It started a few weeks ago when we noticed "droppings" on our garbage can. Mice? Up there? Ew. We ignored it, but then there were more.
We got home one night last week and spotted something ominous flying around and around our house. A bat. My cute, tiny Georgian suddenly looked like something out of Dracula. And I don't mean that in a cool, vampires-are-so-in-right-now way. More like Lord-help-me-we-are-all-going-to-get-rabies-and-die-foamy-deaths kind of way.
So, we're suspicious. The next night I'm washing dishes and I ask Bert, "Hey, buddy, what's Daddy doing?"
"He's outside flashin'."
To be honest, I might have preferred indecent exposure. The Man was galloping around the house at twilight, shining his flashlight at the roof in the hopes of finding the bats. And did he ever. He counted eight that night. All tucked up cozy in our soffit. Our soffit that has a three inch gap it shouldn't have. I stayed just inside the screen door, and I may have peed my pants a little.
Last night The Man's whole family was over for Fathers' Day, and everyone counted aloud as the bats flew out for the night. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. EIGHTEEN.
Send help quick.
Hook
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