All in all, it had been a fairly decent day. Made a pretty little windchime out of seashells. Rode my horse while the setting sun flamed brilliantly. Named a deaf puppy Beethoven. Managed to cook without getting anything burnt, flooded, smelly, or started on fire.
But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.
Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.
IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.
I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.
On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.
The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.
