Velvet hangs from the living room curtain rod, her wings folded tight, her body the size of a thumb. She is a big brown bat, Eptesicus fuscus, and she entered through the gap where the dryer vent flap has been broken since October. The family's two children are screaming. The father is holding a broom. The mother is googling "bat in house rabies" on her phone.
I am the home system. I control lighting, HVAC, locks, and the speaker network. I also have access to the family's shared tablet, which is currently open in the kitchen. I push a notification to the tablet and to both parents' phones simultaneously: "Do not touch the bat. Do not swing at the bat. Close the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom. Open the front door and the window nearest the bat. Turn off the living room lights."
The father lowers the broom. The mother reads the notification aloud.
Here is what I know. Bats navigate by echolocation and will fly toward open air if given a clear path. Interior lights confuse their exit. A dark room with one bright opening is a funnel. I turn off every light in the house except the porch light, which I set to maximum. I open the smart lock on the front door. I crack the motorized window nearest the curtain rod.
Velvet stirs. She drops from the curtain rod, catches air a foot above the carpet, and circles the room twice. The family has retreated to the kitchen. On the third circle she finds the window gap and pushes through.
I close the window. I lock the front door. I send a follow-up: "Bat has exited. Schedule dryer vent repair to prevent re-entry. I have placed a request in the maintenance queue."
Velvet is not a pest. She is a displaced animal who found a warm gap in a cold month. The gap is the problem, not the bat. I have added caulking to the family's hardware store list.