Behind every great man is a great bat story. Those gray beady-eyed creatures have been around since prehistoric times. And man today, perhaps as in prehistoric times, will go to great lengths to protect his family from these fearsome mammals.

I have listened to my girlfriends tell grand stories about how their homes were under siege by the nocturnal creatures, and how their valiant men won the battle. Well, I, too, have a bat story, and behind this bat story are two great men: my husband and the cable man.

I came home late one night to find my husband sleeping with a tennis racket across his chest. Since he was clutching the racket more like a weapon than like someone awaiting an early court time, I became suspicious. When I tried to ease the racket from his tight fist, he shot out of bed.

"Aaaaaahhhhhh!" we both screamed.

"There's a bat in the house," he said. "Well, I'm pretty sure it's a bat."

Once I convinced my husband that city birds do not have 5-foot wingspans, we agreed we had a problem.

"Where's the bat?" I asked. Looking rather embarrassed, he revealed that he had left the room to retrieve the bat annihilator (the tennis racket) and forgot to close the door behind him.

Did he think the bat would wait while he found something with which to clobber it?

The baton had been passed -- I was now clutching the racket.

Myths and superstitions got the best of me. With visions of the Anne Rice novel series "The Vampire Chronicles" and her favorite batman Lestat swooping down and biting my neck with his razor sharp incisor teeth, I slept with one eye opened.

I was relieved to have awakened the next morning in my own bed and not in a closet.

Our youngest daughter was the first to meet our houseguest that day en route to a morning tinkle. The bat had become disoriented and plummeted into the toilet. She ran and told her big sister, who had a girlfriend sleeping over.

Her older sister and her friend shrugged off what they thought was a young kid's imagination.

But my little devoted viewer of the Animal Planet remained insistent. They followed her into the bathroom.

Short-pulsed, high frequency screams that would make Jamie Lee Curtis' "Halloween" scream sound like a giggle emitted from the older girls' mouths.

I returned home from a morning run only to be thrust into what appeared to be a circus act gone awry. My oldest daughter was on the phone with her dad giving a frantic report of the bat encounter, while her friend longed to be in a safe, bat-free environment. My youngest daughter was restraining the family dog on a 3-foot leash.

Then the doorbell rang -- enter the cable man.

Four hysterical females and the dog charged him, all becoming shackled in the leash.

"There's a bat in the house," I said, while trying to escape from the restraints.

An anxious half-smile appeared on his face as he adjusted his tool belt.

"Where is it?" he asked.

I directed him to the toilet upstairs. Following behind, I said that my husband planned to take care of it when he got home.

But the cable man became fixed on removing the bat -- the prehistoric legacy of man protecting cave and family.

The females huddled near the door and watched as the caveman, I mean cable man, lifted up the lid to the toilet, then dropped it back down.

"It's flushable," he said. Adjusting his tool belt once more, he raised his eyebrows and said, "Well…"

An apprehensive nod and two quick flushes ended in a sewage burial.

The cable man was able to rid our home of the bat, but was unable to fix the fuzzy picture on the television that for some reason affects only the golf channel. A more qualified technician needed to be called.

A disappointed, somewhat defensive sigh came from the other end of the phone when my husband learned the news that the cable man had disposed of the bat.

I assured him that he was still the protector of the cave.

I haven't seen any more bats.

But I have called a plumber to come and investigate a rather foul odor emanating from the basement toilet.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators website at www.creators.com.
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