Bats in the Attic

(Editorial note: the incidents exaggerated below happened almost 40 years ago. The author is more enlightened now about the value of bats and other alleged vermin (turkey vultures, Great Eagles,  possums, etc.) to the ecosystem. Squirrels, however, are on their own.)

A friend of mine, Susan, recently asked for advice on getting rid of bats in her attic. Believe it or not, I was too savvy to make any inappropriate remarks, which might have compromised our friendship. Instead I gave her my best advice, based on personal experience: Burn down the house. I probably would have advised her to get her husband and the cat out first, but she doesn’t have a cat, so why go to all that effort? Steve is alert enough to get out on his own, I assume, despite being a chemical engineer.

Many years ago we had a bat in our house, flitting silently through the downstairs while we were trying to watch TV. That didn’t last long– the TV watching, I mean. The bat was fine with whatever. The Wife threw a towel over her head and cowered in the corner. Even the cats dove for cover. Which left me exposed. Our first line of defense was to call the Wife’s Aunt Ruth, who was an experienced and fearless bat fighter. She only lived a few miles away, and probably wasn’t over the age of 85 or so at the time. She asked if we wanted her to come kill it for us. Of course we did! She laughed at us.

Our next thought was to burn down the house.

Eventually the bat flew upstairs. Donning battle gear and arming myself with a broom, I crawled up the stairs on my belly to engage the enemy. In my defense here, the ceiling over the stairs was very low. Understand this thing was as big as a turkey vulture and had the wingspan of a Great Eagle from Lord of the Rings. I think I had a hat on, but still. I finally found it under the bed in the spare bedroom, and beat it to death with the broom (some NSFW language was involved) until it was no bigger than my thumb. I think that qualifies as some kind of miracle in a Biblical sense.

derelict

Not the actual farmhouse

The Wife grew up in an old farmhouse, and many years ago her mother used No Pest Strips to kill… well, pests. These things were potent. They still sell them, but I imagine the lethality of them has been forcibly restricted over the years by the EPA, CDC, WHO and various other international do-gooder health agencies. In those good old days you could hang one of these in an attic and it would kill ‘most anything: bugs, hornets, wasps, mice, bats, probably unwelcome guests if you could get them up close to the ceiling in the spare bedroom, like maybe in an upper bunk. The Wife’s mother used them injudiciously, and she and her husband lived to ripe old ages.

Such is the price of progress. No Pest Strips are probably No Kill Strips by now, the same way that charcoal lighter fluid is about so safe it’s about as flammable as urine and it takes a blowtorch to keep it going. Fortunately, I have a blowtorch. And I don’t need to kill any bats. Right now, anyway.

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