Swept Under

By the end of my service, I anticipate a Ulysses-sized saga that details my battles with bats in Panama. Here’s the next installment:

10:30am – I come home from a quick morning meeting and open the door to flapping wings. My first though: man, that’s a huge butterfly. My second (and more accurate): that’s the S.O.B. that poops on my floor and won’t eat the poisoned banana I laid out.

I close the door behind me and literally say out loud, “All right motherfucker, it’s daytime now, let’s do this thing.” (I like to tell myself I’m not cracking up but the evidence is mounting…)

Tiny troublemaker

I grab the broom leaning against the wall beside me and start swinging. Now, I’ve been here before, but normally it’s 2am on a moonless night and I can only see parts of the bat’s flight in my flashlight beam – I’ve never come close to hitting one. But broad daylight was different. I missed several times before I was able to anticipate his next swoop but I did and with a tight two hand grip, I raised the broom and put some Albert Pujols into a tomahawk swing. WHACK!

I paused post swing and waited for a resurrection. Nothing. I found the body and prodded it. Nothing. Bats killed with blunt force: 2.

I thought about a Viking burial, considering the battles we’ve been through, but settled on unceremoniously flinging him into the forest.

By now, I’ve accepted that with every kill I earn a few silent nights and poopless mornings. I’m sure that’s something even Ulysses could appreciate.