The Flutter in the Night 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

I woke slightly as something fluttered in the bedroom, but not hearing it again, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Dave, Dave, wake up!” Sandy said as she shook my shoulder.

I rolled onto my back and looked up at Sandy standing beside the bed with her shower cap on.

“Dave, there’s a bat in here,” Sandy said. She spoke in a hushed voice, but she still had a grip on my shoulder.

Then I noticed the flutter again.

“How did it get in here?” Sandy asked.

“Charlie could have brought it in, but he would have killed it,” I said. “Maybe it just came through the window with him.”

Charlie was our large Siamese cross cat who was a ferocious hunter. I had removed the screen on our bedroom window, and I left the window open enough so Charlie could come and go during the night. It was common for him to bring critters in and leave them for us, often at the foot of the bed.

“You need to get up and kill this bat,” Sandy said, shaking my shoulder again. “I’m going to make sure the kids have their bedroom doors closed.”

Sandy headed off down the hall in her nightgown and shower cap. I crawled out of bed and grabbed a magazine from the nightstand. 

Now standing naked with a rolled-up magazine, I positioned myself in the bedroom, where I could see the length of the hallway with the light that Sandy had turned on as she headed down the hall. As he entered the bedroom, I could see the bat swoop toward the ceiling. I waited till he turned to the left toward me, and I made one swat that caught him mid-flight and bounced him off the far wall.

“Get me a jar with a lid,” I said to Sandy as she returned from down the hall.

“Did you get him?” Sandy asked.

“Yes, but I need to put him in something,” I said. “We need to send this guy in to be tested for rabies.”

“What difference does it make?” Sandy asked.

“Were any of the kid’s bedroom doors open?” I asked.

“Yes, both Derek’s and the girl’s room had open doors,” Sandy said. “Why do you ask?”

“A rabid bat in a house with sleeping people or pets, especially sleeping children, is considered a rabies exposure by the public health people,” I said. “We need to send this bat in to be tested.”

“Wouldn’t they know if they had been bitten?” Sandy asked.

“The book says no, the bite and can be almost undetectable,” I said. “The risk of an exposure is too high, so everyone is considered exposed. Everyone has to get a post-exposure rabies vaccine.”

“What about Midge and the cats?” Sandy asked.

“Would you get a jar for me,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like an idiot, standing naked over a mostly dead bat, waiting for it to come back to life and fly away.”

Sandy retrieved a pint canning jar and lid from the kitchen. I carefully scooped the bat into the jar without touching it and screwed on the cap.

“Midge and the cats will be fine because they have rabies vaccinations,” I said. “I will have to booster them, but that is all. If they aren’t vaccinated, the recommendation is to euthanize them. Under special considerations, they can be kept in isolation for six months, but that is discouraged.”

“Six months seems like a long time,” Sandy said. “Why so long?”

“Rabies can have that long of an incubation period,” I said. “In fact, I think a dog in England came down with rabies after it was released from its six months of quarantine.”

“Are all of us going to have to get shots?” Sandy asked with obvious concern.

“The bat is in the jar. You can take your shower cap off,” I said. “We will worry about what we will have to do after we get the test results. There is no sense worrying about something that probably not going to be a problem.”

“I didn’t want that bat to get in my hair,” Sandy said as she put her shower cap back in the bathroom. “And you look pretty stupid running around naked with a rolled-up magazine in one hand and the bat in the other. It’s a good thing the kids are asleep.”

“Put this in the refrigerator, would you, please,” I said as I pulled a pair of pajama pants out of the drawer.

“I’m not putting that in my refrigerator,” Sandy said. “I will set it outside.”

***

I picked up the jar with the dead bat inside when I went out the door to go to the clinic.

“What are you going to do with that?” Sandy asked.

“I am going to send it to the diagnostic lab and have it tested for rabies,” I said. “I will have the courier pick it up on their noon trip.”

“If they consider we were exposed, won’t the county pay for the testing?” Sandy asked.

“The less the county knows, the better,” I said. “If this bat tests positive, we will have a big hassle with the county public health folks. They will be going by the book, and we will have to have all the kids and you take post-exposure treatment. I will probably only need to booster my rabies vaccine.”

I wrote the pathology request with a little story about Sandy in her shower cap and me batting the bat out of the air in the middle of the night. That report has been lost to history, but the pathologist got a kick out of it at the time.

We were lucky, and the bat tested negative for the rabies virus. At that time, about ten percent of the bats tested were testing positive in Oregon.

Photo by Todd Cravens on Unsplash.

The Upgrade, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“You need to hurry, your flight is boarding now,” the airline attendant said as he took our bags. “If your bags don’t make your flight, they will be on the next flight. You have a full plane, there is a Ducks game in Berkley Saturday.”

We hurried down the concourse to the plane. Just what I wanted, to ride to San Francisco with a planeload of Duck fans.

We squeezed down the aisle and found our seats. Now we could relax for a few minutes before the plane takes off. This was going to be our first long weekend off for nearly 2 years. A continuing education trip on paper, but a mini-vacation if we could make it such.

“I think we would have been better off to take the extra time and drive to Portland,” Sandy said. “Then we could have got a direct flight to Reno. I hate changing planes, and especially in San Francisco.”

“It won’t be too bad, we should have plenty of time,” I said.

About then, we were rudely made aware that our flight was going to be anything but pleasant. Sitting behind us, and on top of our seats at times, was a most unruly four-year-old and his mother, who had no concept of discipline.

We are making the final approach to landing on the runway that extends out into the bay. 

“I hate landing at this airport,” I say. “The first time I flew on a commercial airline was when I joined the Army. They loaded us on a plane in Portland and flew us to San Francisco. I had a window seat, and when we were landing, all I saw under the plane was water. We were getting closer and closer to the water. I was lifting my feet before the ground, and a runway came into my view. I repeat that episode in my mind every time I land there.”

We deplane and rush down the concourse looking for the gate for the flight to Reno. We ask an agent at the end of the hall. 

“That is a separate terminal. You catch a shuttle bus down those stairs,” the agent says, pointing to a stairwell at the end of the concourse. 

We hurry down the stairs and catch a bus to the detached terminal. Then we load into a puddle jumper, not my idea of a fun flight. I am white-knuckled all the way to Reno. We arrive, and Sandy’s bag makes the flight, my bag is nowhere in sight. We leave our information and hail a cab to the hotel.

“We have your reservation right here,” the hotel clerk says to Sandy. “It is a nice room, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Sandy looks over the paperwork while I twiddle my thumbs.

“Is this a non-smoking room?” Sandy asks.

“No, Ma’am,” The clerk responds. “This is a smoking room.”

“We requested a non-smoking room on our reservation,” Sandy says.

The clerk looks at his computer screen closely. “I see that you are correct, it says a non-smoking room right here,” the clerk says. “We don’t have a non-smoking room available in this room class.”

It looks like another planeload of people has arrived, there is quite a line behind us now.

“I have to have a non-smoking room,” Sandy says.

“Let me go talk with my supervisor,” the clerk says as he leaves his station.

The people behind us let out an audible moan. Sandy is unwavering.

Finally, after close to 5 minutes, the clerk returns. He is all smiles.

“I have an upgraded room for you,” he says, winking at me. “You guys are really going to enjoy this room! It is one of our best suites.”

The Bellhop leads us away. The room is high in the hotel, on the 35th floor.

“You are going to really enjoy this room,” he said as he pushed open the door.

He set the bags down and went to the drapes and pulled them open. The entire wall is floor to ceiling windows, and the view of the city is incredible. I feel a little embarrassed as I hand him a $5.00 tip.

“Can you believe this room,” I said to Sandy. “And all because you would not accept a smoking room.”

The main room of the suite is three times the size of any hotel room we have ever seen. The bathroom is enormous. It has a large shower with two showerheads. There is a large jacuzzi tub, massive mirror with double sinks and a separate water closet.

“This sort of reminds me of Ma and Pa Kettle,” I said.” We are just a couple of old country bumpkins in a high-class hotel.”

Sandy laughs as she investigates the kitchenette/bar area. There is a large sectional, a loveseat and a couple of chairs. And then the bed takes up the far end of the room. 

The bed is more substantial than a king-size bed and round, on a raised platform.  There is a 30 inch high wrought iron railing around half of the platform. And a massive round mirror is on the ceiling above the bed. 

“I am not sure how this is going to work out for us,” I said. 

I’m a stomach sleeper, and I hang my feet over the end of the bed. Or I sleep on my side, in touch with the edge of the bed. I am not sure I am going to be able to find either in this bed.

“I think we are maybe past the mirror stage in our relationship,” Sandy said. “This could be an interesting evening.”

We were just ready to leave to get a bite to eat when there was a knock at the door. It was the Bellhop with my bag from the airport.

“They delivered your bag, but it looks like it has been broken into, you might want to check it carefully and make sure you file a report with the airline,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Before you go, can you tell me something about this room? What does a night in this room usually cost?”

“This is our special suite,” he said. “We generally use it to comp the high rollers. We don’t rent it out very often, but when we do, it goes for $1200 a night.”

“I would guess you generally get more than $5.00 tips up here,” I said.

“I have got some tremendous tips in this room, but it is not a big deal, $5.00 is a pretty standard tip in most rooms.”

“I would have to have a whole lot of expendable cash before I could bring myself to pay $1200 for a room,” I say as I hand him a $20 bill.

It was sort of like adding the final insult to the plane trip. The bag was a mess, but the only thing missing is my sports coat. This gives me an excellent excuse for dressing casually. That fits my style just fine.

When the evening was over, and we are ready to go to sleep, Sandy spends a lot of time closing the drapes. It is no small task. I can not convince her that there is nobody who can peek into a room on the 35th floor, especially if the lights are out. But she does not listen.

The bed is comfortable, but, like many hotel beds, the sheets and blankets are excessive. I go around and untuck all the sheets on my side of the bed. Then I discard the comforter and half the blankets. I crawl into bed.

I am instantly miserable. I can’t find the edge of the bed, and when I reach a point where I can hang my feet over the end of the bed, my nose is at Sandy’s knees. I toss and turn and get tangled up in the top sheet. I get up and pull the top sheet off the bed. Since Sandy was sleeping soundly, I open the drapes and enjoy the view until I drift off to a fitful sleep. 

About 3:00 in the morning, I get up to go to the bathroom. I roll out of bed and start in the direction of the bathroom. I follow the edge of the bed until I reach the point where the round was turning toward Sandy’s side of the bed. I strike out toward the bathroom. 

I forgot about the railing. Just as my left foot takes a step down, the end of the railing hits me in the groin. My right leg impacts the railing, I lose my balance and fall, left side first, the two steps to the floor.

I roll onto my back. I feel like I have just been struck with a Klingon pain stick. I look around, the view out the windows is just as good from the floor. Then I look up, there I am, in full view, in the mirror. 

Morning comes, Sandy is well-rested. I look like I have been wrestling steers all night. We shower together and get dressed so we can get breakfast before classes started.

As we leave the room, Sandy stops and looks at the bed. What a mess, there are piles of sheets on each side of the bed. The blankets are knotted in a heap in the middle of the bed. Even the bottom sheet is untucked, and only half covered the mattress.

“The housekeeping girls are going to tell stories about what went on in that bed last night,” she said.

Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash

The Great Chase

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

The fourth of July was always big for my mother’s family. A large potluck picnic was held in the Davenport Grove on Catching Creek. This had been a family tradition started in 1904.

The grove was a large group of myrtle and maple trees located on a hairpin curve of Catching Creek. There was a large picnic table constructed on the place. This table had been there my entire life. There was a fire pit that had a fire going most of the day, and the fire was really built up when the evening chill started.

This particular fourth of July in 1960 was no different from any of the others. All the families had gathered in the late morning, and then a massive lunch followed.

After lunch, everyone stood around talking and waiting for the various activities to start. There was always a softball game, usually organized by Uncle Ernie. And also stuff for the little kids.

I was fifteen that year and earning my money working on the various family farms for the summer. Silo filling and hay hauling were the order of the day. One thing I learned that summer was that one of my mother’s brothers, Uncle Rodney, had an actual phobia of snakes.

When we were hauling hay, and a bale was encountered with a dead snake visible in the bale, I always tried to arrange for Uncle Rodney to handle that bale. I would laugh, along with my other uncles, as Rodney would jump and run from the bale.

Age-wise, I was in the lower third of the cousins in my generation. We were a large family. Mom had nine brothers and sisters, and there were around twenty-six cousins in my generation. By now, we also had the next generation, with many younger cousins.

My sister’s daughter, Julie, was four years old that year. Linda, my sister, and Chuck were in the process of moving back to Oregon from Mississippi, where Chuck had been going to school. Chuck was a forester, and Julie was well versed in the out of doors.

That is the setting as I walked with Julie and Kim, a granddaughter of Uncle Rodney, out in the field to find something for them to do before the games started. 

We were just out of the grove when a little garter snake crossed our path. Julie is the one that spotted it, and she was dying to pick it up.

I secured the snake with my foot and picked it up with my fingers behind its head. 

“Do you know how to hold it?” I asked Julie. 

“Yes, I have done it before,” she said.

Kim was less than excited about the snake.

Julie took the snake from me with no problem. I pointed to Uncle Rodney, standing at the end of the long picnic table with one foot on the bench. He was talking with a group of his sisters and sisters-in-law. 

“You go give this snake to Kim’s grandpa,” I said.

And off these two little girls go, with Julie holding the little snake out in front of her. The snake was wiggling and squirming from her grip as it was the reluctant member of this motley crew.

These two little girls marched right up to Uncle Rodney, and he paid no attention to them until Julie spoke.

With the two girls standing next to him, Julie lifted the snake high, and Kim said, “Look what we have for you, Grandpa.”

Rodney jumped and screamed; if a grown man can scream. He took off running. Julie and Kim were in hot pursuit, with Julie holding the snake out in front of her. The girls were giggling now, and Rodney was trying to shoo them away.

All the aunts were trailing behind. Afraid that Rodney would have a heart attack but not too sure that they wanted to catch the girls with the snake.

So the chase was on; Rodney led the way, winding through the massive trees of the grove with the two little girls and the snake right behind him. Then the aunts followed. I was laughing at the procession. I had no idea it would turn into such an event.

Finally, Mom caught up with Julie, and they went over to the creek bank and disposed of the poor little snake. It took Rodney a full fifteen minutes to calm himself and return to the conversations.

Later, Mom approached me with a frown on her face.

“Did you put those little girls up to that?” she asked.

“Julie wanted to pick up the snake, and I helped her,” I said. “I had no idea that they would chase Uncle Rodney. It was sort of funny to watch.”

“You know that man can’t stand snakes of any kind,” Mom said, still frowning. “He could have fallen over dead.”

So that turned out to be the big event for the picnic that year, and everyone survived.

***

A couple of weeks later, I was unloading hay bales into Uncle Rodney’s barn. The uncles were taking the bales off the escalator and stacking them in the hay mow. In the middle of the truckload was a bale with a dead snake wound up on the top of the bale.

I set it aside until I had it calculated that Rodney would pick up that bale off the escalator. I placed the bale on the escalator and waited for the response.

Uncle Rodney retrieved the bale and started to the stack before he noticed the snake. He threw the bale in one direction, and following his little scream, he ran the other.

Photo by Thomas Shockey on Pexels.