Ezra went to inform the son of our find, and sure enough a few hours later the mother tottered along on high-heeled espadrilles, her voice piercing in the afternoon quiet: "Bebe, OH, bebe, tu etait ou, alors . .?"
Thanks was brief, and then she told me off for not shutting our shutters: "Oof, il fait tellement chaud chez vous!!!"
"Oh, OK, au revoir then . . . "
Two days ago on a trip out to festeringly hot 'Bages' on the coast we found another lost beast.
As we turned a corner in the village, I saw a tiny blob attached to a huge blank boiling hot wall: not a dead leaf caught on a scrap of web, but a miniscule bat: really so tiny, like it would be lost in a matchbox; it was perhaps a few days old, no fur, just like the baby mice that I saw so many times in the old mother mouses bedding back in my childhood. Why was it there? in direct sunlight, maybe forty degrees?
How many times have I done this . . . and I never learn: pigeons with broken legs, vicious gulls with maimed feet, hopeless swallows, mice in the throws of a heart attack after being dropped by the cat; this was probably the silliest yet, but I couldn't leave it on that wall.
We took it home in a cigar box, (thank you someone with great taste in Bages) and tried to tempt it with milk, squashed flies etc. The next day was filled with bat-angst phone calls to bewildered 'bat experts' who obviously knew it was hopeless. One even suggested putting it the fridge 'it will go to sleep' then the freezer — 'it is perhaps the kindest thing'.
We were going out for supper to a friends who have a large tree-e piece of land and outbuildings, and bats! We took Boris with us and at the appropriate dusk moment, re-attached him/her to a tree where she/he commenced high pitch squeakings, quite loud for something of that size. Bats circled and I tried to picture a happy outcome surrounded by nature: probably unrealistic, but hopefully better than being frazzled on a wall or fridge-death.
It must be the menopause, (ridiculous sentimentality) or perhaps it's just me, but the thought of that tiny perfectly formed bat clinging to an oak tree is firmly wedged in my mind.
Good luck, Boris . . .