Or, so it seems. A few years back, I erroneously chalked up a scratching noise and small mammalian turds to a mouse. I was wrong. It was a bat.
The scratching stopped, and we figured the bat did one of two things:
1. It left our home, never to come back.
2. It died, and will forever be a part of the infrastructure of our home.
We thought nothing of it and went on with our lives.
Then, this past week, as a friend was watching our house for us, we discovered our problem was back, albeit in a different form.
Our dog was barking at the utility room door. Our friend opened the door, saw something flying around, shut the door quickly and stuffed towels under the doorframe. She called us and told us about our little visitor.
I have walked in several times, only to find our utility room batless. Nothing. Nada. Our walls are not finished in the room, so a bat could have ample opportunities to crawl back into the space between the floors. I figured that this is where he/she was at and let it be.
I’ve continued to keep the towels under the door. Just in case, I guess.
Last night, we heard a thumping in the vents. We figured it was the bat. It had moved into the attic. I would turn the fan off in the house and it would stop. I would turn it back on and it was back. It was as if the breeze from the vents was waking it up to its situation – that it was stuck in a strangers house and the stranger was doing nothing to let it escape. So I did what any bat-hating homeowner would do.
I went back to sleep.
Is this bad? I have a bat in my house, but I know it won’t be easy to find. I’m too lazy to go rummaging around for it. I know it’s closed off from the rest of the house – the livable areas – and, frankly, I don’t want to bother with catching it once it’s been let loose upon the rest of us. I’m content with letting it die, knowing that bats don’t smell too much when dead; knowing there’s probably a relative somewhere up there.
Maybe the bat came across its dead kin and, scared witless at what its fate could ultimately be, began pounding against the vents in a vain attempt at escape.
I do know, though, that this time it’s not a mouse. There’s no need to buy mousetraps. Balsa wood and peanut butter? Not worth it. It’s a bat. And I really don’t care whether it lives or dies.
I really just want to be able to take the towels out from under the door.