Sue Barnard's Bat-Raising Story

By Susan M. Barnard, Assistant Curator, Department of Herpetology, Zoo Atlanta

Originally published in Animal Keepers' Forum, vol. 17, No. 1, 1990.

"There was full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled round doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim and every now and again struck the window with its wings." -- Bram Stoker in Dracula (1897)

Reluctantly, I surfaced to a state of consciousness, as I heard my husband, Steve, quietly repeat my name. Again he whispered, "Sue, Sue!" I thought the worst; perhaps a killer stalked the house and in my stupor I could not recall what procedures were recommended. Again I heard, "Sue, Sue, wake-up!" I was thinking that if we remained still and quiet, the intruder might go away. I softly replied, "Yes, Steve, I'm awake!"

Suddenly, as if the room had been shattered by thunder, he bellowed, "Your bat is out! It's on my neck!"

It all began on the afternoon of 3 June 1982. A strange air of fascination filled the Atlanta Zoo reptile house as staff gathered around a cardboard box just delivered by some painters. Scattered within were wrinkled, naked baby bats hanging upside-down. We identified them as big brown bats, but they looked like weird animated blobs from outerspace.

"Where did they come from?" a zoo keeper asked.

"Why are they painted?" another wanted to know. "Why were they taken from wherever they were?" The questions kept coming.

Defensively, the painters spoke up. They said they were contracted to paint a house and found the bats in the attic. They informed the owner, who hysterically proceeded to spray them with an insecticide. Suddenly, according to the painters, it began to rain baby bats. Mother bats were flying helter-skelter as the owner of the house continued the attack. When the one-sided battle was over, the babies lay helplessly scattered about.

"A few fell into our paint cans," one painter explained. "We brought them here hoping you folks could help them in some way."

As a dedicated animal keeper I marveled over their concern for the infant bats, but I couldn't help wondering why Curator Hunt would allow a "box full of rabies" in the reptile house. This thought must have crossed his mind, too, because he instructed us to wear gloves when we handled them. Like most folks, we were victims of alarmist propaganda, but our bat education was about to begin.

On the way home with my bizarre brood, I stopped off at a veterinary clinic to purchase a powdered milk diet for my babies. The technician handed me a can large enough to house the tiny critters -- it must have contained enough formula to feed all the bats in the world. Rejecting the prepared diet, I intuitively decided upon a formula of condensed milk, vitamin drop, and honey. Sure enough, all chowed down as if they hadn't seen food in two days, which they hadn't!

The following morning was my day off so I was able to focus my undivided attention on the baby bats. All were alive, hungry, and of course upside-down. For their comfort I had prepared a warm nursery in a small fiberglass cage. It was lightweight enough for carrying, was glass-fronted for observing, and was tall enough for the baby bats to move up and down to regulate their temperature. They scuttled about the upright cork bark, each finding its own niche under the warm red light bulb that bathed them. I fed them, one at a time, every two hours -- one fed and six to go; two fed and five to go; and so forth until all had full bellies. The bats were easy to handle and they fed readily, making my task an enjoyable one. All was going smoothly and I felt rather proud of the way I had mastered the situation.

As the hours passed I looked forward to interacting with the bat brood. To my joy, feeding time rolled around once again. . .three fed and four to go; four fed and three to go. As I reached for number five, a chill ran through my entire body. Number five did not wiggle and squeal as I plucked it off the bark. Its little body was cold and stiff, still clinging upside-down as it had during life. As the hours slowly ticked by, more babies died. The first to go were those covered with paint, then the tiniest of the group, and so on it went. I began detesting a person whom I had never met. "Why?" I cried! How could anyone maliciously attack such helpless animals? Then, I recalled my thought when I first peered into the cardboard box: a box "full of rabies." How could I detest the person responsible for the death of these innocent animals when, even as a professional, my thoughts about bats were just as prejudiced?

By the time I had returned to work after the weekend, six babies had perished. I sent the tiny bodies out to be examined for rabies. Not only were the bats free of rabies, but I learned that there had never been a reported case from a big brown bat in Georgia.

The survivor was weak and dehydrated. It was time to set my old prejudices aside, rely on my professional background, and do my best to save this bat. I started the mini-creature on forced fluids. Then I called Mr. Brad House, a man of impeccable credentials and former Curator of Mammals at the Bronx Zoo. We exchanged information and the campaign to save the bat was under way.

Having but one bat left, I became aware of details that had previously escaped me. For example, I realized "it" was female. The bat was now known as little "Egore" (no disrespect to Igor). As the many days passed, her name sprouted more and more e's until Egore became E-e-e-gore! She was so precious!

Like all growing mammals, Egore had to be weaned from the formula to a more substantial diet, a mixture of ripe banana, cottage cheese, canned dog food, insects, and vitamins. On this brew, Egore grew stronger. A rich, silky coat covered her wee body, and because of her improving condition she began wing-stretching and grooming activities. When I called "Egore," she responded with body language. Her tiny head cocked back and forth and her big ears wiggled as she yawned wide, displaying her shiny new teeth. She was developing into a beautiful and healthy young bat. It appeared that the time was nearing when I would have to prepare Egore for the wild. This meant that she would have to catch her own food like other bats.

"Sue, why are you doing deep knee bends with Egore?" Steve inquired nervously. He, no doubt, thought I had gone "bats."

"I'm teaching her how to fly," I replied; not really sure I was doing this quite right.

"There's a better way," he said with authority. He was, after all, the director of the zoo. "Give me that bat!" He placed Egore on the palm of his hand and raised his arm high over his head. He then dropped his hand briskly as if to shake her off. Over and over he repeated this motion, but Egore remained fast in his hand; she stuck tightly, so as not to be "accidentally" flipped off during these daredevil exercises. I inquired as to where he got his bat-training experience, and he sheepishly replied, "It works with birds!"

In spite of us, little Egore got the message. One evening, after being dropped from her thumbs, she began fluttering her wings. She dropped into beanbag chairs and kamikazed into walls. Night after night her flight training continued, as she slipped under bookshelves, planters, or the stereo.

It was becoming quite clear that if Egore was to develop into a well-adjusted bat, I needed advice from a professional bat person. After having read Bob Strohm's National Wildlife article, "Most 'Facts' About Bats Are Myths," it seemed Merlin Tuttle, Curator of Mammals at the Milwaukee Public Museum, was just the expert I needed.

"You said bats live HOW long, Dr. Tuttle?"

"Up to 30 years," he replied.

Thirty plus 48. I found it hard to imagine myself at 78, crawling about every nook and cranny in retirement city retrieving a pet bat.

"How can I prepare Egore for release?" I asked. Ignoring my question, he excitedly talked about his favorite subject--bats! I learned that despite common misconceptions, most bats are harmless and highly beneficial. They are not mostly carriers of dread diseases, such as rabies, and even the few that do become sick are rarely aggressive. They are not blind, do not become entangled in women's hair, and do not infect people's homes with bedbugs. Statistics show that even valued household pets, such as dogs, account for more human harm in a single year than bats have in more than 30 years of record keeping. In the relatively few instances when people are harmed by bats, it is usually because they carelessly picked up an obviously sick individual. Bats that permit themselves to be picked up are likely sick and should be avoided.

Dr. Tuttle talked about bat diets. Most are insectivorous, though some are carnivorous and hunt small animals, such as mice, fish, or frogs. Others eat nectar or fruit, making them an important factor in the seed-dispersing phase of plant reproduction; many economically important plants depend on bats for pollination. The shelves of our grocery stores contain many products from bat-adapted plants, including peaches, bananas, avocados, almonds, cashews, cloves, and dates.

I learned that an insect-eating bat like Egore can consume up to 3,000 insects or more in a single evening. I thought to myself about my little Egore, who should be learning how to catch her own food. She was almost ready to be trained to catch whole insects. This reminded me as to why I had called, so I politely interrupted, "Dr. Tuttle, bats are fantastic, but how should I go about teaching Egore to survive in the wild?"

Apparently, I got his attention because he began telling me how "easy" it was. . . "First, gather up some moths and beetles, and hold them between your fingers while you present them to her. Let her become adjusted to the buzzing wings. Once she accepts noisy insects from your fingers you'll need to encourage her to. . ." As he continued to explain the training program for hunting and catching insects in flight, I didn't have the heart to tell him that Egore was scared silly of anything that moved on her dinner plate, much less something that was going to buzz, too.

As I peered at my notes, it was becoming clear that a person with Dr. Tuttle's bat knowledge could easily train a bat to live in the wild. But I was devoted to my career in herpetology, and had many projects and commitments that did not allow time for a repatriation project. Living free, while a noble concept, was as alien to Egore as it was for a wild bat to live inside my house. As Dr. Tuttle graciously educated me on the world of bats, I realized that Egore had found her home. It was I who would have to adapt to a "wild" way of life.

Today, Egore has finally mastered house flight. That is, when she is at flying weight. If I unknowingly feed her too many mealworms she barely gets airborne. I call this "fat-bat flight." Even little Egore is bewildered by her crash landings After all, her instincts tell her that she should be agile and graceful. In fact, when she is at proper flight weight, she can maneuver better than a Sopwith camel.

I talked with Curator Hunt about some of Dr. Tuttle's ideas. Howard had a few of his own, too.

"Have you gone 'round the bend,' Sue?" Steve exclaimed. I replied defensively, "It was Howard's idea and I agree. This may be just the thing Egore needs to learn how to catch insects, and it will help her keep in flying form." She no longer feared insects and I thought that hanging her mealworms from the ceiling would heighten her mealtime pleasures. There was also the possibility that she would learn how to catch insects in mid-flight.

"You'll have to come up with a better idea," Steve informed me smugly, "because they're wiggling free of the string and are all over the place."

Frustrated, I sewed the worms onto the string and let Egore loose to feast on the carefully prepared treat. I was astonished at her outstanding aerobatics as she winged through the dangling mealworms with precision. She darted to and fro, carefully avoiding any contact with the mealworm-string maze. She made it clear that dinner was to be served on a plate and should not dangle from the ceiling. Steve also emphasized this point.

Egore's evening flights are routinely scheduled and carefully monitored for her safety. Like most youngsters, however, she often finds a way around this structured existence by finding escape routes from her cage. It takes time to develop a caging system for an animal that flies like a bird, scuttles like a spider, and is as small as a mouse so she sometimes makes unscheduled rounds at early hours of the morning. I fear she will one day accidentally leave the house through the chimney.

So folks, if you see a bat silently flapping through the evening sky, hope it finds sanctuary. It could be Egore making an unscheduled flight.