Sometimes when things get really crazy here, I ask myself, "What would Johnny do?"

I don't really ask myself that.  I just kept thinking it would be a great title for a blog on a Friday.  You know, cuz I like to feature Mr Depp on a regular kind of basis.

Today I drag out that title because I can't remember what the heck I planned for today.  At about 4 am I woke up to a strange chirping, squeaking, shrieking noise.  That time of night, in a dream state so deep I was seeing fractals in front of my eyes whether the eyelids were open or shut, I had to hang onto the walls to get down the steps to the bathroom.  On the way back up I realized the sound hadn't stopped.  There was a lot of thumping to go with it.  And cat noises.  I had a memory of Nigel in his feline prime bringing me a mouse in the dead of night, with its little paws twitching and a steady piercing squeak coming out of it.  I could see the twitching from the hall light.  He jumped onto my bed making proud little gurgling meows in the back of his throat.

Did you know that I hate mice?  I do.  I hate them.  Yeesh.

I really didn't want that thing on my bed.  But Nigel was so darn proud, bringing me his prize, and after all he was totally doing the right thing.  "Oh, good boy, Nigel, you good cat," I whispered, as I carefully, gingerly, reluctantly, oh so gently picked him up, twitchy shrieky mouse and all.  I set him on the floor.  I petted him.  "You are the best hunter and I'm so proud of you.  Now go eat your mouse."

And back in the present, I slowly put it all together and realized that Crazy Insane Hot-Wired Lucy, The Feral Housecat, had brought me something squeaky on a hot night with the Pug snoring and the fan blowing cool air on us.  Okay.  I laid down and listened to the squeaking and thumping.  Yeesh.  Shudder.  Eyelid fractals.

Only... it wasn't squeaking exactly.  It was more like an intermittent squeak.  It was actually terrifying enough to penetrate my fuzzy brain.

That's about when Annyong stumbled across the hall into my room.  "Mom.  Got a problem."

"Mmmff?"

"Yeah.  Lucy's killing a bat in my room."

A bat.  That's why it sounded different.

I think I might have groaned.

"I closed the door and they're in there and I don't know what to do..."

"Come in.  There's nothing we can do about it now."

We blinked into the dark while Lucy thrashed around torturing the winged varmint.

Annyong said, "You know, I actually like bats."

"So do I.  They eat mosquitoes."

"And they're not as ugly as people think they are."

"Mm.  But that one's done for.  We can't save it."

"I wish we could catch it in a pillowcase and set it free outside like we did the one last summer."

"Me too... but it's probably already beyond saving."

More fan droning and squeaking thrashing, then she said, "I hope she kills it fast."

I agreed but darn well knew she wouldn't.  I think Annyong knew it too.  Cats are soft and cuddly and pretty but they're also vicious and sadistic.

A 6 when I got up with the Pug I opened the door.  Lucy bounced out, literally bright eyed and bushy tailed, purrrting and mewing her excited little cat noises.  Across the room, a tiny furry body was still, on its back, broken leathery wings curled defensively.  In the early light I could see the smears of blood all over the floor.

Later on this morning, after a few phone calls to find out if that bat needed to be tested for rabies or anything,  Annyong and I went in there like a CSI team.  Bucky was downstairs yammering about Lucy the Murderer and how evil she is and how he's sure he's next.  I assured him that if she wanted to kill him he'd be dead by now.  I picked up the dead body with a zip lock bag.  I mopped the floor with disinfectant, just in case.

Annyong has recovered from the trauma and lack of sleep.  Her room's clean.  I found Lucy curled up on the rug in mom's sewing room, all happy and dangerous and adorable looking.

Of course then I had to get on the road and do all the appointments and things, plus laundry and dishes and stuff, and right now I can hear my teenagers downstairs having some kind of disagreement. Three loads of laundry wait for me plus a sink full of dishes.  I didn't ride yesterday and it looks like the horses are getting another day off today. I wish I had more time to write.

So what would Johnny do with a bat murder in the middle of the night?

I dunno.  Maybe call Tim Burton?

Sure, I think of it now, like thirteen hours later...