All right, due to popular demand and a din rising to a roar of shouts for the story of the bat, here it comes.
As I said in my previous post, I had bought a couch (used) at a thrift store. My girlfriend at the time, in spite of the scorn she heaped on me for bargaining the price down at a store run by a religious organization, deigned to join me on the bargain couch from time to time.
But this particular night, only a couple of days later, she was nowhere to be seen. I had been out at a pub slaking my thirst and trying to recover from a long day at work. As I opened the door of my darkened apartment, I sensed rather than saw something flit through the air. I quickly closed the door and switched on the overhead light. That made the being intensely crazy. I now recognized it as a bat as it flew frantically from one side of the room to the other. I backed into my tiny kitchen and seized the first item to come to hand, a large cast iron frying pan.
As the bat flew near, I tried to bring it down by swinging the frying pan at it. Well. As anyone who has ever had one of those big black pans in his hand knows - they're damned heavy. So my attacks on the bat appeared to be in slow motion while the bat was going full tilt boogie. After a couple of futile swings, I determined that this was not going to work. So I looked for something lighter to attack with.
Let's see. The big black frying pan wouldn't work. So what do I need? A broom? NO! What I then went in search of was . . . a smaller, lighter frying pan! Makes sense, doesn't it? If the big pan is too heavy, get a smaller pan.
Now, you may be laughing by now. But my fear of the bat coupled with a certain heightened blood sugar level from my night at the pub had me rising to the frantic level of the bat.
Eventually I brought him down with a lucky swing. But as I examined him on the floor I discovered that he was only stunned. (After the saga was over, I was reminded of the comment by the petshop owner in a famous Monty Python skit about a dead parrot: "He's not dead . . he's only sleeping!")
Well, good creature that I am, I managed to scoop the bat into something with a cover, carry it carefully outdoors and release the bat to the night sky.
Returning to my abode, I tried to figure out how that bat had happened to be in my apartment. As I looked around my gaze fell on that bargain thrift store couch and . . . whether it was true or not . . . the couch took the blame for harboring the bat. And I told my girlfriend, that was why I had bargained the price down. Without knowing of the presence of the nocturnal creature, my sixth sense had intuited that something was strange about that couch.
And that's the story of the bat.