As if it wasn’t bad enough having to deal with the fact that my Wayward Spouse has just decided to leave me for good, last night I had a bat in the flat…
Not a baseball bat or a cricket bat, you understand – although those particular weapons – um, I mean articles of sports equipment - do play a large part in my current fantasies. No – I mean those flappy, mousey animals with wings. Bats.
I thought that moving to a third-floor flat would put an end to Sugar (Sugar by name, blood-crazed psychocat by nature), bringing in birds and mice and other delicacies. Well, it did. But now they come to Sugar.
What silly, silly creature flies into the arms –oops, I mean paws – of a predator ? What was the bat thinking as she lay there squeaking helplessly, allowing herself to be toyed with, tossed into the air, up and down, backwards and forwards ? Why didn’t she try to escape then ?
Eventually, Sugar got bored and left to curl up on the sofa and dream of birds. Birds are prettier and they sing. More fun than silly old bats.
Meanwhile, the bat lay gasping, battered, her bruised heart fluttering in pain…
But guess what ? She survived ! She crawled to a safe place between the wall and the cupboard where Sugar couldn’t reach her and waited quietly.
She’s not there this morning. I hope she felt the cool, sweet air coming in from the balcony and heard the rustling of the breeze in the honeysuckle.
I hope she took flight and glided gracefully into the night.
Safe.
Free.
Reader, I was blind. I was as blind as a bat…
