One steamy summer Saturday night, I shunned “Svengoolie” and was watching a movie titled “Nocturnal Animals.” Read on for the impending irony.
In my unlit dining room, I thought I saw a flying object. It proceeded to swoop upstairs with yours truly in hot pursuit. I found a little brown bat clinging to an old smoke detector. He was just a youthful, fuzzy-eared guy, probably enjoying his first solo flight. I caught him in a blanket and set him free.
I write cavalierly now, but that episode was a bit unnerving. Would there be more?
The following Thursday night, I was upstairs watching Rachel Maddow and Lawrence O’Donnell on split screen. Just as Rachel was saying “Good evening, Lawrence,” a bigger bat sailed by. It passed in and out of the remaining rooms, went downstairs and disappeared. Obviously, Mama was hunting for her errant offspring.
Inevitably, Mr. Critter Man arrived (all smirks and sarcasm), put a contraption in my fireplace chimney and charged a fat, juicy fee – ample enough to cover his kid’s college tuition for a spell, I’m sure!
