Yesterday started out fairly run-of-the-mill, with a couple phone conferences regarding discovery, along with a big dollop of preparing discovery responses and reviewing documents to be produced through discovery. Yum.
I took advantage of a break in the fun to trot around the block on a 93 degree afternoon, leaving me a half hour later as a sweaty blob lying on the carpet returning the phone calls that had arrived unanswered while I was puffing and wheezing my way up and down the neighborhood hills. Finally, I turned that corner where I actually began to feel cold from the air conditioner's breeze, and hopped into the shower.
When I emerged there was a ruckus in the bedroom. I opened the door and saw Slane hopping in the air on our bed, waving his paws at what I first thought to be a bird frantically flying around the room.
But it wasn't a bird--it was a bat. As in the animal most likely to carry rabies here in New York. And our cat was determined to catch it.
I closed the door leading from the bathroom to the master bedroom, and exited through the other door into the guest room and then the hallway, where I grabbed a broom and crept back into the bedroom.
I immediately ducked as the bat made a low pass at my face.
He darted away at the last second, his bat sonar apparently detecting my presence.
That same sonar made this critter a worthy aerial adversary, as I swung ineffectually every time he buzzed manically past. Soon I was soaked in sweat and panting as the bat flew randomly around the room, dodging the broom every time I stepped up to the plate and took a swing. Slane swung at him as well, and soon Dean entered the room to join the fun.
All I could think of was that one would get bitten and catch rabies. I was frantic.
Stepping back out into the hall, I texted the landlord that he needed to do something about this--we've known for weeks that the attic is full of bats, and this one no doubt found his way down the crumbling chimney shaft and into our bedroom. There are kids living in this building. This is ridiculous.
When I came back around the corner I saw the bat on the ground with Dean crouched over it. I shrieked, Dean leapt back, and I tried to level a mortal blow on the bat, which apparently wasn't dead at all but playing possum. He deftly alighted past me and back into the bedroom to continue his adrenaline-charged airshow.
Figuring he must be getting tired, I changed tactics, now fanning at him rapidly rather than taking broad swings. I just needed to get him on the ground. I brushed his wing, rolling him inverted. He kept flying but seemed disoriented. I took another series of short strokes, and finally one knocked the bat to the ground where I bashed him into submission while delivering a stream of obscenities.
To my relief, upon his demise the bat didn't turn back into a vampire, or Count Chocula, or the Count from Sesame Street. To quote John Prine quoting John Prine's father, he was just a dead peckerhead.
The bat now looking peaceful, I walked to the kitchen to find a bag for his final journey. When I came back into the bedroom I let out another howl as I saw Dean and Slane poking at the carcass with their paws. They fled, and I scooped the bat into the bag with a dustpan, and texted P describing the incident.
P, being a medical type, was concerned that she'd come home to an old, bald husband and two cats, all foaming at the mouth and wild with rabid madness. She started sending me articles about rabies, and clogging my phone with texts offering helpful advice. I called the animal shelter where we adopted the cats, and they suggested I call the department of health in Bath. The nice lady there explained to me that the rabies nurse (dear God, is there really such a thing?) was at lunch but would call me back.
An hour went by with no callback, and I passed the time reading about how the bat would likely need to go to Cornell so they could test its brain in a lab. Perfect. Growing impatient, I called the health department again, and they sounded surprised I hadn't yet received a callback. Soon the rabies nurse was on the line.
I gather her role is mostly to calm down frantic parents and pet owners who've just done battle with a bat or a raccoon. Did I touch it? No. Good. Have your cats had their rabies shots? I think so. When? In November. Can you find their shot records? I did. Were they in fact vaccinated? Yep--it says so right here. Then they just need a booster--and you can toss the bat, because we won't be needing it for testing.
So the net effect of all this drama was the loss of a couple billable hours and the benefit of about fifteen minutes of vigorous aerobic exercise. No harm, no foul.
P got home around four, and I tried to get to a stopping point in my work so we could make a 6:12 tee time at the country club. We ate supper beforehand, a disappointing jumble of air fried potatoes and frozen pierogis that reminded us of why we've stayed away from prepackaged food. P grumbled about it for the balance of the evening.
I played another cocktail-less round of golf, hitting the ball terribly for the first few holes, no doubt in part because of the adrenaline overload earlier in the day.
Meanwhile, the skies grew dark, and there was thunder up toward Watkins Glen. On my sixth hole, I miraculously made an honest-to-God par just as a bolt of lightning struck nearby, and the rain began to come down a little heavier. That would be our cue to call it a day. We Floridians marveled at the fact that we were the only ones husting to the clubhouse. I explained to the assistant golf pro, a jolly young man who always seems nonplussed about everything, "Down where we're from this stuff will reach out and kill you." He shrugged. The other golfers seemed not to have realized their peril, but ultimately the sheets of rain raking the course drove everyone into the bar, where P had a very nice glass of cab while I drank a Jameson's on the rocks and fought with my partners by email.
And so it goes. On the agenda for today is--wait for it--more discovery! Usually a 24 year lawyer and partner in a big firm doesn't fool with that stuff, but we're chronically short-staffed and the only alternative is to blow another deadline, at my professional peril. Thus another stultifying day of document assembly begins.
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