Douglas Myers
by Douglas Myers
WCHS 1972
I recently read a news story about a bat that accidentally flew into a public building, triggering a bureaucratic rescue mission of apocalyptic proportions.
Before anyone so much as looked at the flying mammal, Animal Control had to be summoned. A legal task force was convened to review the Animal Welfare Act, the Endangered Species Act, the Humane Slaughter Act, and the PACT Act. The USDA, the Department of Justice, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service were all placed on speed dial to establish proper removal protocols. Hazardous material suits were donned, containment sheeting was deployed, and certified observers were stationed. By the time a legally compliant procedure was finalized, the bat had likely died of old age.
My, how times have changed.
When I was a senior in high school, a rogue bat infiltrated our building and set up a perimeter in the third-floor auditorium. This was unchartered territory for me, but I was about to receive a crash course in the official Webb City High School Wildlife Removal Protocol.
The vice principal’s strategy was simple: draft a single teenager and arm him with whatever was lying in the janitor’s closet. I’m not entirely sure what the selection criteria was, but I can only assume he went looking for the bravest, most exceptionally good-looking student available.
Enter yours truly – armored in heavy denim and wielding a plastic dustpan like a medieval shield.
I tracked the beast to the auditorium balcony, where it was aggressively patrolling the airspace. It immediately initiated a series of dive-bomb runs. Cue me, swinging wildly in the dark like a broken ceiling fan, until – CRACK!
Direct hit. Down it went.
Victoriously, I swept the fallen creature into my dustpan and began my triumphant march down the hall. That’s when the bat “came alive.”
Turns out, I had only stunned it. Suddenly, I was trapped in a narrow stairwell with a vengeful, resurrected mammal looking for payback. Panic set in, and the wild ceiling-fan routine resumed. I managed to swat it out of the air a second time, but now I had wisdom on my side. I swept it back into the pan and slammed the broom head down over the top, creating a makeshift, high-stakes cage.
I proudly presented my squirming bounty to the vice principal before marching outside to set it free. There was no ticker-tape parade for saving the student body from airborne rabies, but I did get a free pass to skip my college research class.
Honestly? A fair trade.
