A Day With The Fruit Bats

As I mentioned in the craft shop rescue story, I think some people have an unrealistically tame vision of what animal rescue really is.  I know I did.  We often get inquiries about volunteering for a day or two at Bat World, and while we know these good people mean well, it doesn’t really work.  We wish it did, we’d all love a little break once in a while, make no mistake about that. Still, when someone comes in for such a brief time, that someone ends up being an extra task rather than an extra hand.  You have to be trained, and by the time you know anything, you’re gone.  And that’s assuming that you knew what you were in for and didn’t panic at first contact with bat guano.

This is true even of those with prior experience volunteering at wildlife sanctuaries; with such unusual and unique animals as bats, very little carries over.  Many veterinarians are loathe to even attempt work on bats for that very reason:  it’s specialized knowledge, takes a long time to learn and is completely useless in any other context.  Given that few people are going to be bringing bats in for treatment, they mostly don’t bother, and it’s hard to blame them for not wanting to learn a skill that they’ll likely never use more than once or twice, if at all.

Having said that, here’s what you’d really be in for if you spent a day doing what Amanda, Angela and I do at Bat World Sanctuary:

Fruit bats are where the “newbies” always start, so I’ll start there as well. It’s the larger of the two flight enclosures by far, as fruit bats are themselves far larger than their insect bat cousins. Toy baskets, foliage, and all manner of interesting playthings array the ceiling, secluded roosting areas are all along the walls and especially in the corners, and at least one or two bats are flying about most of the time even during the day.  The roosting areas are mostly segregated by species, albeit by the bats themselves, not us.

They mix freely when awake and playing at night, but they mingle a lot less when it comes to roosting and sleeping.  There’s an area for the Straw-colored fruit bats, one for the Jamaicans, one for the Egyptians, and while there’s an area that many Carollias (think Lil Drac), many others seem to be completely indiscriminate with who they bunk with and can be found in little cliques within the other bats’ roosts.  The floor is thickly padded with 4 inches of high density foam which is permanently covered with soft vinyl.  The front half of the cage is quite dim for the sake of the Egyptians, who dislike bright light, which is unusual for fruit bats.  The back walls are covered with murals depicting forest and jungle scenery. You hear them, you see them and you are totally in their world because of the simulated natural environment.  I can’t emphasize this enough:  it’s their world, not ours.  It is magical.

An Egyptian in flight. You can see how they “cup” their wings to catch more air and maximize the lift of each wing beat. In the background is a Jamaican fruit bat being a Jamaican fruit bat, i.e. eating.

Fabio, a Jamaican fruit bat , is groomed first thing. You may have seen the video of this that we recently posted on Youtube where he is being brushed by my fellow volunteer, Angela. We always take care of Fabio first because he chooses to roost with the shy, skittish Egyptians (Peekaboo excepted, of course).  Even Amanda – who hand-raised no small amount of them from orphaned pups – can’t walk underneath their roost without  raising an absolute chaos of churning air and slapping wings as ten or fifteen immediately take flight with all possible haste.  It’s shocking how disorienting this is; those bats move a huge amount of air with their wings.  Huge. Coupled with the fact that bats aren’t conventionally considered to be “powerful” animals, such a sudden display of exactly that really throws you the first time you find it thundering all around you.  Since they are nocturnal, the morning route is right about their bedtime, which is why we do it first thing: caring for Fabio initially gives them time to settle back down and go to sleep.

That bears mentioning on its own:  we do all our work when these animals naturally sleep, and we have to constantly be aware of this.  Some disturbance is unavoidable, but we try to minimize it.  Get in early, get it done, and let them be.  Until treat time.

Fabio will suddenly decide when grooming is over and that he needs to be back in his roost now (see video), and then it’s washing and refilling the five large water bowls and several dispensers that we fill with organic fruit juice.  Then we collect the approximately 20+ food dishes dispersed throughout the flight enclosure.  Mere empty remnants of a night of foraging amongst the variety of fruit and tasty supplements. Random fact:  if the bananas are still green, there will be nothing left in the dishes.  They love green bananas, and so we do too; it makes the cleanup easier, and besides, this is the resident colony.  They’re here with us because there was nowhere else for them to go to lead a happy life. It’s literally our job to make them happy.

A small Jamaican fruit bat with a comparatively large kebab.

Once the food and water dishes are taken care of, we pull up the newspaper that we tape below the hanging fruit kabobs and then pick up all the toys.  Another random fact:  more than once I’ve found the front toy basket completely empty, with all its toys beneath the back basket, clearly indicating that the bats were taking toys from one basket and attempting to drop them into the other.

They were playing basketball.  Improvisational batty basketball.  Carollias have been known to drop fruit and toys on volunteers for fun, so there is a precedent for it.

Below the fruit and yam spattered newspaper and covering all the floor is a network of sheets.  They’re washed in three separate loads that we do in a specific order so that we can get them back down as quickly as possible.  They’re to protect the padding installed onto the floor of the enclosure, as we obviously can’t simply pull that up and toss it into the washer like we can the sheets. They also give a soft alternative to the bare vinyl covering of the padded floor, such workarounds being commonly necessary, as there’s not exactly a lot of companies out there manufacturing floor padding for bat enclosures.  Out here on the frontier, you have to improvise.

The Blimp

Then there’s the Blimp.  Well, it’s not a zeppelin.  It’s actually a contraption of Amanda’s devising intended for the use of convalescing bats but amusingly used as a makeshift hammock by lazy bats, since we rarely have a bat with a genuine need for the Blimp.  It’s a plastic container with metal ribbing attached to the open top like an upside down ship’s hull.  Soft green netting is draped above this ribbing, and in the container itself is a thick, cushy layer of foam for them to lay on.  It needs to be wiped down thoroughly, and it’s likely here that a new volunteer will first encounter the dreaded bat poop.  I try to think of it as icky plant fertilizer.  And it is that; guano is very highly prized as some of the best fertilizer, having been shown to be comprised of 15-22% non-burning nitrogen.

Again, because bats sleep during the day, there’s somewhat of a rush to do all of this.  We try to be finished by noon at the latest.  That might sound easy, but you have to keep in mind that before you even got in there to start, you helped fill orders when you first arrived. Just this morning, Angela was busy with 13 Adopt-a-Bat orders that took almost two hours, making everything I’ve just described above suddenly turn into a mad rush so the bats can sleep. Orders are great because they help to fund critical items needed for the bats, so it’s all very connected.

They eat this EVERY NIGHT.

Once you’re done with the flight enclosures, it’s time to prepare the fruit.  You’ll be cutting a lot of fruit into little cubes here. A lot.  And while there’s a big chopper/dicer gizmo that will cut the fourteen apples into cubes, but only after you’ve cut them into finger-width slices, and the honeydew too, once you’ve cut half of one into eighths, and even the tropical fruit cocktail, once you’ve thoroughly washed all that syrup off of it, but there’s no machine to help with the EIGHTY BANANAS except for a short, intentionally dulled knife so you can cut them up very quickly while holding them in your hand.  There’s a definite zen to it after a while, but at first it seems like a mighty job, and one to be done every day. In addition to this is a big batch of berries and a variable addition to the giant blue tub into which all this diced fruit goes: figs, mango, romaine lettuce, celery, carrots, pears among many others.  Then, once all this is done, you stash the very heavy tub in the bat fridge – the bat’s fridge is much bigger than the volunteer’s fridge – with your brown-black banana stained hands.  The stains won’t wash off.  They only wear away, although it doesn’t take too long.

The cups. They’ve already gotten into them in this picture, but you can see the threads which which they screw together.

Still, there’s one really great upside to it:  once the honeydew is cut, you gather up a mix and head back into the enclosure to hand out the treats.  There are mobiles with four dangling cups each to fill, and the Carollias will be all over the first before you’re even done filling the second, but there’s also a couple of dispensers that pose a puzzle for the bats to figure out.  One is a series of cups (pictured at right) dangling on a chain that screw into each other, bottom to top.  It boggles my mind that the bats can unscrew these, but they can, and do so nightly.  The other locks shut with a keylike opener. At some point we really need to get footage somehow of the bats working their way into these, if only for my sake.  I haven’t seen it yet, but I really want to.

Lil Drac himself exhibiting typical Carollia treat time behavior (see video).

Then comes the best part: hand-feeding honeydew to the bats that will accept it.  That’s a few dozen of them if you’re Amanda.  If you’re not, it’s five: Poppy, Mr. Impley and his two girlfriends (who all three roost together) and Peekaboo herself. With Poppy, since she’s such an incredibly shy bat, it helps to softly say her name before you peek into her roost so as not to startle her.  One of the best parts of my time at Bat World thus far is Poppy getting more and more used to me, and I look forward to feeding her probably more than anything else. With Peekaboo, it’s simply finding a moment for her to grab the melon from you with the skittish Egyptians getting stirred up at your approach.  She’ll usually wait for her chance, but sometimes she’ll get frustrated with her roostmates and come out to meet you. Mr. Impley and his girlfriends are easy.  Imps is so trusting that I think he would snatch melon out of the jaws of a wolf if he could.  Imps will even try to get your attention when you walk past in the course of your duties by stretching his wing way out.  His girlfriends are more shy and took some winning over in the beginning, but once they’re used to you, they’ll snatch melon from your hand every bit as unceremoniously as Imps will.

Treat time is also the set time for health checks , where we look in on all the roosts to make sure everyone looks bright-eyed and happy.  Along that same line, every now and then one of our elderly (or young) bats will take a fall, and we wear headlamps in the flight cage to ensure that we can easily spot them.  These falls are onto a padded floor, so it doesn’t hurt them, but the same ones that fall often can’t take off from the ground and simply flap along the floor. Most will flop their way below their roost and climb the mesh walls back up to their roost, but some need help.  They’ll resist your attempts to assist them at first – earning the trust of a bat that has very likely been abused, intentionally or otherwise, takes a long, long time – but a gentle voice and a respectful approach will surprise you with its efficacy.

It’s such a simple thing, but it’s where many zoos fall short; Bat World has taken in more than a few bats that have fallen onto the unpadded concrete flooring in zoo enclosures.  Those that don’t make it to us either suffer while well-meaning people who don’t know how to treat injured bats try and fail to nurse them back to health, or they’re simply euthanized because they can no longer fly or have been disfigured by injuries inflicted by the fall.  Just one more reason in a very long list of why bats shouldn’t be in zoos, and one that gets a lot closer to the heart of their well-being than any disruption of their natural sleep patterns. That’s not to downplay the forced diurnal schedule; it takes a heavy toll over time, cutting their natural lifespans severely.

There’s a young Jamaican fruit bat that came to us recently that’s just learning to fly. He falls fairly often, and the other day he fell right in front of me, far from his roost. If he’d been closer, it would have been preferable to let him do it himself, but as it was he likely fell because he, in his youthful exuberance, wore himself out flying. Traveling all that way across the ground would have only further taxed him.  I approached him slowly, telling him it was okay, asking him to please let me help him back up, but he hopped and flapped steadily away from me, farther from his roost. We held a steady distance; he flapped a few times, I took a step, and right about the time I was about to give up, he stopped.  Very, very slowly, I closed the distance and reached out, clasping him from both sides, gently folding his wings and scooping him up. He let me.

Many bats, when frightened, will cover their head with their wings much like a person might when panic overwhelms them, and he started to, but he didn’t, nor did he try to bite or struggle.  He could have; he was just resting in my hands and could have easily gotten away, but he didn’t.  All he did was let me return him to his roost near the ceiling.  I am learning that bats have an uncanny ability to be able to recognize when you are genuinely trying to help them.

On a banana run to our local Wal-Mart the other day, someone in the parking lot asked me what we “do” with the bats we take in. That’s what we do with them, and that’s why we do all this work. It is for Them.


The Story of Isis

It was a lonely, unimaginably long road that brought Isis, an Egyptian fruit bat to where she belonged all along. Where it begins is unclear; her previous “owners” (a well-known amusement park) had thought she was eight years old. Isis is actually eighteen, so there’s ten years missing from her history. It’s a shame that she only found sanctuary as an elderly bat with cataracts who can’t quite hang as well as she used to. Regardless, we are so happy that she finally found peace at Bat World Sanctuary.

Isis being removed from the shipping crate after arriving at Bat World.

Isis spent most of the eight years at the amusement park with her mate. They were the only two bats at the noisy theme park. The theme park was hoping that Isis and her mate would reproduce, but their living conditions wouldn’t allow any offspring to survive. Toward the end, Isis’ mate died, so Isis lived alone in a small glass cage for several months, gawked at by large groups of people seven days a week.

Thankfully, the theme park grew tired of caring for Isis and contacted Bat World Sanctuary. The day of her arrival found Isis scared, both of the shipping ordeal she’d just endured, the strange new place, and the strange new person picking her up. She was so afraid that she would not even hang onto our hand with her feet, but we were gentle and spoke in a soft voice, and Isis finally realized that she was safe. We can’t imagine what she must have felt to enter the flight cage for the first time, to see dozens of Egyptian fruit bats just like her, cuddling together and playing with toys, and eating their fill of nutritious food every night.

Baby Ice-Ice, resting on a warmed rolled up cloth. Click to enlarge.

Still, there was one more difficulty left for Isis to face. Soon after her arrival, Isis gave birth. Elderly Isis had apparently become pregnant before her mate died and she found herself in a new home with a newborn pup to take care of. Overwhelmed, Isis was unable to care for her baby and it fell to the padded floor of the flight cage. Her baby was found almost immediately, warmed, fed and placed into Bat World’s incubator for hand rearing.

Isis with her baby. Click to enlarge.

As a few more days passed, Isis finally realized she was “home.” She became familiar with her keepers and in doing so learned to lookforward to the melon treats that always came with soft voices. A short week after giving birth, we heard Isis calling for her baby. Hoping for the best but prepared to continue hand-raising her pup, we brought Isis the pup she was seeking and carefully placed it near her on the flight cage ceiling. Isis immediately went to her baby and encouraged it to climb onto her body. Her pup began nursing just a few minutes later.

Isis eating her favorite treat of honeydew melon.

Today Isis’ baby is a few months old and well in every possible sense.

As for Isis herself, she appears very happy despite her cataracts and her arthritis. She lives a quiet, peaceful existence with friends and family all her own, and she will never be alone again.







The Craft Shop Rescue, Part 2

(Continued from the Craft Store Rescue, Part One)

We’d only just left the craft shop victorious and near-helplessly laughing, and now we were going back. Amanda had met us in the parking lot and said they’d called in the two minutes since we left saying there was another one.  Myself, I just figured it was the other half of a teenage bat duo that had dared each other to go inside, this one hiding while the other stirred things up in the shop.  In other words, this second one was the smart one; in any good duo, there’s always the Smart One.

Amanda knew better. This was August, when bat activity is at or near its peak. They’re gearing up for their migratory return to Mexico, swarming is in full swing and life is one long love-drunk mosquito feast.  That meant it was possible that there could be a great many more bats in that building, likely all juvies, young and inexperienced bats who might be lost inside that building, trapped over nothing more than a joy ride with an unexpectedly harsh learning curve, as joy rides often foist upon the young.  I felt good this time, still marveling over the first rescue just minutes before. How it had just let me pick it up like that. Amanda had told me that would happen, though it seemed unbelievable at the time; she is convinced that on some level beyond the instinctual need to evade, they know that we’re trying to help them. I was inclined to agree now. Certainly I was too inexperienced to credibly disagree, at any rate. And this second bat, we would soon discover, disagreed entirely.

Once we arrived we were led to the back – it’s always thrilling on some very mundane level to gain access to the Back Room of any establishment – and there spied the first bat’s compatriot flying frantic circles. The left part of the room was partitioned off the from the rest, and we passed it by again and again trying to keep the bat in sight and wait for it to tire and land.  It eventually decided the smaller extremity had more nooks and crannies to use; shelving, things on those shelves, exposed studs and door frames in the wall, etc. There were a couple near-catches on the shelving, both times almost coming close enough to stroke its fur before it exploded into the air with a startling suddenness that can only be summoned up by the young.  Then it alighted upon a door frame whose studs were exposed and easily slipped in between them.  It was a narrow space, no bigger than half an inch running the entire height of the door, and there was no way our hands would fit to pluck up our refugee.  Then, as if this weren’t enough, it worked its way to the very top of the gap, hemming itself in tightly on three sides.

Had I not been processing my first rescue just a few minutes before, the fact that I was now a bat rescuer, that when someone calls about a bat in their bedroom, I’m now one of the people who shows up, I might have known what to do.  Pride and incredulity have always been great hindrances to clear thought.

Angela, however, had been through this phase already and retrieved an old dry erase marker from a nearby shelf.  It was just the thing.

Here’s an obscure fact about Mexican free tails:  they really don’t like anything to touch their backside.  Tail, pelvis, feet, anything back there; they hate it.  It’s likely a defense mechanism, but whatever the reason, it makes them move, and without having to use anything even approaching force.

Angela exploited this now and prodded gently with the dry erase marker (with the cap still on, of course), and while the bat resisted, it just couldn’t stand it and took little time in crawling from the gap.  I in turn wasted little time myself in getting a black gloved hand around it.  We’d caught the Smart One.

Then, incredibly, as we turned to leave, another bat flew past, but this one lacked the moxy of its friend, and it didn’t elude us for long.  Still, while I was unmistakably proud of this new work that I’d just found I could do, and do well, there was little to exult over.  Three bats in what was essentially a single two-part trip was troubling.

When we got back, Amanda got straight to work rehydrating the poor things while Angela and I stood close and discussed what we knew up to now, about the building and the current situation both.  We decided that the worst-case scenario for this problem – that a great many bats had again been trapped in the abandoned upper floors of the building – was too possible and too severe to ignore.  Not likely perhaps, but easily possible.  We had to go up there, knowing that one of those abandoned pitch-dark floors had once been a funeral home and had seen as much human suffering and death as that of bats, that we might be walking into a mass grave, that we might find dozens of them in similar or worse shape as these, that we might find enough to make for a very long night for them and us.

Once our poor juvies had been tended, we all three set out to a highly unusual excursion; we try to always keep one volunteer at Bat World, and Amanda does her best to be there all the time, but if our worst case scenario played out, we’d all be needed.

Though now we arrived unbidden, the shop owner gladly led us into the back and gave us permission to ascend the gaping dark stairway into a much older place than I for one was accustomed to walk in.

Of course most of the buildings of downtown Mineral Wells were built in the late 1800s, and I’d certainly in my entire life here been in a few of them before, but now, here, above the shop, that age was laid bare.  The stairways sagged just slightly, keeping us against the wall as we climbed, going one at a time.  Age had stripped away whatever finish or paint the wooden bannisters and floors might have once had, and even the appearance of having been sanded smooth.  The doors were all old, heavy and creaky, and at one end was the old viewing room, now empty.  The poet in me wants to say that the sheer amount of tears shed in this room over the years could still be felt, but honestly even that was gone.

And darkness.  It was dark like I’d never seen before, not outside of a closet I was hiding in playing hide and seek as a child.  Even under the darkest new moon there are still stars trickling their nigh-invisible light.  Not here.  Here we had only our voices and our headlamps with which to navigate this old place that no longer had anything for humans and bats alike.

Amanda had been here before and has spent so much time around bats that their capacity for navigating this sort of totalitarian darkness has rubbed off on her, and she immediately set us to work closing those doors over there, opening this one, checking the ones back there, closing off everything but the hallway so that the bats couldn’t dally in the rooms off the side, but had to continue either downward to the shop where they would be seen and rescued or go back up to the top floor where they could leave again.  That done, we made to ascend to the top floor.

As we crested the stairs, we found a dead free tail.

He was only two flights of stairs and a terrified shopkeeper away from rescue, but he didn’t make it.  He was stiff, but clearly hadn’t been here long.  We left him where he fell – he was a wild animal, this was a wild place, and he was not trash to be disposed of – and kept on, wondering how many more we’d find and if the three recuperating back in the rehab room worried where their friend had gone.

We found no more, and selectively closed off doors as we had below to minimize their chances of getting lost.  We also found where they’d been coming in: a hole in the ceiling of a closet.  The bathroom that the closet was in was little bigger than the closet itself, and that was what was posing such a problem.  For a bat to fly straight up they need to build up speed, and there was simply not enough space for it.  We scavenged a slender board that bats could easy grab onto and leaned it up against the mouth of the hole so that they could climb up and out.  With much shorter pieces we did likewise for the lidless toilet and sink and made our way back down. On our way back to daylight we advised the shop owners to close off that stairway and returned to Bat World.

Three days passed, and with each one the juvies regained their strength and restlessness, and as one always hopes but is never quite precisely happy about, the time came to release them.  It’s the ultimate hallmark of a successful rehabilitation, but after hand feeding them day after day, it’s a bittersweet moment.

We do our releases at the wild sanctuary, another old building purchased by Amanda years back to protect the bats that had taken up residence in it.  Currently it houses approximately 50,000 bats in the summertime; in its heyday it had three times that many.  As with every other aspect of this rescue, this was my first time to experience it.

I wouldn’t forget it.  Nobody would forget it.  The ceiling was very high, and the walls had been knocked out to create a huge expanse for the bats to fly in yet stay out of the weather.  Screens had been put up to deny them access to the rest of the building.  This was for their own safety, so they wouldn’t get lost. Still, they didn’t want for room to flap their wings.  At all.  Otherwise the building showed it age much like the one we’d explored days ago.

Bat World’s wild sanctuary (click to enlarge)

But the bats…they covered every beam, every rafter, they were strewn across the walls, and perhaps double that number again were filling the air constantly.  Their smell – bats smell like bats the way dogs smell like dogs – was powerful, drowning out all else.  They whipped fearlessly past your head, secure in their own domain, in the arrogance possessed by a creature in its element.  Their tens of thousands of voices blended into a smooth, pulsing rhythm, as if gathered here as a colony they spoke as one.  Amanda was walking to the area where she releases bats and telling me about this literally awesome place she’d brought me to, and I didn’t hear a word. I was only staring upward, actually tangibly speechless perhaps for the first time in my life.

Then, of course, I felt the bat urine start pelting my head and determined that staring upward with my mouth agape wasn’t really a good idea.  It’s not a place that one takes a casual stroll through; we have to cover up with protective gear just to go inside for a moment.  If that’s the price to see a sight like that, it’s a very small one.

The juvies appeared similarly overwhelmed; it was very likely their first time seeing something like this too. As Amanda retrieved them from the bat carrier they hunkered excitedly on the tips of her fingers, leaning eagerly forward toward the teeming brothers and sisters they never knew they had, tentatively flapping their wings just on the cusp of becoming airborne only to back off again and consider the situation more.  Perhaps they wondered if they would be accepted, even though bats are very accepting and even altruistic animals.  Maybe they were just as overwhelmed as I was.  All that could be known for sure is that as apprehensive as this big new place made them, the rolling manifold voice of this place entranced them, and they knew that their place was with it, not us.  To the side, I stood ready to collect them if they fell, and we, human and bat alike, waited.

One finally made the leap, taking to the air and quickly losing itself in the crowd. The second followed, nearly falling to the ground before finding its lift and rising up. More hesitant, the last pup took a little longer.

We were grateful for the extra few seconds with it, because too soon it lit off toward its friends, and just like that the story was over.



Boo2 showing off his sweet, goofy smile.

Boo2 is an Egyptian fruit bat who was born at Bat World Sanctuary after his mother and seven other bats were rescued by Bat World from the now closed Little River Zoo. They came from a horrible situation.

An individual who was hired to “liquidate” the zoo’s animals called us about placing the remaining 8 bats. Sadly, the others had been sold to the cruel exotic pet trade. This individual originally planned to keep the remaining 8 bats and breed them, selling the “stock.” Thankfully, we talked her out of it, and all eight bats made it safely to Bat World Sanctuary in Sept of 2011. Boo2’s mother was pregnant when she arrived and Boo2 was born a few months later.

Boo2 became best buddies with Peekaboo, an Egyptian fruit bat who was rescued from similar conditions in 2009. It was this friendship that earned him the name Boo2. Peekaboo and Boo2 love to spend time with each other and are never seen far apart.

Boo2 (looking at the camera) with Peekaboo.
Boo2 (looking at the camera) with Peekaboo.
Boo2 inserting himself in front of a morning keeper in order to get another melon treat. An empty fruit kabob is hanging beside Boo2.

Boo2 has so much personality that we have nicknamed him the “cage clown.” He’s never seen without an endearing, goofy grin on his face. Twice daily, keepers conduct visual exams of the bats under the guise of doling out melon treats to any bat who will take one. Boo2 positions himself in front of the keeper in any way possible in order to receive treat after treat.

We are so grateful to have rescued Boo2 from the dire conditions to which he would have been born, and a situation from which he most likely would have perished. Thank you to all who adopt and support Boo2 so that he and his kind can live a protected, happy and enriched life at Bat World Sanctuary.



Tinkerbell at intake, nursing from a foam tip

Tinkerbell, a Jamaican fruit bat, is a sweet natured and endearingly odd little bat. To know her, you’d never think that her coming into the world had been so heartbreakingly grim.

Her mother was one of the many unfortunate bats that had become ensnared in the exotic pet trade, where bats inevitably live short lives of loneliness and terror. Like so many others in her predicament, Tinkerbell’s mother languished in a captivity wholly unsuited for bats and eventually died giving birth to her daughter. When Tinkerbell arrived at Bat World Sanctuary, she was, as is sadly common for bat pups whose mothers have died in childbirth, still clinging to her mother’s body.

Tinkerbell drinking her milk

Thankfully, things took a turn for the better; her owner, likely looking for ways to care for a newborn bat, came across Bat World’s Facebook page and learned how hard a pet’s life is for bats. It was too late for Tinkerbell’s mother, but not Tinkerbell herself, and the owner delivered the newborn to Bat World Sanctuary and asked us to keep spreading the word about keeping bats as pets. Were it not for her owner’s kind heart and willingness to admit she’d been wrong, Tinkerbell likely wouldn’t have made it either.

Tinkerbell at two months old

Tinkerbell was hand-raised at Bat World and has grown into a healthy and slightly eccentric adulthood. For whatever reason, be it her traumatic entry into the world or simply her odd little personality, she insists on roosting and eating by herself in the “bat hut” that serves as the halfway house for new arrivals. The bat hut is meant as temporary security for orphaned bats who are learning to adapt to the flight cage, but Tinkerbell has made it her permanent home. It’s not that Tinkerbell fears the other bats; she plays and flies alongside them nightly, and even enjoys visitors that pass through her bat hut. Tinkerbell simply values her solitude.

Tinkerbell in her bat hut, eating a piece of honeydew melon

Since deciding to call the bat hut her permanent home, Tinkerbell now serves as a welcoming committee to newly arriving orphaned bats. She allows the youngsters to roost and cuddle with her inside the bat hut, and in doing so eases their transition to hubbub of the flight cage.

In the wild, Tinkerbell’s solitary nature would deny her the protection of numbers and could put her in danger, but here at Bat World she has a place all her own. And if she wants company, there are over a hundred of her best friends no more than a wing flap away. We may not know why she lacks some of the social impulses that are so strong within other bats, but one thing’s for sure, her days of suffering and loss are over.

The Craft Shop Rescue, Part One

It was around mid-day during my second week of work, just as we were preparing to dice an entire grocery store’s produce section for Peekaboo‘s dinner, when the call came in.  Of course Angela and I could only hear one half of the conversation, but the other half wasn’t hard to discern.

Broken sentences as the caller interrupted repeatedly in what seemed like a panic. Amanda trying three separate times to say “I’m not asking you to touch it…” and instead asking the caller to toss a sheet or towel over it so that it would be concealed yet gently restrained, keeping it in place for our arrival and helping it to feel as secure as a lost, terrified and likely dehydrated bat can.  It sounds odd, I know, but crevice dwelling bats absolutely adore tight, confined spaces because it makes them feel hidden and safe.  A few more aborted attempts to communicate, and then just like that it was away from the bananas and off to a local craft store to do yet another thing that I never thought I’d do:  go on a rescue call for Bat World Sanctuary.

It wasn’t how I wanted my first rescue to be.  I’d hoped for people who cared for their welfare, who didn’t see them as harbingers of disease and mouth foam, who understood why we did what we did and would be supportive so that all I had to worry about was the technique of approaching and catching a wild bat.  We weren’t going to get that, but I was thankful that this wouldn’t be Angela’s first rescue, at least.  I could simply play a support role.  For eleven years previous to this, support was largely my job: anticipating what was needed and then doing it.  Perhaps I’d suck at rescuing bats – we’d find out soon – but I was good at support.  Reminding myself calmed the nerves a bit.

The building in which the shop resided had for years been problematic for juvenile bats who might have mastered the art of becoming airborne but might not be so good at staying there yet, much less the no doubt intricate and delicate process of navigating via echolocation.  Ever since Bat World’s inception, young bats have frequently made their way inside and subsequently been unable to find their way out. Ballpark estimates are that over one thousand bats have been pulled out of that building over the years.  Conversely, there is perhaps no way to accurately judge how many simply died in there due to the recalcitrance of the building’s management.  To the extent that Bat World has been allowed to help, however, the number of lost bats has decreased from a few hundred every summer to a mere dozen now and then over the past decade and a half.

With this, a carrier pouch, a nitrile glove and various literatures that would hopefully allay some of the irrational fear of our panicking merchants, we parked outside and walked in.  Angela engaged them right away, and I was happy to see my hopes of keeping to the kiddie pool for this one were playing out.  Alas, and also fortunately, it was not to be.

The shopkeepers, before describing their absolute certainty that this fragile three inch long mammal intended to kill them, informed us that it was last seen under a table.  In turn, we informed them that it was no longer there.  As we searched they bombarded us with questions that Angela, sensing perhaps that I was on the verge of overwhelmed, answered:

What do you do with them after you catch them?  You KEEP them?  You’re TRAINING to do this?  How many do you have over there?  So will it try to attack us?  Are you sure?  It was flying really close to my head.  Why do they do that?  

This continued as we spotted the bat above a display rack.  It continued as they very eagerly fetched a ladder so we could get it.  It continued as I was preparing to be johnny-on-the-spot with the carrier pouch, and it only stopped when Angela said the words:

“Do you want to get this one?”  All three waited for my response.  I was On The Spot.

What could I do?  My ego wasn’t about to permit me to say no thank you, Angela, I’m afraid of heights and failure.  Couldn’t be done.  There was, in fact, only one thing that could be done: catch the wild bat that had been “terrorizing” these women all morning.

Let’s stop and break this down for a second, because I feel like a lot of people think animal rescue is going somewhere and plucking up a grateful puppy from, like, a mud puddle, and it licks your face and you giggle and all present go Awww, is the widdle puppy all muddy?  YES he IS, he is SOOO muddy!  and we shall clean him with kisses! and then we all cuddle the rest of the day.


This was not a puppy; it was a cornered, frightened wild animal.  You know that saying “so ‘n’ so fought like a cornered animal”?  I do too, and yet what was I doing?  Putting on a glove and climbing up a ladder and a phobia so I could corner a wild animal.  It wasn’t like rounding a corner and finding you’d accidentally hemmed in some stray dog, I was intentionally laying the trap.  A benign trap, but a trap just the same.  Climbing up a ladder thinking Well good, this is what I quit my job to do, what a great decision.  Climbing up a ladder wondering at how I’d come to be on this ladder at this moment preparing to do something that by conventional terms could be fairly described as ill advised, high above the ground where with each rung my body’s refusal to move and risk upsetting my balance became harder to overcome, and all with three women standing below all watching intently.

One rung, and then another.  You know how it is when you’re doing something that you’re completely certain will result in some manner of harm coming to you; you just move mechanically while your brain is throwing every brake it can lay synapses on.  One rung and then another while in my head the bat took off at the last second over and over again, barreling straight into my face, and then we both plummet to the floor.

Then, suddenly, my brain’s unlikely and revolving perambulations ceased, because there it really was; the errant beast was a scant few inches from my face: a little juvenile, certainly far more frightened than any of us, lost, dehydrated, nearly spent, but by no means lacking in defiance.  You know how teenagers are.  It looked me right in the eye, hunkered down and braced its forearms.  Whether for flight or, you know, actual flight, I wasn’t sure.  I intensely wished that somebody would happen into the shop just then, whereupon the clever and courageous little creature would, instead of injuring/humiliating me, seize the opportunity and fly straight for the open door and to freedom.

That didn’t happen.

So, with heart pounding and breath held, I reached out.  From below I heard “You’re going to use your hand??

This made me desperately want to laugh; my hand was gloved, after all.  Those of you who’ve spent a good deal of your childhood in church know my predicament:  when it’s really bad to laugh, the urge can literally become uncontrollable.  Laughing here, now, so close to this bat, would have been really bad.  My lips tightened into one very strained grin, and I was grateful then to be facing the wall so it couldn’t be seen.

I can’t really make you understand how hard I clamped down on that snicker in my throat except to say that I was immensely proud afterward that it didn’t erupt right into that poor bat’s face.  When the spasm of mirth relented somewhat, I placed a cup of fingers over it, leaving only a mad bitey scramble between my fingers as its only viable method of escape, the very thing I’d been dreading.  Here we go.  My fingers moved slowly to pick it up…

One the four juvies we eventually recovered. She doesn’t have a name; she was to return to the wild soon where she wouldn’t need a name or anything else from us.

…and it kept still, and I plucked it from the wall completely uneventfully.  Then it actually crawled into the carrier pouch, and did so eagerly.  There was a brief moment of disbelief.  Did I just rescue a bat?  Again?

“Got it!” I called out, found my pride, and descended like Caesar returning to Rome from war and the crossing of the Rubicon.  In my exultation I couldn’t pay attention to the babbling even if I’d wanted to, and Angela was handling it like she was a walking field guide to bats anyway.

Actually, I really have to hand it to Angela.  She fielded every question like she’d been asked each one a hundred million times, and even managed to get these two women concerned about the welfare of the bat I captured, and hoping that it would be okay.  That was a sentiment that neither of us had expected to hear, and Angela elicited it from two women who were convinced that the bat was trying to kill them in a few minutes.

And with that, we left, and as soon as Angela mentioned that she could see me trying not to laugh up on that ladder, we both completely lost it and spent the drive back quoting the two shopkeepers between convulses of laughter.  I wouldn’t want to speak for Angela, but I really needed that.

Don’t get me wrong:  it’s okay to not know that bats are about as benign as animals come.  The societal preconceptions are old and prevalent, and for many it’s disturbing to believe that the conventional “wisdom” could be so very wrong.  To a volunteer at a bat sanctuary, though, it is hilarious.  Once you’ve hand fed a few disabled bats and wiped their faces with little bat nappies, you don’t really see the whole Dracula thing anymore.

We pulled into the driveway ready to bring Amanda the bat we’d fetched and share the story of our success when we saw Amanda coming out of the staff entrance to meet us.  They’d called again while we were en route, having found another one in the back.

We had to go back, and as we drove we both silently wondered how many bats might really be in that old building that hadn’t yet been seen.

Continued in Part 2

Our Donor’s Rights

Bat World Sanctuary is committed to honoring the rights every donor by promising the following:

Every donor has the right:

  • To know how Bat World Sanctuary intends to use donations, and of our capacity to use donations effectively and for their intended purpose.
  • To know the identity of the individuals serving on the Bat World Board of Directors
  • The Mission of Bat World Sanctuary
  • Have access to Bat Worlds Sanctuary’s most recent financial statements
  • To receive an email or letter of gratitude acknowledging every donation
  • To receive, upon request, a receipt for their donation
  • To assurance that his or her personal information is confidential and will never be shared, traded or sold for spam or any other purpose whatsoever
  • To have the opportunity to have their names deleted from mailing lists
  • To feel free to ask questions at any time, and to receive a prompt and honest response

Angela Best

Angela Best was born in Tuscon, Arizona and lived there until she relocated to TX several years ago. Angela fell in love with bats in when she was in the 6th grade, after she was given a book called “The Bat in My Pocket; A Memorable Friendship” written by Bat World’s Founder Amanda Lollar. At the time, Angela never dreamed that one day she’d be volunteering at the very sanctuary where the book was written some 20 years ago.

Angela  grew up with horses and other animals, and currently has four dogs and two cats who were rescued from animal shelters. Angela supports C.A.R.E.as often as she can, and hopes to one day operate a no-kill shelter on the property she owns.


Angela, preparing goodies for the fruit bat’s treat cups

Mitch Gilley

Mitch Gilley has advocated for animal rights his entire life. He attended Weatherford College, and he is proud yet humbled to be Associate Writer for Bat World Sanctuary.  When not writing, he is a budding and eager cyclist, an inwardly focused yogi and a lover of nature and the outdoors.

Before volunteering for Bat World, Mitch Gilley worked for a large company in Mineral Wells, Texas. One day he encountered a wounded Mexican free tail bat (later named Ichabod) in the company warehouse. His wrist was broken, yet the little bat was still fighting to crawl to safety, and then climbing a bay door, all through what must have been excruciating pain. Mitch was struck by this so-called “mouse with wings,” so widely despised as vermin, exhibiting a strength of character that most humans can only aspire to.  It was an encounter that would come to completely alter the course of Mitch’s life every bit as much as Ichabod’s.

The little animal set off a sequence of events, Mitch’s blog post detailing Ichabod’s rescue, to volunteer writing for Bat World, to spending a couple weekends working at Bat World itself; meeting Peekaboo and reuniting with an Ichabod – now on the mend – that led to him actually quitting his company job to volunteer full time as a grant writer for Bat World Sanctuary. Working at Bat World was something he wanted to do since junior high school when he attended a bat presentation given by Amanda Lollar. Now he’s doing it, all thanks to Ichabod, who is himself spending his days at Bat World.

Given the roots of Bat World in his childhood and an injured bat catalyzing the process of Mitch’s life change (much like that of his new boss), Mitch finds himself reconsidering his previous opinions on things like fate, kismet, dharma and the like.

Perhaps Peekaboo had a little something to do with it…

Mitch, with Peekaboo showing him the ropes.




Bear Grylls, Bat Killer

By Mitch Gilley, Associate Writer.

In a clip from Man vs Wild (formerly on The Discovery Channel) Bear Grylls used smoke to flush bats from a cave and then struck the fleeing, terrified animals with a makeshift club and stomped on them with what seemed to be glee, jokingly referring to it as “bat tennis.”

Yes, this actually happened, and it is not an isolated incident. Aside from bats, Bear has killed alligators, monitor lizards, capybaras and even boas. None of these animals are killed in anywhere near a humane manner; they are simply beaten to death for the amusement of the viewing public.

This can’t be overstated enough: for those who care about animals, the videos available online showing his frequent atrocities are very, very difficult to watch.  If you seek them out to see for yourself, please be aware of this.

In replying to email complaints about the show, The Discovery Channel defended itself by saying that Bear was imparting valuable survival information and, unbelievably, that it was his Bear’s “style!” Such “stylistic” concerns as applied to people comprises much of the notoriety of serial killers.  As for the conveyance of vital survival tips, opting to beat, kill and eat whatever animals are near is very clearly a rash and inadvisable course of action. Real survival experts – the ones who actually survive in the wilderness rather than preen their sad macho survivalist fantasies on television – say that pretty much everything Bear Grylls does or says to do will get you killed. There is no worthwhile information whatsoever that can only be conveyed by filming oneself killing innocent, healthy animals, and terrorizing and bludgeoning sleeping bats right at their doorstep.

Let us not forget that Bear Grylls was exposed for staying in hotels overnight while filming a show that falsely portrayed him as embattled by harsh wilderness.

Bear Grylls eating the raw meat of a deceased zebra which may have been killed for the program “Man vs Wild.”

Profiting from the utterly pointless killing of these bats – and all animals – is unilaterally unacceptable, and while the show may now be cancelled, Discovery still has the video and others like it up for viewing on their website, meaning that they as well as Bear are still profiting from engineering, perpetrating and showing the deaths of these healthy, innocent animals to audiences worldwide.

Please contact those responsible for fouling our televisions with his presence. Please also feel free to join the Bear Barbaric Bear Grylls Facebook page and SIGN OUR PETITION.

(Please note that we were unable to find an email address for anyone at Discovery, however, you may also leave an opinion here. To contact the Ethics Hotline in the U.S. and Canada, please dial (800) 398-6395.)


Please either fax or mail a letter to John S. Hendricks, Chairman, Discovery Communications, LLC at the following address:

John S. Hendricks, Chairman
One Discovery Place
Silver Spring, MD 20910
Phone: 240-662-2000
Fax: 240-662-1868

Dear John S. Hendricks,
There is a truly repellent video hosted on the Discovery Channel’s website compels me to write to you. The offending video is from the defunct show Man vs. Wild and details the efforts of Bear Grylls as he terrorizes, beats to death and devours harmless bats, ostensibly to demonstrate some tribal hunting technique and to impart supposedly “valuable” survival tactics.

Specifically, Mr. Grylls uses smoke and flame to drive the bats from their home and their sleep, strikes them from the air with a homemade bludgeon, stomps on their broken, fragile, defenseless bodies and then devours them alive, all for the benefit of an audience that will never in a million years find themselves forced to rely on what they’ve seen on television to survive in the Chinese wilderness.

That such brutality is so flimsily justified by anthropological and naturalist pretenses is offensive enough, but it cannot possibly overshadow the brutality itself. After hearing the video, it seemed unbelievable – even possibly illegal – that such things could or would be shown, and particularly on a reputable channel as Discovery. If teenagers spent the weekend filming themselves doing the exact same thing, they would of course be arrested and charged with animal cruelty.

It was profoundly disappointing then to see that it was not only aired, but choreographed and filmed at great effort and expense. Worse, it was done solely to entertain and to glorify Mr. Grylls as a strong and courageous survivalist. As this is a fabrication, as it is now common knowledge that many or most of Mr. Grylls’ stunts were staged, as everyone now knows that he was spending his nights in hotel rooms rather than the wilderness he professed to survive in for days on end, not only is all his demagoguery rendered suspect, but it cannot be credibly said that those bats died for educational purposes, nor indeed for any other purpose than the facile excitement of an audience.

Profiting from the brutal and inhumane killing of these animals in pursuit of what is essentially a modern day blood sport is wrong, and we ask that the “bat tennis” video be removed from your website along with all others in which Bear Grylls beats animals to death. As a media operation that purports to be educational, fostering such cruelty and disrespect toward the creatures we share the earth with is unconscionable. What was done to them cannot be undone, but you can from this point on respect their suffering and not peddle it as despicable and retrograde entertainment.

Again, I implore The Discovery Channel to remove all videos of Bear Grylls mutilating, killing and eating innocent animals from your website as well as other websites including YouTube and other video channels.

[Your name]


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