Like most dramas, it begins quietly, with no warning of what is to come.
One weekend at our cottage, I find a small bat - about the size of my baby finger - lying on the floor of our storage room. Its chest rises and falls, but it doesn't respond to a gentle prodding. I feel its pain.
I ease it onto a dustpan and carry it outside to a shady area to recuperate. You know - Gentle Nature Woman Saves Innocent Beastie.
The next weekend, my husband Peter and I hear strange shuffling noises in the living room ceiling. I've forgotten about the bat, and we muse about what it might be. Mice? Squirrels? I consult my nature books and nod wisely: It is the wrong time of year for squirrels to be nesting. It's almost a shame. The idea of baby squirrels is completely endearing to Gentle Nature Woman.
Anyway, I'm ashamed to say what we do next - nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. We do take the long-handled barbeque spatula and bang it against the ceiling when the shuffling gets particularly loud. You know, around dusk. Hmm. Yes, we have the situation in hand.
A few weeks later Peter and I are - um - having an afternoon nap when a bat flies into the bedroom from the hallway and lands on the window screen. Mercifully, I have my eyes closed and do not see it. Peter wordlessly reaches up and closes the window, trapping the bat between the glass and the screen. He is so smooth I don't even notice. Afterward, he presses the screen out and the bat flies away into the humid summer air. Hmm. Where did that come from?
Things quickly escalate. That night the noises get louder than ever. Shuffle, shuffle. Shuffle, shuffle. Clearly, something significant is about to happen. The noise starts moving - slowly, inexorably - toward an opening in the ceiling over the wood stove.
To my surprise, I feel stirrings of panic. I guess Gentle Nature Woman only likes tiny unconscious bats. I watch the ceiling with mounting dread, directing my increasingly terrified comments at Peter: "Oh no, it's going to be a bat, it's going to come out, get a net, get a net!" As my words reach their anguished peak, a big bat appears, hangs there for an instant, then launches itself into the room.
The next few minutes would make a good documentary on What Not To Do When A Bat Flies Into Your Cottage.
As the bat swoops across the room with surprising speed, Peter lurches after it, swinging a ratty fishing net, always many seconds too late. Our two cats, enchanted by the sudden prey, gallop at his feet. A second bat joins the melee and the whole group swoops and lurches and gallops from one end of the room to the other.
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Meanwhile, Gentle Nature Woman is crouched on the floor, barely able to resist hiding under a blanket.
The action stops momentarily as Peter pokes the end of the fishing net at a bat hiding behind the fuse box. "Open the door," he yells.
"That's a good idea," I think. But I can't seem to stand up.
"What are you doing?" he calls impatiently.
Clenching my teeth to overcome the irrational fear, I manage to duck-walk to the door and prop it open.
The evening ends badly. We rip down our living room ceiling and discover large gaps where it meets the outside wall. Harsh banging and obscene remarks echo over the dark water of our bay. No one sleeps well except the cats, who are exhausted by all the galloping.
The next morning I grill Peter: Are they gone? He assures me they are. It's true - the shuffling noise has gone away.
But they aren't gone, of course.
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The next weekend, alone at the cottage, I'm just settling into bed when the cats thump down from the dresser. I raise myself on one elbow to see what they are doing and my blood turns to ice: A bat is circling the bed just above my head.
Its erratic flight is immediately mirrored by the cats as they tear around the room, up and over the bed - and me - onto the dresser and back again.
This time, I don't resist flinging the blanket over my head, but common sense soon prevails. I take a big breath and fling the blanket off just in time to see the bat fly into the hall. I jump out of bed and stand uncertainly in the doorway. Where did it go? I turn to look down the darkened stairs, and there it is: wings jerking, heading back up, coming straight toward me. I leap backward and slam the door.
For a long time I lie stiffly in bed with the lights on, listening to the cats chasing the bat up and down the stairs, planning my call to the real estate agent in the morning.
After taking down the entire ceiling for the second time we find more gaps (and to think I used to trust Peter).
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The bats now seem to be gone, but I remain on guard. The other day I heard a soft scratching noise in the kitchen wall. I crept around, trying to pinpoint the source. It was the end of a roll of tin foil scraping against the wall, trembling in response to my own cautious footsteps.
I have always loved cats and dogs and horses and bunnies and the usual assembly of critters that humans tend to collect. It has been disturbing to unearth such primal fear in connection to an animal, especially one as tiny and harmless as a bat.
On the other hand, I suppose I should be grateful.
After all, it is this fear that has kept us humans alive for millennia. You know, Gentle Nature Woman Runs For Her Life.
Diane Elizabeth Hill lives in Toronto.