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Last Monday night, sprawled on the couch, pantsless and watching British murder shows like the champion I am, I heard a ruckus at the dog door. Behind me on the brand new rug was a big rabbit, stretched out like a sunbather, staring up at the underside of the dining room table. Also under the table was my huge black cat, Baz, lounging and licking his paws.

Spoiler alert: the rabbit was not taking a nap. He was a dead-style rabbit.

I wanted to scream and shout and cry and burn the house down, but instead I stood there mute and horrified as Baz poked at the dead rabbit playfully.

"See what I've done, Ma? You give me those weird pebbles to eat, so clearly you don't know how to hunt. This dead fucker is lesson one."

I grabbed my phone and the Bad Cat Water Bottle, squirting the Baz away from the rabbit as I tried calling Craig, then Billy, then Chelsey.

The entire time I'm calling around, trying not to hyperventilate, Baz kept poking the rabbit and I kept spraying the cat. I was afraid he would A) tear it open like the worst pinata ever B) get rabies everywhere or C) wake it from the dead.

No, I was not thinking straight. Yes, I was feeling a whisper unreasonable.

I didn't know who else to ask for help. Everyone else I could think of would first make fun of me and then refuse to come over and handle it.

I briefly wished I had a boyfriend because they HAVE to help you with dead stuff, but was reminded today that Matt refused to pick up a dead mouse the second Hala discovered it. So boyfriend still doesn't seem worth the trouble.


I began to wonder if I was overreacting, but knew I couldn't squirt the cat away from the rabbit indefinitely, so I called animal control.

Animal control was like, "Why are you calling us, you big wuss? Throw it in the trash."


"No dummy, in the dumpster. Just grab a trash bag and pick it up and throw it away."

So I grabbed a trash bag, cursed the cat, picked up the rabbit using the trash bag, tamped down dry heaves, threw the rabbit in the Dumpster, and resolved to be vegetarian.

I'm being made fun now, yes, but everybody who didn't answer the G.D. phone can shut his/her judgey mouth.

The jacked up thing is, I bought that rug Sunday afternoon. Sunday night, Baz chucked a dead mouse on it — which I handled with a grace and inner strength that'd make you weep with admiration. Then Monday night was the dead rabbit. (No grace, no inner-strength.) I can't figure out if the cat hates the rug, is trying to encourage in-house taxidermy, or expects me to roll the dead bodies up in the rug, mafia-style. As I write this, there have been two homicides in two nights at my house and the bodies have been left on the new rug. Maybe all the British murder shows are inspiring him.

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