She gets her
kicks by leaping from ambush at un-
suspecting Banties, thudding to earth a
hair's breadth from murder and mayhem.
then sitting back and grinning like a
Cheshire cat at the resulting chicken
fricasse. This new adversary circling
overhead, a mouse with wings, should be
suitably challenging. I spoil everything by
scooping her up and locking her in the
bat -room. She utters squeaks of an-
noyance.
I open the door to the verandah, 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 execute an underhand that starts
two inches off the floor. Almost g'1t it! It's
coming round again. I close my eyes and
swing blindly. Thud. I've connected. (Chris
Evert, eat your heart out!)
The bat lies vanquished at my feet,
glaring up at me with malevolent eyes. I
hurriedly scoop it up on the racquet. make
an Olympic dash to the door, and dump my
defeated foe out onto the lawn. My fingers
fumble with the door's unlocking
mechanism while the bat struggles grog-
gily to its feet.
As a dog is allowed one bite, a bat on
these premises is allowed one indoor flight.
If it attempts re-entry, I will move to red
alert, switch all systems to GO, bat-ters up
and bat -on. The charge this time will be
justifiable homicide instead of assault and
bat-tery.
I don't covet Solomon's wealth or his
wisdom. But I do envy his tranquil
transition from winter to spring. I'm firmly
convinced that his palace had no attic.
And I'll go to bat for that opinion
anytime.
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