It was one of those unique summers. Minimal rain. Humid days. Starry, velvety nights that whispered perfection and promises of more to come. Warm, breezy mornings that evolved with the gradual departure of a silent, azure sunrise. It was a blue ribbon summer, well worth tip-toeing on icy walks and shoveling endless waves of snow. It was the unforgettable summer of the bat.
Once Dale and I discovered that there was a tiny, elusive bat in our bedroom, it was every man for himself. My brave, invincible husband ran screaming out into the hall with little regard for his wife and their calm, clueless Sheltie. As we closed the door behind us, I told Dale that I was going to call the Maine State Police for assistance. He informed me that such a call was inappropriate; the police had better things to do than capture bats in bedrooms. He also informed me that it was my fault we were in such a sorry state, since I had left the windows open most of the day while I washed the screens.
He went into the hall closet and removed a long handled, multi colored duster and a coat hanger. When I asked him what in the world he planned on doing, he asked me to get an empty garbage bag and the stapler. He told me he was going to construct a bat net, go back into the bedroom, sweep the bat right into the net and humanely release it back into the night where it belonged. It sounded like a great plan and I decided to join him as he marched back into the bedroom, bat net over his shoulder. He reminded me of a gladiator about to join the Crusades. I got another trash bag and tucked my hair inside, tying the red handles behind my ears. I convinced Dale to let me try out the net first; after all, this disaster was my fault.
Suffice it to say that the bat net held together just long enough for me to sweep everything from both dressers, knock the bedroom curtains to the floor, and slap Dale in the face at least three times. Though it was our intention to free the bat without incident, my overzealous attempts to trap him proved to be more than he could tolerate and he now lay in the bottom of our kitchen garbage can; wrapped tightly in tin foil.
Dale and I perched on the edge of our bed in silence. My plastic head covering sat tilted on my head, the red plastic handles now hanging unevenly on my shoulders. The undaunted Sheltie lay at our feet. Dale held what remained of the bat net in his hands, a look of shameful defeat on his face. I wanted to praise him for the clever design of the net, as well as his courageous attempt to capture the gossamer-winged intruder.
As I turned toward him, his shoulders began to shake with laughter. With enthusiasm and some relief, I joined in. Our loud, belly-deep laughter filled the recently ravaged bedroom, spilling out of the screenless windows and into the placid night.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
