Farm Life: We're Rabid!
About five years ago, my husband moved us to HIS dream house, a farm on 55 acres. There is nothing about me that says, “farm girl.” But, I was up for an adventure and after many negotiations, compromises, and promises, we moved in. It was fine until, about a month in our new home, as I walked into my kitchen with my son, both of us carrying groceries, whoosh, swoop; a vision of black zoomed past me! "What was that? Is that a bird?" I yelled, ducking, and tossing groceries bags onto the counters and floor. "That ain't no bird," he replied. Whoosh, swoop, there it went again. Visions of a bat stuck in my hair, spitting, biting, clawing, I yell, "Open the doors, get a broom, or a shovel, or something!" We fly into action.Ducking and wildly racing around the room, we fling open doors, look around for weapons and make for the exits. I have to admit, in that moment of panic, I saved myself long before worrying about my son fearing I may well be one of those "every man for himself" types. Oh dear.And then, just like that it was gone. To be sure, we grab our weapons; a broom for me, a shovel for him, and we gather our wits to head back in. Slowly, stealthily and looking like two of the three Stooges, we do a room by room sweep. We bang on curtains, we brush by all the bookshelves, open closets, and are finally assured, the bat has been removed. But, how did he get in and where are his friends and family? Assured that we'd achieved the "all clear,"and finding no others, we put groceries away and decide to carry on with our errands and head out to Home Depot. Arriving home a few hours later, ladened with all types of home improvement and farm life tools, we head back in to the house through the kitchen door. Something is squeaking in my kitchen and it's that type of squeak that makes my stomach lurch and my panic rise. "Bat's on the floor. Looks dead," says my son casually. But then, it squeaks again and moves ever so slightly. Never considering saving the bat's life, or some humane response to this crisis, I yell, "Get the shovel and smash it!" And so, my son, good listener that he is, smashes it. Now I KNOW it's gone and it gets the heave-ho out the door into the field. Damn, I wonder if the dogs got into it with this bat, but I don't really have to wonder because of course they did. Their rabies vaccines are good still, but I call the vet to be safe. "Bring 'em down for a booster, and you should call the town health department to let them know," says the office. Great, just great.
Me: "Hi, we just moved in and it seems we've had a bat in the house.”
Health Officer: "Oh boy. Did you have any contact?
"Me: "What do you mean by contact?" We didn't touch it, but we did kill it.”
Health Officer: "How long do you think it was in the house?"
Me: (Oh crap, never thought about this.) "Well, I'm assuming/hoping/praying just this morning.”
Health Officer: "Yeah, don't assume that. They can bite you in your sleep and you wouldn't even know." Do you still have the bat?"
Me: (Feeling as if every hair on my body is standing on end) "Huh?"
Health Officer: "Do you still have it?
"Me: "Well, sort of. I mean, it's in the field dead, but I think I could find it.”
Health Officer: "Ok, good. Get it; DON'T TOUCH IT, and I'll send the Animal Control Officer out to get it so we can have it sent to Trenton to test it. Less than 1/2 of one percent are rabid, so I'm sure it's fine, but we really should get it tested. In the meantime, you should call a wildlife management company to come make sure you don't have a colony somewhere."
Me: Trying to squelch my rising panic,"Excuse, me, what?"
Health Officer: "Well, this is the time of year that they are having babies. You may have a colony in your attic or around the house somewhere. If that's the case, and they are brown bats, they are endangered and protected, so they'd have to stay there until July 31. We aren't allowed to remove them.”
I am frozen in place with my mouth hanging open imagining the conversation I'm about to have with my husband when I hang up with the Health Officer. "Hi, honey. I'm at the Somerset Hills Hotel. I'm never ever going back to that dream house of yours." In the meantime, my son is in the field doing a grid search. "Found it!" I grab the double bagged ziplock. He shovels it into the bag. According to the Animal Control Officer, the zip- locked bat now has to go into the refrigerator....thank goodness I have a garage refrigerator.
A few days later, we get the call, seems our bat's rabid. Of course he is, but blessedly, his family was nowhere to be found in my house. Seems as though this guy was a loner who probably got in when my husband left the flue open on the chimney. I guess, for at least now, I’m still living on a farm. Everyone, and I mean everyone we talk to tells us we need rabies shots and only the ER does them. "But we never touched it. It never touched us. I'm sure it didn't bite us, I'm sure it didn't scratch us," I repeat over and over and over. And each time, I'm met with, "What's the down side? You die from rabies, you know, and it's not pretty. It's like worse than Ebola." So off to the ER we go. I guess it's good to know how to get here for future reference, for all the other farm life injuries we are sure to sustain. The chopped off limbs from chainsaws, the random broken bone from falling from a horse, the "tractor meets person" horror stories one hears on the news etc. For today, though, it's just about rabies and so here we are; me, my son and my husband who wasn't even home at the time of the incident but is sure there's a possibility he came into contact with it in the house in some way. He's the poster child for "better safe than sorry." We've got wristbands on us, they've started charts, taken our temperatures, blood pressures, weighed us and asked us about allergies. We've signed more pieces of paper than we did at our recent real estate closing. And then they drop the bomb. I'd done my research and know it's a series of four shots. But, apparently that's just the vaccine. Because of the possibility of exposure, we need the immunoglobulin. The what? I don't even want to know what that is or what is going into my body. This comes based on one's weight as a variable number of shots. I need three today, my son and husband four. Thank goodness we are thin people.They heavier you are, the more you get. So, if you need motivation for that diet, just start thinking of the number of immunoglobulin shots you might need in the future! The nurses prepare us and talk to us as if armageddon was about to occur, or as if they were doing major surgery. "Are you ready?" the nurse keeps asking as I'm lying ass up on the table. "I guess so," I reply waiting for some agonizing stick in my right butt cheek. And then it's done. "That's it?" I asked. "That's it." she says. Oh for God's sake, I think. The build up made me feel like I'd be getting stabbed by some giant sword. Granted it's 4 shots; one per butt cheek and one per arm, but it's done. Now, we have to come back for one shot each on day 3, 7 and 21. More than anything else, it's inconvenient, but it's not painful. In total, I'll get 7 and the guys, 8 each.So now we are done and rabies free.
So, if you've got a skunk, possum, bat, raccoon or chipmunk that looks even slightly questionable, feel free to call us. We can wrestle them down and even bite back, no problem. Although, so far, no vampire fangs have appeared on any of us, this farm life stuff is a no brainer. I'm ready for whatever flies/crawls/swoops in next.