BAT’S ALL FOLKS
We might have to change the nickname of our dear friends, the Crazy Cats.
The moniker began because, well, their lives really are crazy. They live on a farm in the KZN Midlands, with a menagerie of rabbits, ducks, chickens, pigs, dogs, horses and two goats called Thelma and Louise, who go for outrides with the horses. These gentle, creative book-illustrators have a live-and-let-live philosophy that sometimes makes one wonder whether Mother Nature is staging a takeover. It’s rather like a glimpse into the Far Side world of Gary Larson.
My batty friends extend their open-arm hospitality to all living creatures. The Gatekeeper was a rinkhals who lived in the rockery at the front gate. So happy with life was she that she produced a brood of slithering babies. No, this isn’t a nightmarish horror movie: rinkhals give birth to live young.
These tiny offspring disappeared (probably down the hungry throats of the chickens, pigs and other farmyard inhabitants), and didn’t make their presence felt. Unlike the Gatekeeper, who came to an unfortunate end when she tried to upgrade her accommodation from the rockery to the house.
A recent bat invasion and subsequent bat war (and massacre) might see them becoming known as the Barmy Bats instead of the Crazy Cats.
A few weeks ago, several bats began invading the upstairs bedroom of their beautiful, handquarried-on-the-farm stone home, which has views to the Drakensberg and wide-open doors that let in the sound of the rushing river below.
The first bat to arrive one summer night was Radar, who was caught deviously snuggling under the pillows at bedtime. Turns out this was a wise move on his behalf as an injury, probably housecat inflicted, had made his bat-sense rather faulty. Flying was a challenge, as was any logical
sense of direction.
My chums tolerated his bed-invasions for a few nights until sleep deprivation made them rather grumpy and quite uncreative, which, with the demands of their job, was no good.
The final straw was when Radar created a new parting by flying through my chum B’s tousled curls. So a mosquito net was draped over their bed to keep Radar out. Undeterred, the bat found the new bedding arrangement rather suitable, and spent the nights clutching at the netting, using it as a launch pad for insecthunting escapades.
Days passed and news obviously spread about the suitability of the new batty night-time hangout. Or Radar called a friend, because one night Radar was accompanied by another bat, called — yes, my crazy chums do feel everything needs a name — ComBat.
Luckily the netting stayed in place even with the combined weight of the two hunting bats, and the mosquito/insect population of the farm probably suffered a serious decline.
With every group there’s the odd one out, the individual that simply doesn’t have the adequate number of grey cells. And so it was that DingBat joined the crew. No, really, I’m not making this up.
DingBat arrived and began brawling with Radar, or was it ComBat, with much like squealing and noisy fluttering of leathery wings. Naturally, the ever-predatory felines were alerted to the fracas. DingBat made the fatal error of deciding to withdraw to the bathroom to recover his composure and, with Radar-like lack of balance and direction, landed on one of the marauding cats. Anyone who knows cats can imagine the resulting snap and munching. And then, as they say, there were two ... Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photo of yourself for publication with the column.