(Photo has absolutely nothing to do with this story because… leaking bat)
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 slam shut 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 the front door and, unable to make the screen door plunger stick, I pull the porch table over to hold the door open.
I flip on the porch light. I’m trying to lure the bat out, but then run to the kitchen as I hear the it hit the window. It now rests on window sill.
I scream at the cat to back off and grab the closest thing I can find to corral the critter–an empty Ragu jar.
I misjudge the size and only succeed in pinning the bat by a wing.
I hold the jar tight over the bat with one hand as it writhes and gnashes its teeth and chitters and push cats away with my other hand. It starts to drool and leak all over the sill.
I scream for the big grand girl to come quick.
She screams that she won’t.
I scream to get out here now.
She comes, pulls a large bowl from cupboard and brings a new box of oatmeal to me. With one hand I pull off the top and dump the oats into the bowl. But I can’t figure how to safely exchange Ragu for Quaker.
I scream at the big grand girl to go upstairs and calm the screaming little grand girl–but to first bring my cell phone.
I call my husband and scream at him to get. home. quick.
Upstairs screaming continues.
Bat is very mad.
I feel sorry for the bat, but I am Grizzly Gramma.
I take a photo of the 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, my husband skids up the driveway and runs downstairs for leather gloves.
Once he returns, we discuss options. He reaches into the drawer behind me and removes scissors . . .
The bat is finally deposited in oatmeal box.
The baby is fed another bottle.
The 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 the dead bat to Animal Control. I watch an officer come to the door and turn the sign to “closed.”
I pound on the door.
He opens it. I hand him my oatmeal box.
“What do you want us to do with that?”
“It’s a bat. It’s dead. I want you to get it tested. It was in my house. There was a sleeping baby in my house.”
We move on with life–until the Animal Control lady calls the following day.
“Oh hi,” I chirp. Because I know she’s going to tell me 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 the 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.
In the not stillness,
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.