A Personal Request . . . And a Message From a Bat

A few days ago, I was visited by a young, injured bat. I didn’t see the showdown, but I’m pretty sure this small, still-breathing bat lying quietly on my kitchen floor was the handiwork of my cat, Tino. No doubt, this bat had been struck and had downward spiralled to the floor.

Tino has brought me plenty of tail-less geckos, innocent lizards with little hope of survival from their primitive amputation. The bushes behind my back porch have become a graveyard of birds she’s gifted me over the past couple of years.

But this black beastie, I didn’t feel, was destined for the grave. Not yet. The mouse-sized bat was injured and bleeding a little, but not bleeding out. His beady eyes seemed more scared than anything. Every minute or so, his leather wings chaotically flapped with fear rather than flight.

I could rescue him.

Tino reclined, sphinx link, nearby, her green eyes assessing the scene as I inspected this tiny creature of the night.

Scooping up the distraught young bat, I placed him in a clear container and carried him outside.

The last time I rescued a bat (because that’s a common kind of animal rescue we have in Nicaragua), the bat seemed more worse for wear than the bat I held now. The last bat had been attacked by…