The Rabies Bat: Or, How I Won’t Survive the Zombie Apocalypse but My Mom Totally Will

A bat flies into my mother’s bedroom.

I shit you not.  This is not a joke.

No long-faced horse walks into the bar.  Neither priest, nor rabbi, nor minister saunter on in and belly on up.

This is a true story.

It’s a balmy late-fall evening and I’m downstairs enjoying a perfectly vapid flick about a group of roller-skate-shodden-and-feather-haired-1970s-teens, when a random and relatively desperate shout winds it’s shout-y way down the staircase of my mother’s home and rips itself into my personal space:“Ahhhh! AaHHHH!”.

I pause the movie and wonder what my mother’s gross neighbors are up to and then suddenly remember that they, along with their horrible bark-y dogs, moved out over a month ago.  I trace the source of distress to the second story of my mother’s home as my auditory senses perk up and follow the trail tramped by a great and somewhat distressing bellowing:


There’s a bat in my mom’s bathroom and I need to get a broom.

Reluctantly snapped and immediately smacked out of a dramatic state of inconvenience at having had to push the pause button on the roller-skating movie just a moment ago, and doubled-over in laughter at the sound of my mother’s bellowing (she’s but a wee 5’2″), I grab a broom from the garage, and the dog’s blanket, and I bolt upstairs.

You never know what kind of weapons you’ll need when you enter into battle with a bat.  A dog blanket is as good as any.  Especially when the blanket’s dog bolts for the back door in a moment of canine distress.  (Again, the small lady was bellowing.  It was distressing.  In a Lucy-and-Ethel kind of a way.  It made the dog have to pee.)

Mom: “There’s a bat in my bathroom! Give me the broom!”

Me: confidently, “Let me handle it, Mom. I’m faster than you.”

Mom: “It’s all over the news! Bats with rabies! THAT’SARABIESBAT!!”

And so I open the bathroom door, see the bat in the corner of the room, and head in with the dog blanket. I’m going to just throw the blanket over it, grab it, and take it out to the balcony of my mother’s bedroom to set it free. I see it. It’s super cute. Kind of furry and I totally want to pet it.


Me: “No, it’s not. It’s a very cute little bat and it’s just lost and needs to get outside,” I say as I toss the blanket over it, bend down, and try to scoop it up.

At which point  THERABIESBAT flies right at my head. All kamikaze-like.  That little furry fucker tries to kill me by sinking it’s little THERABIESBAT talons into my eyeballs!

I was right about one thing, though: I am super fast.

Here’s how it goes down:

1) I pick up the dog blanket and throw it at the creature, while
2) Jousting the broom in the general direction of the little fucker, while
3) Screaming like a little girl (because I am, but older), while
4) Running backwards out of my mother’s bathroom, while
5) Fighting against the tension coming from my mother pulling me backwards by the neck of my t-shirt, while
6) Making a final lunge and grab toward the bathroom doorknob to protect us both from the THERABIESBAT …

… in about 0.6 seconds.

I’m super fast. Like a German-Engineered Driving Machine.

Me: “Don’t pull my shirt!”

Mom: “I was trying to save you from THERABIESBAT!”

Me: “Okay, but don’t pull the neck-hole of my shirt!”

Mom: “We need a net!”

Me: “The pool net?!”

Mom: “Go get the pool net!”

And, so I do.

I run the 2,200 square feet out from my mother’s bedroom and downstairs to the far side of the pool where the cleaning equipment is kept, only to discover that the pool net has a hole in it. A THERABIEBAT sized hole!

Me: panting after another 2,200 square feet ran back to my mother’s bedroom, “got the net. has a hole.”

Mom: doubling over in laughter and peeing her pants a little bit, “Well, go get it!”

Me: furiously shaking the pool net at her, “I’ve got it!  It’s here!  The hole-y net is right here!”

Mom: legs strangely crossed to keep the pee in and talking through her hysteria, “The bat! Get THERABIESBAT! Use the net!”

I try. I really do. I go in to my mother’s bathroom again and find the THERABIESBAT hiding in the shower.

He flies back toward my head once more, furiously grabbing out toward my eyeballs in slo-mo with his scrappy little talons, after I disrupt his shower curtain hiding place with a jab of the hole-y pool net.

And, again, I demonstrate my tremendous speed, ability, and lung capacity with a screaming, backwards run out of my mother’s bathroom, all the while whirling the hole-y pool net around over my head like a helicopter blade to keep THERABIESBAT out of my airspace.

Mom: laughing like a loon, surely a little ashamed of her oldest daughter’s complete inability to protect her from a flying rodent, and peeing her pants just a little more, “Hurry up! I have to go to the bathroom!”

Me: running in place and shaking my head back and forth, while flapping my hands around after throwing the stupid hole-y pool net off to the side somewhere, “I’m trying!  There are two other bathrooms in this house!”

Mom: “Just give me the net! I’m going in!”

Me: still doing the running, head-shaking, flappy-hand thing, “It’s hanging upside down onto the doorframe!”

And, hanging all upside down-y and Dracula-like, that little, furry THERABIESBAT gets scooped up into the hole-y pool net by my 60-something mother.  The AARP-benefited lady runs for her open balcony door as I just do more in-place safety dancing and shout in her general direction, “Just throw it outside! JUSTTHROWIT!”

My mother makes it outside with THERABIESBAT, throws the hole-y pool net and that evil little monster off of the balcony, and then runs safely back into the house, slamming the door, her little, much-shorter-and-frailer-than-me frame unscathed.

I, however, am not so unscathed.

Because I realize two things:

1) Despite my sweet backward-running skills, if the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I’m totally screwed. Especially if there are zombie bats.

2) My mom is much more of a bad-ass than I am.

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