A few nights ago, I was sitting in bed reading (my husband was out like a light), and I was startled by a noise right outside our bedroom door. It sounded like shuffling feet. I sat up straight, heart pounding inside my chest, trying not to breathe. Maybe I was just hearing things. But, there it was again. The dogs perked up, so I knew I was hearing something real. "Michael...Michael! There's someone in our house," I whisper-yelled. "No there's not; go back to sleep!" (He was cranky.) I sat silently for a few more seconds, and heard it again. "Michael, this is real! Get out there and see what's going on!" "No! Leave me alone!" ...Awesome. Time to put on my big girl pants.
I tip-toe to the door, open it slightly and flip on the hall light. I don't hear anything, so I venture out into the hallway and stand still as a statue. Then, I see it. Something moves quickly in the dining room, out of the corner of my eye--something eye-level with me. I gasp and run into our room and slam the door shut. Now I have Michael's attention. "Michael, there is someone out there, I just saw it! Get up! Get up!" He leaps out of bed, goes to the hallway, and my brave hero says, "Hello? Who is it?" I'm thinking, "That's NOT what you say to someone who's robbing you in the middle of the night! Please don't die out there." He screams...and grabs a broom. I scream...and close the bedroom door tight so that whatever is out there can't get in (including my husband--what kind of wife am I?). I hear commotion, more screaming from Michael...which leads to more screaming from me. Then I hear between gasps for breath, "It's gone! It's out of here! It was a bat flying in our house!" You better believe I could not sleep that night, and kept thinking I felt something fly into my hair. You know the feeling...jumpy, grossed out, totally tense. The next morning, I scanned each room with hawk-like vision before venturing into it.
It must be because of my past run-ins with wildlife, but I can't handle it. Not even for a second. I will always scream bloody murder. Maybe it was that day the opossum jumped out of a bag in our garage as a kid, and its ensuing end as my dad beat it to death with a metal t-ball bat. Or maybe it was that day in Jr. High when I came home to check on the nest of baby birds on my window sill, only to see them being swallowed whole by a big black snake...and its fatal end as my dad beheaded it with a garden hoe. Or perhaps it was that time a couple months ago when I stood on a lawn chair screaming as my dad stomped a mole to death under his New Balances. Whatever the source, I want no part of it. Give me puppies and butterflies. Anything else...
I guess I'm a small town girl with a healthy urban distaste for small woodland creatures. Thank goodness for my husband, Batman. ...And my dad; contrary to how these stories make him sound, he's not violent. Although his nickname at the prison is Grizzly...
No worries; he's a guard. :)
