driving her bats

I love bats. 

Or murciélagos as we say in these parts.  Well, I would call them that if it were not for all of those tongue-wrangling vowels.

I simply call them bats.  And, as I already told you, I love them.

What's not to love?  They are as cute as mice.  More effective at mosquito control than a tub of Raid.  And, best of all, they can do what every human with a scintilla of imagination has lusted after -- they can fly.

When I lived on the beach, I hosted a guest bat. (calling commissioner gordon)  Señor Lugosi would stop by on his nightly dining trips.  His roost was just above the outdoor bar.  I knew that from the circumstantial evidence.  It was either a bat or a well-Exlaxed rat.

One night I managed to catch sight of him before he darted off to meet the other children of the night  -- and most likely end up in some sappy teenage drek like Twilight.

The day I moved into my current house, I knew I had at least one nightly bat.  My entryway is regularly decorated with bat guano.  But it took me almost four years to see what was doing the donating.

It turns out that a matched pair are hanging out here.  I like to think of them as Señor and Señora Murciélago.  (I say "think," because I am better at thinking in Spanish than I am at speaking it.)

My landlady is as fond of bats as I am.  In fact, her fondness for animals dwarfs mine.  What she is not fond of is their "batroom" habits.

The guano is not a problem.  It sweeps up easier than spilled rice.

Take a look at the wall.  Her newly-painted walls.  If you have not guessed already, the white streaks are urine stains.  And stains they are.  Caustic stains.

I have read enough woes on other blogs that denying bats their rest stops is a Sisyphean task.  Or, if the rare victory is declared, it is Pyrrhic.

So, the bats will stand on mosquito guard.  And me?  I may have another clean-up task added to my list.

The title of my memoirs just floated past my eyes.  Ants and Bat Urine.

It could be worse.