Home Invasion

Holy crap, yo.

The monsters of the forest are invading the Gingerbread Cottage. And while a SuperHero, I deal exclusively in human (or corporate) villains. So I am thrown. Here's the scoop:

Early, early this morning--3am, to be exact--just when I was thinking of shuffling off to bed, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. At first I think it's just the shadows from the blades of the ceiling fan, but there's an energy about the shadow, an insistence, you know...a charge. Like the feeling you get when someone is staring at you--you suddenly realize you're not alone. So I lift my head to fully look, and I saw that this was not a shadow at all, but a big-ass bat frantically circling the living room at top speed. 3 am. A big-ass bat. Holy crap.

At first I did the thing I always do when something awful happens to me. I tell myself, "This isn't happening. This can't be happening. It's not logical." Because really, how could it be happening? How could there suddenly be a bat flying around my little cottage? All the windows were shut...and had been for a long time. All the doors were shut...and had been for a long time. But as the awful thing swoops closer to my head, I have to admit, "Happening! Happening! It's happening!" So it was 3 am, and it was me, two cats, and a bat that was freaking out. Sounds like the set-up for some joke.

Of course, I desperately wanted this situation to be solved, but I had no idea what to do. I had never encountered a bat before. I'd had a bird or two fly into the house before, and basically you just get the windows open or wait until they fly near something and stop. Then you get a towel over them and carry them outside. It's a delicate thing--holding this wild animal firmly enough so that it can't flee but gently enough so you don't hurt it, all the while feeling it's terrified heartbeat thumping to beat the band and trying to send psychic messages to it: hey, hey, it's all right, little baby. I'm just trying to help you. I'm going to take you back home, okay?

I was unprepared to do that with a bat. The Bat was different. It didn't seem to be heading for the windows. It just circled and circled and kept getting a little too close to my head, even though my cottage has 14-foot ceilings. And there was a noise to the flight, a slight noise that was not the feathery flap of birds but more like a leathery crack that did not inspire any sympathy. The noise, although faint--or perhaps because of its faintness--was deeply unsettling. And I had to fully admit, "Oh my god, I'm alone, and there's a frantic bat inside my house. This is not good at all." First, I considered the cats. Rudy, who is a lover not a fighter, saw The Bat and then looked over at me with huge, startled eyes as if to say, "Holy crap, lady, shit is going down," while Baby Girl, who is small and cute on the outside but a killer on the inside, let out a war cry and launched herself into the air. No monster is going to invade her turf. [NOTE: This is the same 6-pound cat who fearlessly hurled herself at a bobcat that found its way onto the deck of my parents' house. Thankfully, there was a screen door between them, and my father's bellowing, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON DOWN THERE?!?!" scared the bobcat away.] Baby Girl was ready to rumble.

The impending Battle Royale between Baby Girl and The Bat presented a problem--not because of how I feel about violence, even "natural", nature-show-violence--but because of the Big R. I know there is a big rabies issue with bats. Sophomore year in high school, I took the mandatory health class with the boys' gym teacher, Geoff Gross. He was a total anti-intellectual, homophobic jackass, but that's another story for another day. He told us that we all had to write a term paper on the disease of our choice, and while everyone else thought they were being edgy by picking STDs like herpes or syphilis or chlamydia, I had no interest in gawking at cauliflower growths and festering wounds on genitalia. Really. So I picked what I figured was the most useless disease possible, just to see if it would piss Gross off. Rabies. And it did piss him off. (Score!) However, I still remember all the details of that term paper. Like the case where a person contracted the disease by means of a cornea transplant from a person who was infected. And how it is always fatal. Always. How's that certainty for ya?

So I grabbed Rudy and threw him into the bathroom and closed the door and then chased Baby Girl throughout the apartment to do the same to her. She, however, was running after The Bat, creating a situation that was very, very not fun for me. When I did get a hold of Baby Girl and started hauling her towards the bathroom, she writhed furiously in my arms, trying to get back towards The Bat, practically screaming, "You think you can come into my house? You think you can come into my house and disrespect me? I'm gonna show you what happens to fools who think they can disrespect me in my own house!" like some contestant on VH1's Charm School.

I threw her in the bathroom, and she was yowling her protest, and then it became time for me to face The Bat truly alone. I got a flattened cardboard moving box and figured I'd shoo it out, but the rooms of the Gingerbread Cottage form a giant circle--which The Bat knew and was taking advantage of. So I realized I'd have to work room by room, shutting each one off along the way, all the while taking care not to get bitten by a possibly rabies-infested intruder. And of course, while covering my hair so that The Bat wouldn't fly into it and get stuck.

I wish I could say I was stoic about the whole thing, but I wasn't. I think I manned up pretty well, considering the circumstances, but there was a little girly screaming. There was some talking myself through it aloud. There was desperate brainstorming: who can I call? Who knows about bats? Who can help me? Can anyone help me? There were two frantic phone calls to Kyle, my friend and colleague who maybe, maybe, maybe was awake working? He wasn't.

Then there was just me.

I managed to shut off the two bedrooms but couldn't figure out how to get across the apartment to open the front door to create the escape route without throwing myself into The Bat's direct path. I got the idea to text John, the one other person in town who is as nocturnal as I am: "Holy shit, I'm getting attacked by a bat. Is there any way you're awake right now?!?!" And as it ends up, he was. I called him, and he said, "Yeah, I wish I could say I'd come over and take care of that for ya, but bats scare the piss outta me." He did stay on the line, though, while I made a wall of cardboard boxes in front of the dining room, slowly eliminating the The Bat's options. It could either circle the living room forever or fly out the door. Which, while I could not see the front door from my vantage point, since I was holding the line of boxes like frickin' Braveheart, I did see The Bat fly into the little foyer...and then I didn't see it after that.

John hung on the line--it was maybe 3:30, quarter to 4 at this point--and he asked if I was going to be okay. I said I had a little crying to do but that afterwards I'd be fine. He advised me to bring the cats into my room, shut the doors, and go to sleep (after the crying, of course). He said that the bat, if it was still in the house, would be much easier to deal with in the morning when it was all sleepy and what have you.

Of course, I stayed up until about 5 am and cried some. You know, the way you do after the car accident because you can't do it while you're actually negotiating the accident. And I e-mailed the landlord about getting Bat Control or whatever out here right away.

So after 5am when I finally did shut myself into my room with Rudy and Baby Girl--who, incidentally, was still gunning for a fight--I climbed under the covers, fully clothed, and got comfortable. Then I arranged a huge moving box over myself.

Yes, I did.

It seemed like the perfect idea. You know, just in case. I needed an extra barrier of protection, and the box was the only thing I could think of. So on one hand I could pretend like this was just a normal night, and I'm just a normal person, just sleeping in her bed. But on the other hand...I was sleeping in a box. You know, because The Bat might get discombobulated, fly into your hair, and infect you with rabies, but it won't chew through cardboard boxes.

But the real deal is...now that the house has been invaded, it isn't safe. And I need to make a new one that is. And a human-size cardboard box may or may not be the key to that.

What else is a girl on her own supposed to do?