I was going to write about Vermont drivers and how some of them are the bane of my existence. But then I remembered that two entries ago I already bitched about road conditions and driving and I didn’t want to beat a dead horse. (Yet. I’ll bitch again, fret not.)

Then I was going to write about politics and how I feel like both John McCain and Barack Obama are asking me out on a date and I can’t decide which one I want to go to the sock hop with because, in their own ways, they’re each so dreamy. But then I realized we have time and can talk about that later. (Yes we can!) (That was a hint.)

What I think I’ll talk about is the fact that – and I’m sure Emily’s about to roll her eyes so hard that she’s in danger of falling over backwards – well…

I killed a bat yesterday.

I think.

I feel really bad about this.

Here it is. You be the judge. May heaven have mercy on my sinful soul.

Yesterday was snowy. Cold and snowy. It was windy and temps were probably in the high twneties to low thirties, but I’m reasonably sure it never got above freezing. I was walking to my TA class and cutting through one of the older campus buildings. I opened the front door, walked through the vestibule and was immediately buzzed by a small bird. He was Maverick and I was the tower, if you will. (and you will.) After a few more steps, my brain chimed in to tell me that that small “bird” didn’t really flap its wings like a bird at all.

I did a 180 and found it crawling around on the floor. Picture the boot-camp scene from any war movie. You know how they crawl under those wires? That’s how this thing was crawling. It used its legs and its leathery wing/arms. It was a bat.

I wasn’t really scared of it or grossed out by it but I didn’t want to get too close to it because of a.)rabies and b.)vampirism and I was reasonably sure it shouldn’t be inside. So I opened the front door wherepon the bat looked at the Great Out There and then looked at me and said to me, I shit you not, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Ok, maybe he didn’t actually say it, but I’m sure he was thinking it.

Anyway, as I was standing there like mother nature’s doorman, some other dude walked up, and gave me a standard what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. I ‘splained and we both agreed that the bat should be outside. So we stood there, like idiots, forming and leg wall and trying to intimidate a bat in to going outside. Which, eventually, it did. Most likely to humor us, now that I think about it.

Feeling like I had saved the University from a dreaded vermin infestation, I went on my merry way. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that it was well below freezing outside.

By the time it did occur to me, I was reasonably sure that I should have kept right on walking and let the bat stay in the warm interior – threats to sanitation and eternal sould be damned. It was cold out yesterday, especially if you’re four inches long and weigh as much as a damp paper towel. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that the bat was long gone, it was a creature of nature and presumably knew how to take care of itself and, besides, there’s no way I’d ever know what really happened to it.

Oh, hahahahaha.

I was wrong.

That evening, I was walking back though the same building on the way to another class when I passed through the same vestibule as before. As I stepped on to the porch I looked to my left. There on the floor in the corner, curled in to a surprisingly small ball, was a bat. I have to assume it was the bat. I didn’t get too close (remember the dual threats: rabies and vampirism), but I am fairly sure it wasn’t breathing.

I encouraged a bat to freeze to death.

Emily was as appropriately sympathetic as one can be when confronted by a thirty year old man who’s torn up about possibly being one of several factors in the demise of a member of the, let’s face it, vermin family. And I appreciated that.

All I can think of is this: Thank god I’ve never been hunting. I think I would enjoy everything about hunting up until the point where I shot and killed a deer. If I ever did that, I’m sure I’d feel so guilty that I’d probably find a confessional, move in a sleeping bag and a hot plate and never leave.

So I’m sorry Mr. Bat. Sorry I fucked up your life.

Thanks for not giving me rabies.

Or making me a vampire.