"Oh God, I'm so goth, I've got bats in my boots."
--My eldest daughter, the mad seamstress
As MizBubs watched TV the other night, one of the compound mutts (Duffy) went goofy and started sniffing, barking and running around a pair of our daughter's shoes on the living room floor. This went on for a few moments, and then Duffy assumed the alert watchdog position and stared at the shoes.
A few minutes later, MizBubs noticed some movement near the shoes. A mouse? A dog toy that Duffy dragged from under the sofa? Nope.
A bat. A live bat, subsequently identified as Myotis lucifugus, a Little Brown Bat. Injured, which is a good thing because it kept him from flying around the house, bumping into things, tangling in everyone's hair while biting them and giving everyone rabies. Instead, he crawled along on the floor while Duffy went apeshit.
MizBubs, girl dynamo, called in our youngest daughter to witness the unbelievable cuteness of the little bat. They agreed he was adorable, but not to be touched since he was, after all, injured wildlife. No Steve Irwins here. Miz Bubs then put on some cement-mixing gloves, got a shovel, scooped up the little rabies carrier, and flung him into the neighbor's yard, out of the reach of our dogs. She then returned to her regularly scheduled broadcast.
How did a bat get into my house? We couldn't see any obvious way in, so right now I'm going with the theory that one of the dogs brought him in, and unsure of what to do with him and inexperienced in bat-killing, lost control of the bat. It's a weak theory, though, and I'm open to other suggestions.
