My friend with the chateau in France has bats living in it. There are some hanging around way at the top in the turrets, and some way down in the root cellar. Sometimes when it gets dark at night—which isn’t until about ten-thirty in the summertime—we spy a few sailing around. Thoughts of Bela Lugosi aside, it’s really not so bad; they eat mosquitoes and they keep their distance, as in at least a hundred yards. In a bizarre way, it lends a certain romanticism to the experience of being there.
This, however, was not the case with the house on Quebec Road. We called a bat maven, and he said 1) bats being migratory, they’d nested before in the structure (a deal-breaker, had it been disclosed, as far as I am concerned); 2) the babies that had been born about a month ago—evidently Carson, the pup’s, sensitive hearing had discerned their presence, explaining his behavior—had under-developed radar, so, though searching for an exit to the outdoors, they were flailing about indoors; and 3) the number we were seeing indicated a probable colony of about eighty bats. EIGHTY BATS? In my living room, bathroom, bedroom, stuck in the basket in the kitchen sink, in the morning?
The humane solution was to systematically seal up the openings in the log cabin, so that over a period of weeks, when the bats left in the evening, they would be unable to return. Eventually they move on. The problem with our HH was that there were so many crevices of a size that a pack of raccoons could have gotten through, much less bats, it was going to be a time-consuming and expensive (in the thousands) proposition. What was the solution? Sell it!
My husband found a native New Hamphirite, who, when told about the bats, replied that it was nothing, everyone had them. What? He and his wife bought the house right away, because they were living in an 1800 farmhouse (not sure this was an upgrade) but the property was important to him, as he wanted to build a barn for his horses before autumn, which was due to arrrive in about twenty minutes (it was July). It’s a short hop in the “Live Free or Die” state from this . . . to this.
As for me, I packed up my personal items and headed to Manhattan with Carson, where we lived until both the house deal closed and the Tinkerville Store was in the hands of a new proprietor. Then we joined Keith to head south, yet again, this time to Ocala, Florida, leaving bats, barns, and Bela behind.