I had a friend visit me the other night.

There I was, typing away late at night, the house mostly dark. Type-type-type. A balloon by the fireplace moves. Hmmm, must be losing air. The balloon at the ceiling moves. Followed by another balloon (yes, we do have a large number of balloons floating around).

Wait, those balloons aren’t all losing air at the same time, are they?

No, there’s a bird in my house.

Do birds have sonar? Do they flap around at night? Bizarre. I wonder why it’s coming for my head.

Not a bird.

A bat.

Son of a bitch.

There’s a bat in my house. I spring into action (ducking around, shrieking like a little girl), close the pocket doors, prepare to face my adversary…when I realize it’s gone. Poof.

Well played, Mr Bat. Well played. After a quarter of an hour searching through my house for the bat, I find it, tucked into a corner. Bravely, I poke it…with a broom handle. It yells at me. I poke it again. It yells louder. I gave it a little shove and it’s air borne again.

Luckily, they have such advanced sonar that they’ll never run into anything. Except a wall. And a mirror. And the light. And now he’s coming for me. Him or me? Simple choice.

I swatted him out of the air. Perfect swing. He spins out of control like Darth Vader’s tie-fighter after the Death Star. Except Darth Vader never went spinning into a radiator.


Okay, more poking. More prodding.

Senor Bat never learned his lesson the first time. He comes at me again, obviously enamored with a rematch.

My second swing is just as good.

I send him packing out the front door. I proudly swing the door shut, having defeated the 4 oz beast.

This round goes to me, Bat. Don’t push me a second time.