Call me Squeaky...

So after being woken up once at a little after five by some force or whim of nature that I have no idea how to recall, then a little after seven by my parents leaving for work and giving me a state of the morning address, and between snooze hits on my cell phone alarm clock, I hear this sound. Shortly thereafter, I have an eighty pound dog nosing open my door and staring at me expectantly. She hears it, too.

This high pitched piping kind of squeak sound.

I think, 'Oh great. We have a bat in the house. How the hell did Mom and Dad miss that? Is it in the dining room? Shit, the fans are on, aren't they? We don't have a mop, do we? How the hell am I going to do this? What if the animals get ahold of it? I don't want to kill a bat. Shit, the cat hasn't had its latest round of shots yet, right? Right? Oh, poor bat....'

Staggering out of bed in a nightshirt and socks, I find out that the culprit is in the kitchen, in the corner by the sink, squeaking sporadically and flailing about.

It's the breadmaker.

So, no bat. No dramatic struggle of good and evil on a Monday morning. No following it out onto the sprawl of grounds around the house to find out where they nest, no underground grotto where I become one with my fears, no donning a questionably sexy suit of body armour to fight crime and strike fear into the hearts of those who do injustice....

On the upside... y'know, bread.