For about a decade, my husband and lived in the southeast, specifically in Miami, FL, while I pursued my PhD, and in Charlotte, NC. And, in the south, air conditioning is a ubiquitous fact of life. Miami weather was generally intolerable, both in temperature and in humidity, most of the year, forcing one to shift from a climate-controlled 75 degrees to air quality reminiscent of pea soup multiple times over the course of a single day. Everyone I knew had an “indoor sweater” of some kind which made an appearance as soon as one entered a building. Moving up to New England again, particular into northern New England, certainly promised a very different climatic experience. Windows would have to be sealed shut in the winter to keep out the blistering cold, but they could be thrown open with abandon in the summer to welcome the cool night air into the stagnant atmosphere characterizing most 19th-century second-floor bedrooms.

At first, pulling open an old, wooden window previously set in its frame a century ago was a much-anticipated summer novelty. But, I quickly realized the disadvantages–bugs, sometimes clouds of countless masses of them, eagerly pursued the opportunity to access an indoor light source at night. Circumstances were significantly worse should a passing colony of gnats be sucked inside by the indoor-facing window fans. But, with the exception of the occasional, unfortunate moth, nothing larger managed to successfully squeeze itself between the window panes and into the bedroom.

Until last weekend.

It was 6:00 a.m., and I briefly awoke. I whispered greetings to Oscar, comfortably curled up on the other side of the bed, with a chin chuck. I rolled over intending to descend back to sleep for another few hours’ rest. Then, I realized something was in the room. Something large, something swooping around, circling the center light fixture in the ceiling. At first, I dismissed the circumstances–it must be another large moth. Then, I opened my eyes.

It was a tiny, terrified bat.

I must admit that I had absolutely no idea what to do at that moment. My instinct was, most certainly, to leave the room as quickly as possible and make sure the cats, too, were out. This project, however challenging it might be under normal circumstances, was quite simple this time. Handsome, for example, took one look at the swooping creature and decided against risking a confrontation, quickly scurrying out the door and into an adjacent office. Following his lead, I closed the bedroom door behind me, and I went downstairs to the first floor. I was determined to get at least a little more sleep, and I pulled out the couch in the living room to lay down. Despite claims to the contrary by my husband, this surface left much to be desired. I did, however, drift off for a short time–the earliest I could possibly call a local pest control service was two hours away.

I awoke, somewhat sore and contorted into a couch corner, at 8 a.m. I executed my plan and called a local pest control service specializing in, according to its website, the eradication of unwanted “critters.” A friendly customer service representative answered the phone, and she politely listened to my predicament before interjecting: “Oh, if it’s a bat, we can’t do anything about that.”

“Why?”

“Bats are a protected species here. But, there’s a guy . . . “

After living in northern New England for over a year, I calculated that at least 70% of the local economy was comprised of “there’s a guy” who fixes appliances or who cleans chimneys or who will sell you antique, hard-to-find gun parts. Adding to this vibrant, individualist enterprise was, in fact, a “guy” who had been certified by some form of wildlife protection agency to handle bats. I thanked the customer service representative for his information, and I immediately gave him a call. No answer–voice mailbox full. Undeterred, I sent him a text message with a few details about the situation and my contact information.

At this point, it was nearly 9:30 in the morning, and I was uncomfortable and tired, enough to contemplate opening the bedroom door. I desperately wanted to get some sleep that might be rightly classified as restful, and I was willing to risk the bat to acquire it. Very slowly, I unlatched and pushed open the door so I could see inside the room. All was quiet. I flipped the light switch–nothing there. I pulled out Stephen’s super-bright flashlight and began to search the premises. Now, my knowledge of bat behavior and physiology was certainly limited, to say the least, but if the little thing had fallen asleep, he was going to have to perch somewhere. I checked the curtain rod and under all of the furniture, anywhere a bat might be able to hold on to while taking a much needed nap. While I wasn’t sure how he managed to get in, I though perhaps he had found his way back out. To ensure that he didn’t decide to make another house call, I plugged all of the cracks and cervices, however small, in and around the window with towels. Then, relieved, I lay down and slept for a few more hours comfortably in my own bed.

My ringing cell phone woke me up later in the morning. I recognized the number right away–the “bat guy.” Assured that the problem had resolved itself, I answered the phone. “No, I don’t think there is anything to worry about,” I insisted, “I think the bat managed to get back outside by himself at some point.”

The “bat guy” confirmed the likelihood of my theory, as bats, apparently, are very good at seeing themselves out if they get into unusual or unwelcome places. But, if the bat was still somehow in the room, it was my obligation, I was told, to kill the bat and bring its broken remains for testing with the state.

“How do you kill a bat?”

“Tennis racket. Whack it out of the air while it’s flying around.”

This was, most certainly, a how-to I wasn’t expecting.

The “bat guy” indicated that, if the bat were still in the room, I would most certainly know by later this evening as it would inevitably come out. I anticipated closing off the room again in the early evening and checking a few times, but I felt so assured that the problem was over, I completely forgot to do so. Nothing happened. I was in the clear.

At about 12:30 in the morning, I finally began my bedtime routine. By this time, I thought, the little thing would have been up and around if he were still trapped. I pulled out my bedclothes, and I looked over at the window. A blackout curtain hung just above the window fan, pinned up above it. Too high, I thought. I unpinned one side to fold it down farther over the window and closer to the fan.

Then, I heard it.

A muffled screech burst forth from the curtain–the bat had wedged itself inside the folded blackout curtain and had avoided the risk that emergence in the evening would bring in a room full of feline predators. While I had checked the curtain rod earlier that day, I had not checked the curtain itself, having been completely unaware that bats could cling to a piece of fabric for dear life for hours on end.

The bat and I were in complete agreement–we both wanted to put a period at the end of this exhausting saga. My most effective prospective course of action was to get the curtain down the stairs and out the front door. I folded the blackout curtain up around the bat and pinned it back in place. I unscrewed the curtain rod from its fittings over the window and slowly . . . ever so slowly and smoothly . . . I rushed down the staircase and out the front door on the first floor. Consistent chirping throughout this process signaled that the bat was still secured inside the curtain. I slammed the door behind me to ensure that he didn’t somehow make a poorly calculated decision and fly back into the house. I extended the curtain over the side of the porch, and I walked down to ground level where I unpinned the curtain and exposed him to the night air. As soon as he realized he was outside, he flew off with a relieved squawk. I breathed my own sigh of relief and, with the full knowledge that I was, finally, alone in the bedroom with only feline company, I fell immediately to sleep.