It’s truly August — even though the month is nearly over. How can I tell? The wildlife.
August means big spiders. All those tiny hatchlings have been eaten, stepped on, brushed outside — or they’ve survived. And the ones that have survived this long are big.
Maybe not as big as a mouse, but bigger than a quarter. At least, in my house.
I don’t mind garden spiders – well, not too much. A spider (or snake, or chipmonk) suddenly appearing where I’ve placed my hand will make me jump, but the worst that happens is I move out of the way. I honor the garden spiders, let them build their webs, and really like having small predators in the yard.
But an unexpectedly large spider, dropping on my head from nowhere, really brings out all my avoidance behaviors. This morning, I dumped everything out of the tub because a spider came calling.
But spiders are nothing compared to bats.
I’ve rescued little, white-footed mice from the cats and taken them outside. I even rescue spiders and beetles. But I am not willing to deal with bats. The cats may try to corner a bat, but I want to pull something over my head and shrink into a little pile. It doesn’t help at all that I know this is foolish.
I want someone to rescue me from the bats.
Last year we put a new roof and new insulation on the house. Maybe that will be enough to have sealed whatever access the bats have found in the past, and keep them outside.
Outside, I can enjoy acrobatic bats swirling in the evening air, catching whatever they eat. And then I can go inside, without bats.
I can manage a skunk. I can handle deer. I can intimidate a racoon. These animals just invade the yard. But somehow, I’m never the victor dealing with bats.