I’m not a fan of bats. The flying kind. They creep me out.
But they creep me out.
I shudder to think how many visitors we knocked down in this old farmhouse and then released before having them sealed out. Before I worked for the health department.
Because now I know the risk.
And bats really creep me out.
A local lady saved herself this week by capturing a bat that bit her. She actually had puncture marks. Testing proved it had rabies.
Reminded me again of one of our many bat experiences.
“Mom! Dad! There’s a mouse in my trash can!”
Not the way I want to be startled from a deep sleep. Dennis continues to snore.
“Mmmmm. What color is it?”
I don’t know why I asked that.
Brown? Mice aren’t brown, are they? In her tall Michigan State trash can? Oh no!
Dennis sleeps on. I bound up the stairs. And there in her trash can–is a bat!
Bat. Bedroom. Sleeping person.
Must. Catch. Bat.
Book over can. Bushel basket with vinyl liner. More books to hold in place. Close closets. Close door. Stuff towels under door. Call . . . who? At 7 in the morning?
Margaret! Our communicable disease nurse!
Why am I freaked? We’ve had confirmed cases of bat rabies in the area. A bat in the area of a sleeping person means assumed exposure.
Lose bat. Get shots.
I check Abby over for bites, knowing marks could be invisible and that there is no way to tell saliva exposure. Calm her down. Calm me down. Send her off to school.
I call Animal Control who sends two officers armed with long heavy gloves–a man and a woman.
We go upstairs, and the man begins to dismantle my “trap.”
He removes the books. He removes the basket. The three of us peer warily into the can.
He explores the basket. Removes the liner.
He removes the paper from the bottom of the can, piece by piece, and we stare at the bottom of an empty can.
I see shots in our future. But–are those droppings on that sheet of crumpled paper? I reach down to pick it up.
And the bat falls on my bare foot!
My heart stops. I nearly fall out the window. The lady officer screams. The man swoops down on it with his gloves.
And. We. Wait.
Days later. The news. The bat is (was) clean.
I was and am informed now. But I wonder. How many other bats have we dodged?
While we slumbered.
Or like the one Abby woke up to see settled on her canopy one night?
Or like others seen, chased, and lost?
Not that the risk is humongous. But it’s there. And I could drive myself batty with worry.
And I wonder. Am I aware of spiritual risks? Have I sealed the entries? Do I remember to don my armor? How many dangers has He protected me from? Dangers unaware?
I’m so glad that He stands guard even in the night watches.
And I’m not creeped out at all.
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King