A SUMMER NIGHT’S TALE WORTH TELLING THE NEXT DAY
What happened in one American home during the debate
WE'RE STILL TALKING about last night’s Big Story.
You mean the first day of the second round of Democratic presidential debates, you ask?
Nope.
Our Big Story was The Invasion. And the definitive role I played in defending, if not the homeland, our homestead.
I kid you not.
It happened as the debate was coming to a close. I can’t tell you the exact time, because, even though politics is always the main topic of conversation here at Marble Steps, the Newport, R.I. un-mansion where Cat and I live with Our Humans, we’d all pretty well had lost interest in the debate.
Maybe we weren’t paying attention because the debate was boring. Maybe because our focus is tonight’s debate, featuring our “purr-phuuuured” candidate, as Cat likes to call Jay Inslee, governor of Washington, the state, the second round of Democratic debates and hopefully not Jay's last time
.
ANYWAY, I SEE SOMETHING DART across the living room and “fly” into the sun porch, which now is definitely not sunny, but scary, because it’s night. I scramble after it anyway, chasing it into the hall. Back it flaps to the porch. All this time, the Humans are NOT paying attention.
The Nice One, who is the alert Human, in addition to being nice, says:
“What is Phoebe doing?”
“Chasing flies. She likes to chase flies,” says The Grouchy One, who is typing at our computer and not even watching the TV.
“It’s something else,” Nice says.
“Chasing flies. She likes to chase flies,” says Grouchy, who, once locked into a thought, isn’t exactly open to alternatives.
So the “Thing” and I keep our flight-and-flight pursuit going. Living room to porch, to front hall, to sunporch. Meanwhile, Cat is sleeping. But you knew that
“There’s a BAT!” yells The Nice One.
“What?” Grouchy says in his grouchiest how-could-I-possibly-be-wrong growl.
“There’s a bat! On the couch,” Nice Once says.
Well, Grouchy comes on the run, and sure enough, clinging to the back of the living room couch is this mouse-sized thing with Big Ears.
I’m pretty sure I can speak for all of us at Marble Steps in saying that none of us know anything about bats, except that in the middle of the night they come silently into your bedroom and suck all the blood from your body. And if that doesn’t finish you off, they inject you with a rabies' venom, probably an unknown variety that instantly paralyzes your entire body until their allies, The Snakes, slither away with you and bring you to their swamp, where they prepare your body for The Ritual.
You mean the first day of the second round of Democratic presidential debates, you ask?
Nope.
Our Big Story was The Invasion. And the definitive role I played in defending, if not the homeland, our homestead.
I kid you not.
It happened as the debate was coming to a close. I can’t tell you the exact time, because, even though politics is always the main topic of conversation here at Marble Steps, the Newport, R.I. un-mansion where Cat and I live with Our Humans, we’d all pretty well had lost interest in the debate.
Maybe we weren’t paying attention because the debate was boring. Maybe because our focus is tonight’s debate, featuring our “purr-phuuuured” candidate, as Cat likes to call Jay Inslee, governor of Washington, the state, the second round of Democratic debates and hopefully not Jay's last time
.
ANYWAY, I SEE SOMETHING DART across the living room and “fly” into the sun porch, which now is definitely not sunny, but scary, because it’s night. I scramble after it anyway, chasing it into the hall. Back it flaps to the porch. All this time, the Humans are NOT paying attention.
The Nice One, who is the alert Human, in addition to being nice, says:
“What is Phoebe doing?”
“Chasing flies. She likes to chase flies,” says The Grouchy One, who is typing at our computer and not even watching the TV.
“It’s something else,” Nice says.
“Chasing flies. She likes to chase flies,” says Grouchy, who, once locked into a thought, isn’t exactly open to alternatives.
So the “Thing” and I keep our flight-and-flight pursuit going. Living room to porch, to front hall, to sunporch. Meanwhile, Cat is sleeping. But you knew that
“There’s a BAT!” yells The Nice One.
“What?” Grouchy says in his grouchiest how-could-I-possibly-be-wrong growl.
“There’s a bat! On the couch,” Nice Once says.
Well, Grouchy comes on the run, and sure enough, clinging to the back of the living room couch is this mouse-sized thing with Big Ears.
I’m pretty sure I can speak for all of us at Marble Steps in saying that none of us know anything about bats, except that in the middle of the night they come silently into your bedroom and suck all the blood from your body. And if that doesn’t finish you off, they inject you with a rabies' venom, probably an unknown variety that instantly paralyzes your entire body until their allies, The Snakes, slither away with you and bring you to their swamp, where they prepare your body for The Ritual.
WE SORT OF KNOW what bats look like because we have a tiny, bat-shaped clock in the living room, that doesn’t work, which is okay with Grouchy, who is getting really old and therefore likes it when time stands still.
For my part, I let out a sigh of relief. My role is finished. In classic dog fashion, I raised the alarm and kept the intruder on the move until the Proper Authorities could be alerted.
Not that these "Authorities" have the slightest idea of what to do.
Grouchy, however, like all males, pretends to take charge and runs into the kitchen. To hide? He returns with a metal mixing bowl, which he tries to put over the bat.
“I can see his Big Ears,” he exclaims.
You can almost hear the bat laughing at the absurdity. "I’m coming back a second turn,” I think the bat is cackling, but I can't hear it clearly. When Our Humans turn the bowl over, no bat in the bowl.
Massive bat- hunt ensues. Look under the couch, under the bookcase, the chair, etc. No bat. Get the flashlight.
“It’s still on the couch!” Nice one announces.
They move the couch forward. Sure enough, the bat has gone into a creepy, crouchy position. Grouchy slides a towel over the thing, and wraps it up into a ball. You can hear the bat squeaking. Was it scared? Vowing revenge: “I’ll be back…”?
Nice and Grouchy take the towel out to the back deck, and Grouchy tries to shake it off. Instead, the bat clings to the cloth, stretching its wings, a span that to me looked like a full foot, but was probably less. Real scary, though. I now hear him clearly: “I’ll be back, for a second term!”
And then he’s gone, into the still-warm darkness of the July night.
YOU'RE ASKING: Phoebe and Cat, isn’t this blog supposed to be about Trump, not bats?
Our answer: You’re absolutely right. This posting has absolutely nothing to do with Trump.
It's a reminder of how life used to be when the only excitement worth talking about the next day was having a bat fly into your house.
And wasn't that great?
It could be that way again.
For my part, I let out a sigh of relief. My role is finished. In classic dog fashion, I raised the alarm and kept the intruder on the move until the Proper Authorities could be alerted.
Not that these "Authorities" have the slightest idea of what to do.
Grouchy, however, like all males, pretends to take charge and runs into the kitchen. To hide? He returns with a metal mixing bowl, which he tries to put over the bat.
“I can see his Big Ears,” he exclaims.
You can almost hear the bat laughing at the absurdity. "I’m coming back a second turn,” I think the bat is cackling, but I can't hear it clearly. When Our Humans turn the bowl over, no bat in the bowl.
Massive bat- hunt ensues. Look under the couch, under the bookcase, the chair, etc. No bat. Get the flashlight.
“It’s still on the couch!” Nice one announces.
They move the couch forward. Sure enough, the bat has gone into a creepy, crouchy position. Grouchy slides a towel over the thing, and wraps it up into a ball. You can hear the bat squeaking. Was it scared? Vowing revenge: “I’ll be back…”?
Nice and Grouchy take the towel out to the back deck, and Grouchy tries to shake it off. Instead, the bat clings to the cloth, stretching its wings, a span that to me looked like a full foot, but was probably less. Real scary, though. I now hear him clearly: “I’ll be back, for a second term!”
And then he’s gone, into the still-warm darkness of the July night.
YOU'RE ASKING: Phoebe and Cat, isn’t this blog supposed to be about Trump, not bats?
Our answer: You’re absolutely right. This posting has absolutely nothing to do with Trump.
It's a reminder of how life used to be when the only excitement worth talking about the next day was having a bat fly into your house.
And wasn't that great?
It could be that way again.
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