bugging the bat

Last night I was on my way to bed.  My little de-worming experiment had left me exhausted.

While locking the back door, my ant compulsion kicked in.  I needed to ensure the leaf-cutters were not on the march.

I stepped outside, released the screen door, and knew I had made a mistake.  Just as I released the door, I saw something swoop into the house.  Something black.

A bat.  Thought I. 

And a pleasant thought it was not.  I love bats.  But a bat trapped in the house will die.  Leaving the screen door open would merely invite the mosquitoes in, and I would wish I had died.

My experience with chasing bats out of houses is that it is easier to stop the tides -- or to manage attorneys.

I took care of two minor ant invasions while I tried to work out a bat exit strategy.  I guess that would be a batxit.

Step one.  Find the bat. 

That should have been rather easy in my house.  It is simply a concrete box. 

But after spending about twenty minutes, I found nothing.  I even opened closet doors-- knowing fully well I could exacerbate the situation if the bat decided to sequester itself once I opened a potential escape route.

Without a bat, there was no step two.

So, off to bed I went.  When I turned out all the lights, I heard air movement in the living room.

At least, I now knew where my target was.

I flipped on the lights.  No bat.

But there was a large flying object.  A cicada.  A big one.  And it was noisy.

I love cicadas.  I find their summer calls to be comforting.  I suspect they remind me of some long-lost memories when summers held promise.

Unfortunately, this bit of winged nostalgia had crossed my path on a night where sleep, and not memories, held promise.  And this insect's noisy infatuation with the light bulb in my wall sconce was not part of my planned peaceful night.

Let me cut to the end of the story.  The cicada buzzes no more.  But it does make a rather good looking corpse.  Almost as if a hummingbird and Marty Feldman had produced a love child.

As a result, I slept the sleep of the self-satisfied.  With dreams of cicadas and bats in a summer garden.