Bats in our Belfry . . . Taking a “Blogcation”

Like a pimply faced teenager taking his first gangly steps into manhood, I am going to do my best to settle back into this project, but do bear with me if I trip over my feet a bit. Pitiful really . . . the amount of time I have put into this project only to let it slip through my fingers like sands through an hourglass. The truth is this little “Blogcation” (Blogging Vacation) was a long time coming. I use the term “Blogcation” as my own personal jab at the sickeningly mundane way we seem to abuse the English language these days with stupid terms like “Staycation” and the like. Don’t know what that is? Good for you. Not wanting to turn this into one of my usual rants on my irritation du jour, lets get right down to the good stuff. For the simple sake of keeping connected to those of you that are still holding onto a thread of hope that I might post an update before the end of the year, let me catch you up on life in the Butler household. For those that know me best, it can be said that I have more than an idle hatred for the Junebug also known as Phyllophaga (genus), a genus of beetles in the subfamily Melolonthinae of the family Scarabaeidae according to the good folks inputing such nonsense to the interwebs via Wiki. Who really knows if that is correct. It was the first thing I came to after a brief Google search. I have an epic story that I hope to someday commit to paper that some of you may already know that relates to these hateful little creatures. To my knowledge, they are the only insect in the world that holds a grudge. At any rate, as much as the mere thought of having one of those little bastards dive bomb my head seems to make my skin crawl, it cannot nearly compare to a run in with Pipistrellus pipistrellus (also known as the Common Pipistrelle Bat).

Now, my appreciation of typical bat behavior is limited to that which I have seen on the Discovery Channel and of course the much beloved genre of films concerning vampires. I have neither a fear of the creature for its mythical ability to transform one into a blood sucking fiend or a necessarily warm and fuzzy feeling requiring me to get to know one better. That being said, being locked in intense battle with one of these little blighters in the confines of one’s own boudoir certainly makes for a lively evening. I don’t know if the creature was harboring the same sort of malice for mankind that seems evident in the Junebug or if it was simply disoriented, but the damn thing seemed dead set on landing on my face. I suspect the latter to be more likely. Sort of like a GPS losing its signal in a parking garage, I imagine the poor things echo location sensibilities were being overwritten by the complete cacophony of shrieks and wails coming from my wife as she cowered in our bed beneath whatever covers she could find. Her screams of terror were soon replaced with angry accusations of abandonment when she realized I was no longer in bed next to her. I, however, am a man of action. It went a little something like this:

As we laid restless in our bunk with an open bedroom window and liberal application of fan driven breeze, we attempted to chat ourselves to sleep while cursing the miserably warm weather and lack of modern air conditioning. From the darkness, I hear my wife exclaim “THERE IS SOMETHING IN HERE WITH US!” Within an instant her head was buried beneath the covers and I was left sort of dumbfounded and asking a lot of stupid questions. “What do you mean something is in here with us?”, I asked. “I don’t know, a big bug or bird or something” was her hesitant reply. Chuckling at her apparent fear of what I presumed to be a moth or something of the kind, I strained to adjust my eyes to the darkness. It was to no avail though, so I resorted to a little echo location of my own and soon found myself upright at my bedside as something the size of what seemed to be a Volkswagen Beetle strafed past my face like Tom Cruise buzzing the tower in Top Gun. I knew my only chance was to retreat, which I did in haste . . . or fear . . . whatever. My mind was immediately preoccupied with arming myself. By this time my wife had resumed her screaming fits of terror which didn’t help my opponents mental state, his flight pattern had become increasingly erratic as we danced around the room bobbing and weaving like a sparring session between Rocky and Apollo Creed. I saw my chance to escape to the hall and made a break for it. The bat beat me there and took up post in the door way. Like mortar fired from a cannon it took one last shot at taking my face off. A deft spin move evaded the attack and I was soon in the safety of the now lit hallway. Time to save the wife. Nothing was apparent within arm’s reach to assist me in this battle. I made for the stairs and as I made my way down our creeking stairs, my wife once again changed from screaming to cursing. She accused me of leaving her and called me everything but a white boy. No time for small talk, I made my way toward our utility room where I thought I might have the best chance of finding a weapon. By this time the wife had made her own screaming break for it and was making her way down the stairs.

Now joining me in the utility area, we did the best we could with the implements available. It was decided that our badminton racquets would have to do. And yes, we are geeky enough to have a badminton set. Even geekier still . . . WE USE IT. Don’t worry, it’s a French thing . . . you wouldn’t understand. Anyhow, soon we returned to the stairs and crept our way upward like a SWAT team entering a crack house. Immediately we made tactical sweeps of the children’s rooms to confirm their safety and secure their doors. CLEAR! We now returned to our doorway to find our winged foe swooping furiously to and fro in hopes of freeing himself from this most unfortunate circumstance. Truth be told, I think he was just trying to get away from all of the screaming. One pass, brought the fella a little too close to the door way and I went to make my retreat only to find the wife with a 20 yard headstart, slamming the hall door behind her and trapping me in with our adversary. She in fact stayed so far from the action that the Badminton racquet was more of a decoration than an effective tool. No way was she going to get close enough to this thing to take a swing. Still, she would have to steady her nerves to play a very important role in this seek and destroy mission. She was to be my lightsman. With flashlight at the ready, I convinced her to rejoin me at the doorway to our room. In room breaching formation we stacked up and began our assault. I was in the lead with my racquet at the ready with the wife CLOSE behind tripping over my heals with a shaky flashlight darting about the room in her quivering hand while the other dug deeply into the nape of my neck. I am convinced that should something have jumped out at us, she would have torn my spine from my body and fled to the neighboring zip code, leaving my paralyzed body in a heap on the floor. Fortunately, nothing ever did jump out. In fact, upon our return to our room, there was no sign of Mr. Bat. Certain that leaving any stone unturned would lead to a second wave of screaming and cursing should the bat return, I climbed through the rafters and slid under the bed to ensure that every inch of the room was secure before closing the window. Reluctantly, we piled back into our bed and sunk into a sweaty exhausted slumber with badminton racquets clutched to our chests. Openly I admit to no fear, but it can now be said that I have an intense dislike for bats and junebugs . . . oh, and REALLY deep water, but that is a story for another day. Hope you enjoyed another peak into the saga that is the Butler household. Hopefully this won’t be the last. See ya soon. R.