It's A Family Affair

Word Count:  646



Bertram had a headache.  But then he woke up every evening with a headache.  He hated being a bat.  He spent his days hanging upside down in a darkened cave—surrounded by thousands of his relatives.  Between all the blood rushing to his head and the incessant humming from all those around him, he lived in constant pain.

And the entire time he was hanging around, sleeping, he was dreaming of living alone.  He dreamt some tiny little nook in the crook of a hollow tree.  You know, some cozy place, with no room for large families or freeloading relatives.  Or even a little nest at the foot of a tree, like his friend, Myron, had.

True, it wasn’t as safe down on the ground.  But Bertram thought that that made Myron a ‘bad ass’—living on the edge.  It gave him a certain cache, a quality that made all the females chase him.

And while Bertram wasn’t particularly interested, as previously mentioned, in establishing a dynasty, he wouldn’t ‘hate’ it if a few of the females would fly around him more. Of course, Myron didn’t see it like that.  They’d often discussed their living arrangements over the some berries.  They had even talked once or twice about the possibility of sharing a place.

He sighed, as he waited for his turn to leave the cave.  The logistics of thousands of bats coming and going could get crazy.  Traffic at major international airports paled in comparison.

Finally, it was his turn and he took flight.  He swooped down and scooped up a large beetle.  And after his snack, he glided around, looking for some sign of Myron.  It was hard to tell one mouse from another—which is why he never ate mice.  And he had made it known around the cave that Myron was his friend, and as such, off limits.  There had been a few close calls, but it finally seemed that all the bats knew Myron by sight and knew damn well they’d better not eat him.

Of course it helped that Myron was a cautious kind of mouse.  He knew his way around the woods.  After all, it wasn’t his first time around the clearing.

He had made several fly-bys, when he finally spotted Myron, hurdled under some dead leaves.  And he looked scared.  Bertram circled again, scanning the night sky, for something—anything that could prove a threat to Myron.

Then he spied a barn owl, wearing a look of determination and staring at poor Myron.  Now, while the owl wasn’t very large—he wasn’t a particularly buffed specimen as far as barn owls went—he was a barn owl.  They weren’t considered the big guns of the woods for nothing. 

He spread his wings out as far as he could, in an attempt to look larger, and more of a threat.  Then he flew around in a weird agitated manor.  Maybe the owl would think he had rabies and avoid him.  But the owl gave him an insolent sneer and went back to stalking Myron.

Suddenly, Bertram realized the advantage of having an extended family.  He let out a high pitched squeal that with the exception of his crowd, only a few dogs heard.  The moonlit sky darkened, and the flutter of thousands of wings built to a loud roar.  Bats congregated, and flew in formation around the owl, harassing him—until with a rude flip of his tail, he left.

Bertram thanked his family, and watched as they dissipated—returning to their own interests.  Then he dropped down, picked Myron up gently by his tail, and carried him to a tree. There, with Myron tucked safely in the crook of two branches and Bertram, hanging a bit above him, shared some berries Myron had.  But this time Bertram didn’t diss his family, or about moving out on his own.