Batty

Thumping in the attic late last night: another bat, this time chased by Allie. Randy came downstairs for the "bat net" (a butterfly net we keep in the laundry room in case the neighbors should need it). We chased Allie out from under the spare bed and then I came back down to the kitchen for the flashlight. Randy found the bat squeezed into the floor heater and couldn't get it to come out. We closed the door to the attic and propped it shut with a box to keep the cat out.

This morning: no sign of bat. Is it hiding in a box? Did it escape through the same mysterious route by which it slipped in?

I like bats; they're amazing little mammals. I like watching them dart silently around the trees in the back yard, or along the river where insects are plentiful. But I always feel helpless and a little guilty when they blunder into "our" house. (How we define space: inside/outside, ours/theirs. . .)