Bats used to roost in the basement of our rural house in the wilds of Missouri. We're talking RURAL, as in the OZARKS. Even with two cocker spaniels, a beagle, and a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig sleeping in the basement, the bats still liked to roost in the stairwell.
Well, one time I opened the basement door in the kitchen and in flew one of the bats. Of course, I hollered the obvious. "A bat! There's a bat in the house!"
The cats were VERY interested in this bat creature.
But since I love bats, I didn't want it to wind up as cat food, so I shoved big oven mitts over my hands and chased the bat around our living room until it flew into a corner and I was able to GENTLY scoop it up between the oven mitts.
I showed it to the hubs. "Look, a bat."
"Take it outside."
Me: "Geez, you sound like my dad." My dad didn't like wild animals in the house.
So I let it go back in the basement so that it could roost again. We never had another bat fly into the house proper.
But we did have a young opossum waddle into our garage every night to eat dog food.
Once again, the oven mitts came in handy. I scruffed the wild possum, then picked it up supporting its weight on the hand with the oven mitt. I took it inside to show the hubs.
Me: Look, a possum.
Hubs: I see that. Is there anything you won't pick up?
Me: Spiders. I won't pick up spiders. Or roaches.
Hubs: Good to know. Now take that possum outside.
Being scruffed and picked up by a human apparently wasn't all that frightening to the possum because it kept coming back for dog food every night. I'd leave a little bowl out for the possum, but I never picked it up again.
Oven Mitts: not just for cooking anymore.