By Esther C. Baird. First published in the Ipswich Local News August 9, 2025
It was 4:38 a.m. on Friday when our daughter screamed from her bedroom, about 15 feet away.
“THERE IS A BAT IN MY ROOM!”
As she bolted out, a leathery shadow swooped past me at high speed.
Yep. That was a bat.
My husband and I googled “bats in bedrooms.” Instantly, we were awash in urgent state websites warning that the clock was ticking. If someone had possibly been exposed, you had to either catch the bat and test it for rabies or start rabies shots. There was no middle ground.
It was a lot for 4:50 a.m.
My husband geared up in a winter jacket, gloves, and a hat. He armed himself with a cardboard box and a Sunday school workbook on financial wisdom. Inside the room: banging, then a crash.
“I stunned it with the financial wisdom book!” he shouted.
To this day, I’m unsure if that was literal or metaphorical.
Regardless, the bat was contained. I called Ipswich Animal Control and got a friendly officer who said someone would come right over. “And then he’ll take it to Muddy Creek Animal Hospital,” she said.
“Great!” I exhaled. “It can be tested for rabies today?”
“Well,” she said, “it ships to the state public health lab. You’ll probably get results on Monday.”
But Monday would be too late. Our daughter was leaving for college in Chicago, and the rabies vaccine takes 14 days. We’d have to start shots before we got results — unless we could get the bat tested that day.
“There’s no same-day testing?”
She paused. In that pause, I saw a glimmer of hope.
“Well … once it’s processed at Muddy Creek, you could drive it to the lab in Jamaica Plain. You’d likely get same-day results.”
Sold!
The animal control officer showed up in a T-shirt and garden gloves. Apparently, our blizzard gear was overkill. He went into the room and emerged with the bat — alive — in a small Tupperware.
He explained that he’d take it to Muddy Creek, where they’d euthanize it and package it in an official specimen box. I could then pick it up. You know — like a mobile Starbucks order, except a bat.
By 9 a.m., I was en route with a boxed-up bat in the passenger seat. The lab in Jamaica Plain looked like a Cold War bunker. Inside, though, it was modern, high-tech, and full of people in white coats. I was still in pajamas.
I marched up to the intake window.
“Well,” I said, “this is a bat. I’ve been told if I got it here this morning, I could get same-day results.”
The technician smiled. “Of course! It’s 11:08. That’s plenty of time. Just fill this out, and we’ll call you by end of day.”
“That feels so … easy?” I said.
“It is,” he said. “We just had a family yesterday from Boxford with a bat.”
Really? Should we start a Facebook group?
But as the afternoon rolled on, I began wondering: What does “end of day” mean? 4:30? 4:45?
At 4:50 p.m., I called the lab and explained our situation: bats, rabies, bedrooms, college, deadlines, financial wisdom, etc.
The guy laughed. “You’re doing the right thing.”
I was? I mean, I thought I was, but it had all started to feel insane.
He continued, “We advise against people starting rabies shots until we test the animal first — unless, you know, you were bit in the face by a bobcat.”
Um, what?
“That just happened,” he said. “In that case, it’s best to probably star the shots. But you? You should wait.”
It was a lot to take in.
He said our info hadn’t yet been logged but added slowly and clearly, “All animals tested today were negative for rabies.”
A hint? Maybe. I was too mentally fried to decode it.
Finally, at 6:10 p.m., the official call came: “Your bat was negative for rabies. Have a great weekend and congratulations on your daughter going to college.”
And just like that, we were bat- and rabies-free.
Animal control was fast and friendly. The state lab was — dare I say — efficient and even lovely. And I hadn’t been bitten in the face by a bobcat, which, among many things to be thankful for, felt like a win.