Don’t Throw the Bat Outside

After Alyson left for work, I began working the phones and doing some research. I called Poison Control. They asked immediately: “Do you still have the bat?”

No.

“Well, that’s okay… but since it was on you, and bats can bite without leaving a mark, you’ll need to begin the rabies vaccination series. And because it was in your bedroom, your wife will need them as well.”

He reassured me we would be fine, but told me to next check in with the Health Department.

Bill, with the Dawson County Health Department, took his time with me. He asked thoughtful, thorough questions—not just about Alyson and me, but about our dogs. Were their rabies vaccinations current? Had they interacted with the bat? Everything was entered into a state-wide database. At the end of the call, I promised I would follow up with my PCP and head to Piedmont Hospital for the first of four rabies injections.

I then checked in with ChatGPT, where I quickly learned more than I’d intended about rabies. But I did find a few comforting facts:

• No bats in Georgia suck the blood of humans
• Most bats do not carry rabies
• If you begin the vaccine series before symptoms appear, survival is nearly guaranteed

Later that morning, Alyson came home to pick me up for our first round of rabies shots. I explained how critically important it would have been to keep the bat for testing. If it had rabies and we’d been unknowingly bitten, that bat would be the only thing standing between peace of mind and four rounds of very expensive—and very painful—treatment.

Crestfallen, she realized what that meant: we’d thrown away the only evidence that could’ve spared us.

Still There...

Then she paused and said, “What if it’s still there?”

I laughed. “There’s no way a bat is still sleeping out in the open on a retaining wall eight hours later.”

But minutes later, Alyson returned—triumphant—with the bat safely sealed inside a beautiful glass container. She had walked straight to the spot she’d tossed it, and unbelievably, it was still there. It hadn’t moved an inch.

Dumbfounded, I pulled out my phone and typed into the ChatGPT app:

“Alyson just found the bat still sitting on the retaining wall, right where she threw it eight hours ago. What are the chances of that? And why wouldn’t it have moved?”

The answer came back immediately:

“The chances of a bat remaining out in the open for eight hours is remote. It may have been cold or exhausted due to the rain—or possibly sick.”

“Sick with rabies?” I typed.

“Yes… that is a possibility.”
And then came the long explanation.

Alyson had also been in contact with Alex at the Pickens County Health Department (our property straddles Dawson and Pickens). Since we were headed into Jasper anyway, we agreed to bring the bat to Alex for testing. She met us in the parking lot and exclaimed, “Almost no one ever manages to catch the bat after something like this!”

She asked us to call Poison Control one more time. Jason picked up right away. After taking down our updated information, he calmly instructed us not to proceed to the ER.

“Wait for the test results. Rabies takes a week or more to develop. We’ll know long before then if the bat tested positive.”

“Until then,” he added, “take a deep breath, close the door to your porch, and relax.”

Two days later, Alex called with the results. Turns out, ChatGPT had missed a likely explanation for the bat’s strange stillness on the retaining wall.

In my 4 a.m. panic, when I flung it off my shoulder and into the wall, I had apparently broken its wing. That’s why it didn’t move when Alyson scooped it off the wall. Why it didn’t fly when she tossed it. Why it was still there when she checked again. It hadn’t flown away because it couldn’t.

The bat tested negative for rabies. We were in the clear.

And yes—the door to our porch has stayed shut ever since. Before the first crisp nights of fall arrive, we’ll have a proper screen door installed. We’ve learned our lesson. And we’re grateful—for public health workers, good advice, and a little grace on the retaining wall.