The Coffee Table

The Gift Rule

Decades ago, I had a cat that brought dead animals into the apartment he and I shared. A freshly killed squirrel laid out on the rug at the foot of my favorite rocking chair. A bird, feathers intact, under the kitchen table.

Instinctively, I’d avoid the dead creature while calculating how to get rid of the body without making actual contact.  Then the carcass would disappear. 

My dad, a psychologist who worked with animals of all sorts, explained that these dead bodies were gifts. When I did not accept the gifts (walking past them in disgust), the cat took them back. And was, perhaps, offended. So, I started accepting these presents. Picking them up in an instant and disposing of them in ways I hoped looked like I was saving them for later.

Now I share my household with a cat who regularly brings in rodents to play with. And ultimately eat. Rather than finding perfectly preserved presents, I find disemboweled mice—usually by stepping on them in my bare feet.

Late one recent night, as I’m about to turn out the light and go to sleep, I recognize disturbing feline behavior: The cat is lounging on the floor, watching the space beneath my nightstand, tail gently wagging.  A mouse?

I get down on my knees and look under the nightstand. Too dark to be sure. Something under there—too big to be a mouse.  Probably something that fell off the nightstand.

Or not. 

But even if it is a mouse, I’m way too tired to chase it.  Its speedy antics will make me scream.  

I get back into bed. 

Then a scuffle—and a bunny races across the floor disappearing under a bookshelf. The cat changes his post, but resumes lounging, tail lazily striking the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s biding his time.

I don’t know why “bunny” changes things. But it does. I feel an obligation to intervene. But I’m exhausted. I need sleep.  And bunny antics make me scream just as loud as mouse maneuvers.

I’ll wait until morning. Maybe I’ll be better able to rescue the bunny when I’m rested.  I extinguish the light.

I toss and turn, awash in guilt for ignoring my moral responsibility to the poor creature enduring a night of terror. I should get up and move shelves, dressers, and desks until I can catch the poor rabbit and put him outside.

Then I hear the bunny’s last scream. I’m too late. 

I don’t get up. Guilt weighs me down. Eventually I fall asleep.

I wake before dawn, remembering not to walk near the bookshelf lest I step on bunny guts in the dark. I make a beeline for the bathroom, flick on the bathroom light just long enough to ensure there are no bunny innards on the bathroom floor. None. I relieve my bladder then leap back onto the bed.

But I can’t go back to sleep. I turn on the light. I’ll make coffee. Then I see it—a perfectly preserved dead bunny— on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I don’t deal with it right away. I’m still half asleep. Coffee first. The cat observes me walking into the kitchen. Next thing I know, he’s eviscerating the rabbit—eating the tasty parts. And I am left to clean up the remains. 

Have I violated the gift rule? Maybe so. I haven’t mastered human social norms—how can I successfully commune with the rest of the animal kingdom? Especially when I unconsciously value rabbits over rodents.