I woke up this morning at 3:00am to the sound of our basement's water alarms.
After our basement flooded for a third time, we bought little cordless alarms that shriek loudly if they come into contact with water. We thought they'd only be useful during torrential downpours when storm-drain backup was possible.
This morning, they alerted us to another peril... our water heater had exploded. Well, partially exploded. Somehow, the bottom of the water heater had separated from the rest of itself, and it was gushing water at an alarming rate. The emergency shut-off valve was fused open, so we had to shut off the water for the entire house. Great. No toilet, no shower, no freshly-brewed morning tea. All necessities, in my opinion.
Once we got the basement mopped up, I dragged myself upstairs to hopefully get a few more hours of sleep before work. I'd been in bed for less than fifteen minutes when I heard Steve yell from the basement that we had a 'situation,' and that I needed to come down to help. Inwardly groaning at my lack of sleep, I got out of bed and went back to the basement... and saw a sight that was just as hilarious as it was terrifying.
There was a bat.
It was flying around.
... and our two fluffy cats were attempting to catch it, jumping more than five feet into the air like tangerine-colored ballet dancers wearing moon-boots. I didn't know what to do - scream and hide, or laugh? Maybe both?
To make the situation even more hilarious and scary, Seve brought me back to reality by excitedly whispering, "Hurry, go get the gun!"
The... gun? I suddenly had visions of Steve blasting holes in the basement with our .357 magnum, which was currently loaded with hollow-points. Not ideal. I think he realized what I conclusion I'd jumped to though, and he quickly amended his request to, "...the pellet gun!" Thank god. I ran upstairs to get the gun, and Steve ran in the opposite direction to don an outfit that might save him from 'The Rabies' - which consisted of Mario Bros pajama pants, a hooded sweatshirt, camouflage neoprene hunting gloves, a ski mask and a purple feather boa. Stop for a moment.... stop, and imagine.
Okay, got that image burned into your head? Now, imagine him with this:
By the time Steve was ready for battle, the bat had stopped flying. The cats, bless their little hearts, showed us where the little flying rodent had perched by staring intently at its hiding spot. Their pointing skills could put a prize-winning gundog to shame.
I grabbed both cats and held them partially in front of my face - not only to protect them from stray pellets, but also to act as some sort of shield in case the bat decided to fly at me. It was 3:45am, give me break - I wasn't exactly in my right mind.
Steve took aim from about 20 feet away and fired. The pellet found its target with frightening accuracy, and the bat fell from the rafters and onto the basement floor. We were both stunned - apparently Steve's accuracy with a firearm was impressive, especially considering it was a quarter to four and he was dressed like a ninja clown. (Okay, a pellet gun isn't a firearm but you get the idea.)
Steve let out a whoop and yelled, "I shot it! I shot the bat! I shot the goddamn bat!" and then did a little victory dance. Time to stop and imagine this again - a 6'4" man, wrapped in ridiculous anti-Rabies clothing, holding a huge pellet gun and dancing around a tiny dead bat.
Laughing, I retrieved my camera to take a photo of the triumphant warrior and his kill. Before I could get a photo, Steve realized that his outfit was embarrassing (i.e. hilarious) and that the photo would end up on this blog. He instructed me to take a picture of the bat by itself.
Behold, a dead bat.
And that was how I started this Tuesday, August 9th, 2011. Booyah.