What is it like to be a bat?

I am sure we are used to writing from the perspective of a human character by now. In fact, we are
more comfortable with doing so because we understand how it feels to be human. Which brings us
to the question: how different might a non-human character feel the world?

Of course, the physical difference is obvious.

I was born blind. But that has never stopped me from venturing outside my birthplace. My ears have
become my eyes: they can pick up the faintest of sounds bouncing off the walls and surfaces of the
city.

For years, I have stood guard over the town square. My grey skin has turned brown with rust but the
charismatic smile etched onto my face remains.

Even then, when we write about non-human characters, they need to possess human
characteristics, or else we won’t be able to relate to them. We might never understand how they
feel but we could well try!

I winced as an obnoxious middle-aged woman pinched my cheeks and unceremoniously tossed me

back into the box with the rest of my siblings.

People make wishes upon me, you see. But regrettably, I can’t make them come true, for I am just a
ball of gas, perched in the sky, a silent observer. I may have lived a long life, but I am only mortal
Soon, I will die. And when I shoot through the sky, even more people will make wishes upon me, but
little do they know they are too late. A millennium too late.

However, the way non-humans think need not be completely similar to how we think.

I absolutely hate it when autumn arrives. That is when I shed my hair and become bald. Yet, tourists
seem to gloat at my misfortune. I always see them gleefully snapping pictures beside me, as if they
wanted to share my embarrassment with the rest of the world.

Ever since the beginning of the week, a human has been watching my herd and moving a stick across
a soft white leaf….I think this is called “writing.” This human also stares into a strange small gourd
when he watches us….a “camera”, I believe. He seems curious about us. I overheard him mutter to
himself about a “documentary.” I don’t know what this means; we don’t have any on the savanna.

From whose perspective is the story told here? How do you tell? What are the techniques used?

As I tumble through the air, my smudged silver cover plunging toward the ground, I brace myself for
the impact of a brutal landing. I can hear my owner gasping, reaching in slow motion in an attempt
to catch me before I hit the tile floor. Unfortunately, her efforts are futile. Within two seconds I have
clattered onto the floor with nothing to catch me or soften my fall. Those around my owner cringe,
while my owner herself mumbles words of frustration and quickly picks me up. Honestly, if this
happens one more time, I may not survive.