nothing to do but flush it away. But to her dismay, the thing is too bigâwith its leathery serrated wings spread, itâs about the size of a Frisbeeâand it spins and bobs up and down but doesnât come close to making its way into the plumbing. Hoping for better luck the second time, Cynthia waits for the tank to fill and then flushes again, and this time the water rises. Some of it sloshes over the toiletâs rim and onto the floor. Frantically, she drags a little ecofriendly bamboo mat over with her bare foot, hoping to quickly absorb the tainted water.
The water level in the toilet subsides. But the bat is still there, floating on its back, its wings spread, its black eyes wide open looking like repulsive, shiny licorice-flavored candies, perfectly round, disturbingly bulging, utterly sightless.
She has to get it out of there. Somehow get it into the little ceramic trash basket and then into the heavy-duty plastic garbage pail outside. She opens the narrow utility closet and takes out the plunger. Holding on to the rubber end, she pushes the wooden handle into the toilet and navigates it under the bat. But every time she tries to lift the flying rodent out of the water, she manages to elevate it only an inch or two before it slides off the stick and back into the water.
After five unsuccessful attempts to get the thing out of the toilet, she resorts to basically catapulting it out. She puts the handle of the plunger beneath the bat and flips it up, hoping against hope that she will get lucky and the bat will land in the wastebasket, at which point she can drop a towel over the basket, rush the thing out to the back of the houseâand dispose of it.
But she flips the bat out of the water with far more vigor than she had intended. The thing hits the ceiling with a dull, wet thwack. She looks up, horrified, expecting the worst.
And she gets it.
The water and the velocity of the batâs upward trajectory combine to make the bat adhere to the ceiling, but just for a few moments. The bat, the dead batâit is dead, isnât it?âall at once becomes unstuck from the ceiling, and with its wings outspread and its awful mouth wide open, the thing falls directly onto Cynthia. It hits her on top of her head and from there it touches the side of her neckâeach nanosecond of contact with it is unspeakable. It slides down her T-shirt. She is screaming now, with no thought of waking the children. She claws at her shirt, pulls it away from her body, and the batâit is dead, it must beâlands on its back on the black and cobalt tiles of the bathroom floor.
Its blind eyes are open. Why are they even born with eyes? Was there ever a better argument against intelligent design? It seems to be staring up at Cynthia.
And its little bony chest, container of its virulent little heart, is rising and falling.
âOh no!â shouts Cynthia as she realizes that the bat is breathing.
The bat emits a sound, some nerve-shredding blend of a click and a squeak.
Its little rodenty curled foot twitches. It looks like withered grape stems.
And then, worst of all, the bat attempts to flap its wings. In this position, and in this state of near collapse, it can only move them a quarter-inch off the floor, once, twice, a third time, before giving up.
But not giving up, not really. It survived going into the toilet for a drink and getting stuck there, it survived being urinated on, and it survived being flung against the ceilingâthe creature might well be indestructible.
She is still holding the plunger. There is only one thing she can do. She raises it over her head to beat the bat to death before it manages to rise from the floor. Except for insects, she has never killed anything, but she prepares to do so now without hesitation. She holds the plunger a couple of inches above the concave rubber head, rears back to maximize the force with which she will bring it down upon the bat, and starts her
The water level in the toilet subsides. But the bat is still there, floating on its back, its wings spread, its black eyes wide open looking like repulsive, shiny licorice-flavored candies, perfectly round, disturbingly bulging, utterly sightless.
She has to get it out of there. Somehow get it into the little ceramic trash basket and then into the heavy-duty plastic garbage pail outside. She opens the narrow utility closet and takes out the plunger. Holding on to the rubber end, she pushes the wooden handle into the toilet and navigates it under the bat. But every time she tries to lift the flying rodent out of the water, she manages to elevate it only an inch or two before it slides off the stick and back into the water.
After five unsuccessful attempts to get the thing out of the toilet, she resorts to basically catapulting it out. She puts the handle of the plunger beneath the bat and flips it up, hoping against hope that she will get lucky and the bat will land in the wastebasket, at which point she can drop a towel over the basket, rush the thing out to the back of the houseâand dispose of it.
But she flips the bat out of the water with far more vigor than she had intended. The thing hits the ceiling with a dull, wet thwack. She looks up, horrified, expecting the worst.
And she gets it.
The water and the velocity of the batâs upward trajectory combine to make the bat adhere to the ceiling, but just for a few moments. The bat, the dead batâit is dead, isnât it?âall at once becomes unstuck from the ceiling, and with its wings outspread and its awful mouth wide open, the thing falls directly onto Cynthia. It hits her on top of her head and from there it touches the side of her neckâeach nanosecond of contact with it is unspeakable. It slides down her T-shirt. She is screaming now, with no thought of waking the children. She claws at her shirt, pulls it away from her body, and the batâit is dead, it must beâlands on its back on the black and cobalt tiles of the bathroom floor.
Its blind eyes are open. Why are they even born with eyes? Was there ever a better argument against intelligent design? It seems to be staring up at Cynthia.
And its little bony chest, container of its virulent little heart, is rising and falling.
âOh no!â shouts Cynthia as she realizes that the bat is breathing.
The bat emits a sound, some nerve-shredding blend of a click and a squeak.
Its little rodenty curled foot twitches. It looks like withered grape stems.
And then, worst of all, the bat attempts to flap its wings. In this position, and in this state of near collapse, it can only move them a quarter-inch off the floor, once, twice, a third time, before giving up.
But not giving up, not really. It survived going into the toilet for a drink and getting stuck there, it survived being urinated on, and it survived being flung against the ceilingâthe creature might well be indestructible.
She is still holding the plunger. There is only one thing she can do. She raises it over her head to beat the bat to death before it manages to rise from the floor. Except for insects, she has never killed anything, but she prepares to do so now without hesitation. She holds the plunger a couple of inches above the concave rubber head, rears back to maximize the force with which she will bring it down upon the bat, and starts her
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