Bat Wings of Desire

I caught a bat today.  Came home after negotiating the immense crowd focused on the harbor concert and was carrying a box of wine in from the car, when I noticed that some of my neighbors sat outside in lawn chairs.  Now, people love to be announcers of the macabre, and the three of them chorused at once "There's a bat!"

I thought they said. "There's a bat!"  Turns out they had.  Bat, bat, mammal flying bat? Workmen had been repairing the overhang all day and had been banging and sawing and probably disturbed the little guy till he flew up the stairwell;  or, alternately, there's a screen with a hole in it somewhere. Yes, a Real Bat they said.  They had called Animal Control, the SPCA, security, and the one man's co-workers.  No official showed up and the four men had tried to catch it for an hour.

"Watch out, 'cause when you move, that's when he starts flying."  Oh good.  They carry rabies, but I was going to operate on the idea that this is just a lost soul who needs assistance.  "Watch your hair," he advised.  I try not to; my hair is a combatant that fights me everyday, we do not have a great relationship.  No matter what, it doesn't stay where I put it, so if that old wive's tale is true (it isn't), the bat is welcome to nest there.  How about your fishing net, I ask fisherman guy.  Left it on the boat.  Rats, but not the end.  What the heck do I have that could catch it safely for release back into the bat wilderness of the city?  Nothing.

Think a think a think.  One of the most useful things on the planet is a wire coat hanger, and every time I need one to unclog a drain, tie up a car muffler, or beat a cat, I swear like a drunk that just fell off the barstool because of Joan Crawford.  "NO WIRE HANGERS," and I agreed with Joan and if there is a wire hanger in this apartment, it is only because it effected temporary escape.  I cussed out Joan Crawford while looking.  My dresses hang on thick IKEA hangers or padded luxury Cadillac hangers with pink ribbons.  Fie!  I shoved and dug through the closet and found a cluster of three wire hangers hanging out at the edge of civilization, clustered like orphans in a storm.  They knew what was coming, that there would be a wire hanger sacrifice.

I grabbed the thing and started backing off from all the swearing by genuinely thanking God for this wire hanger as if he cared, but maybe he does a little because the bat is one of his children.  As if the roadkill and all the little mice caught in traps aren't.  I thank God for the provenance of the hanger and help me catch the thing and not get rabies.  All the eff you Joans disappear, and now it's Praise the Lord; imagine the tv remote switching from a George Carlin retrospective to Davy and Goliath, welcome to my world, it flips that fast.

The hanger gave up easily and shrugged as I bent it into a loop and straightened the hook.  We went into the kitchen, and I got a thin, billowy garbage bag that I stole from school since the roll was almost gone and we were packing up and moving anyways.  The thing floats like gossamer, and is about as flimsy.  I got the big roll of packing tape that splits into shreds when peeling off a length, and the cussing started again,  I paid four dollars for this piece of crap at the post office, you think the government would sell its own people decent tape instead of this ratsin-fratsin klipnagle Friday stuff they shill.  You figure out what ratsin-fratsin klipnagle means, I bet you already know what the Friday word represents.  I got the bag neatly taped to the circumference of the wire hanger.

A pole, I needed a pole, there was no pole.  Ah, but there was a broom and the Lord is sweet, it's a bamboo handle so there is a hollow end to fit the straightened hook into if I folded it in half.  More tape, more praise the goodness of the universe.  The Lord loves me for trying to save a bat.  See?  It's a pattern: swear a blue curtain, praise heaven; swear, praise; swear, praise.  I tire myself out.  But it was a success, and my contraption was ready, but was I?  A shiver ran smartly down my spine, for what if this thing was rabid?  It wasn't behaving erratically, it's solemnly huddled in a corner.  I got leather gloves that I wear when there's a biting cat that needs a fix at either end; oh, my guys love me, no doubt, but if I'm messing with one of their body parts high in the echelon of cat sanctity, they will let me know,  usually with a firm-toothed hand hold.  Have any of my guys deliberately bitten me?  Oh no, no, no.  I know they try very hard not too; we have a deal, they don't bite me, and I don't bite them.  Works.

So I have the broom-garbage bag invention, and leather gloves, keys in pocket, and shut the door so the cats don't get exposed or try to fly up to the ceiling to catch Mr. Bat.  I walked slowly to where he was huddled, I don't know, I don't think bats know if they are he's or she's either, and was making kissy noises.  Here boy.  He's upside down.  No movement at all, I am guessing this is one tired bat after being chased by four men in their late twenties.  I just put the hoop part over it, still no movement, so I pulled down and voila!  There was a bit of fascinating wing flapping, but I yanked the net thing up like I'm grabbing a kid by the arm from running into the street---I'm in Mom-mode---and the bat got caught right in the bottom of the bag and stopped struggling.  I tipped the hoop thing to close the opening, and pushed the elevator button.  Took me fifteen seconds to catch a bat.

While waiting for the elevator, I brought the bat in a bag up to where I can see him.  Tiny little head, cute as pie.  He's not gasping or twitching, and I'm still on his side.  Trotted outside, the neighbors saw the bag and you've got it?  You got the bat?  Right here, right here step right up.  Cell phones came out for pictures, and bat photos will be sent to sons and daughters.  I spied a bush and planned to shake him out where he could hang onto something until he's oriented, but one of the men, a sweetie pie who didn't want to hurt the bat in the first place asked if he can let him go.  Well okay, but I still felt protective and watch the man as he tried to shake the bat out of the bag, but it's hung on with it's claws.  He had to shake a bit roughly, and eventually the bat dropped onto the grass.  The man then gave the Little Brown Bat a nudge and the wondrous wings flapped and lifted, and the bat flew!  It flew off to a low brick building across the street, where I imagine it will rest up a bit after this adventure.  It was beautiful, the scalloped wings arched so neatly, the delicacy of the whole bat machinery.  It was a gift.  Again, the heavens were blessed.

The neighbors and I woofed a bit about bat catching technique and how we were all glad the little thing wasn't hurt, but had flown for safety and another night of bug hunting.  The wire hanger and bag were tossed, the broom and I ascended in the elevator.  I congratulated myself in front of the cats and told them how I saved a bat, and how bats are really neat creatures and they are disappearing because of a white, fatal fungus.  They had not even one eff to give about bats and why hadn't you opened a can of cat food, what else do you think you're good for?  It was a good thing I was down to two wire hangers or there would have been beatings, and I think they would have won.  Can you even buy wire hangers anymore?  They are on the grocery list.

We will sleep while the little bats flutter in crazy zigzags in the night sky, eating bugs and doing bat somersaults.  I love to watch them, but the immense clouds of bats that once came out of far off warehouses that I could watch from my window have dwindled down to a few occasional visitors.
Little winged brown angels, busy doing their bat business while we of the diurnal dream and shift throughout the night.  Sleep and dream, human, dream of wings that let you fly and taste the night sky.
Sleep well, with love.