(Photo has absolutely nothing to do with this story.)
It is loud here.
It all starts when oldest grand girl comes out of her bedroom and begins to scream about the bat swooping over my head and around the living room and into the kitchen and back into the living room.
I scream at her to get back in her room and shut her door.
I run upstairs to close bedroom doors, which startles the littlest grand girl–asleep in her portacrib–and she starts to scream.
Ignoring both of their screams, I throw open front door and, unable to make screen door plunger stick, I pull porch table over to hold door open.
I flip on porch light and then run to kitchen as I hear bat hit window. It now rests on window sill.
I scream at cat to back off and grab closest thing I can find to corral critter–an empty Ragu jar.
I misjudge size and only succeed in pinning bat by wing.
I hold jar tight over bat with one hand as it writhes and gnashes its teeth and chitters and push cats away with my other hand
I scream for big grand girl to come quick.
She screams that she won’t.
I scream to get out here now.
She comes, pulls large bowl from cupboard and brings new box of oatmeal to me. With one hand I pull off top and dump oats into bowl. But I can not figure how to safely exchange Ragu for Quaker.
I scream at big grand girl to go upstairs and calm screaming little grand girl–but to first bring my cell phone.
I call husband and scream at him to get. home. quick.
Upstairs screaming continues.
Bat very mad.
I feel sorry for bat, but I am Grizzly Gramma.
I take photo of bat with cell phone and post to Facebook with one hand–Help. Me. Because this, of course, needs to be documented.
Twenty-five (!) minutes later, husband skids up driveway and runs downstairs for leather gloves.
Once he returns, we discuss options, and he reaches into drawer behind me and removes scissors . . .
Bat is finally deposited in oatmeal box.
Baby is fed another bottle.
Grand girl is calmed down enough to sleep.
Papa goes to bed and snores.
Grizzly Gramma stands guard until 2:30 when she can no longer stay awake.
In the morning, I deliver dead bat to Animal Control. I watch an officer come to door and turn sign to “closed.”
I pound on door.
“What do you want us to do with that?”
“I want you to test it. There was a sleeping baby in the house.”
Crisis is over. Quiet descends. Until Animal Control lady calls the following day.
“Oh hi,” I chirp. Because I know what she’s going going to say. The bat was negative. It’s all good.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this…”
My heart pounds.
There are calls back and forth to health department (to my ex-boss), veterinarian, doctor at the state level, and grand girls’ parents.
In the end we determine that it’s only the littlest grand girl that needs to undergo rabies prophylaxis because there’s not 100 percent certainty that the bat did not enter her room and bite her. The cats’ shots are up-to-date, and they only need boosters.
Note: The littlest grand began the injection series today. Piece of cake.
Five Minute Friday today becomes Ten Minute Friday.
Lisa Jo’s prompt this week was loud.