Isn't it funny how something you loathe can somehow tumble around in your mind until you start feeling sorry for it and wanting to be nice to it. You're thinking that I'm talking about the bat, aren't you. Ha, well, you would be right.
The next morning I told my dear husband what horror awaited us on our porch. I told him just what to do, squirt it down ala ghost busters! So we got the hose. We squirted and soaked, we soaked and squirted. But the dang thing wouldn't fly away. I know this is the true and authorized way to get rid of a bat. After all, I grew up in Idaho and we have loads of bats there! I'm practically an expert.
Well, the poor thing started clawing its way back up our wall. It finally reached the top corner. I was sure it was sick, or dying, or at least too wet to fly. So I magnanimously told Matt to stop squirting it. We should let it be. It would probably fly away the next time the wicked sun finally set and the bat's own dark world returned. (Wasn't that poetic?)
Well, was I right or was I right? The next morning it was gone. Home to its own hole in a tree or wet and damp cave or maybe Dracula. Who knows; it could happen.