Can’t we all just get along?
Bill, our cat, recently returned home with a freshly-caught baby rabbit in his mouth. Wilbur, our house-rabbit, sat in his pen about three feet away, watching while Bill proceeded to eat the bunny, leaving only the ears and tail.
I hollered at Bill. Threw pebbles. Tried to spare Wilbur the sight of one of his own on Bill’s proverbial dinner plate. But, in typical feline fashion, Bill savored every bite and when he was done, stretched out beside Wilbur’s pen and washed his whiskers. The message from Bill seemed clear: Better sleep with one eye open, Bunny-Boy.
I get that this is horrifying on a number of levels, not least of which is that I might now have a house-rabbit with PTSD.
What’s more, I share many people’s squeamishness when our pets act their role in the food chain. Before we adopted him, Bill lived life on the streets – or more likely, in the woods. And he refuses to be reformed, routinely sneaking out of the house like an errant teenager. We finally admitted defeat and simply adorned Bill with two loud bells and a bright purple CatBib, recommended by the Audubon Society and something that promised to reduce by 88% the local wildlife’s likelihood of being ingested by Bill.
All Bill is missing is a siren mounted on his head.
The way we figure it, Bill is so loud and visible that only the slow animals are getting caught. We expect, after a few years of Darwinian evolution, that Bill will have helped create various superspecies. Rabbits that can leap over cars, for example; chipmunks capable of hotwiring them and going for joyrides.
On another level, of course, is a barely whispered fear that – with a household that consists of three dogs, three cats and a rabbit – we’re pushing hard against Mother Nature.
In the wild, of course, dogs would sit proudly at the top of the food chain, noshing on both small cats and rabbits. Yet, fingers crossed, we seem to have struck something of a balance. That balance, however, is delicate.
Case in point: Polar, our seven-year-old Pyrenees, is pretty much the acknowledged king of the pets. That said, he often waits patiently in line while our 22-year-old cat Arnie drinks endlessly from the communal water bowl (Arnie has kidney issues that the vet assured me would kill him in six months. That was three years ago.)
Yesterday, however, any time Arnie got close to the water, which is also where I was preparing dinner, Polar would growl. Arnie, who can add deafness to his list of ailments, seemed either unaware or undisturbed by Polar’s attitude…but I was neither. I sternly told Polar to stop. He did, having the decency to look chagrined. After all, he’s a huge dog. Arnie weighs 8 pounds and can barely stand without falling over. A while later, it began again.
It struck me as unusual…until I discovered that the chore of “feeding the dogs” had been somehow forgotten in the busyness of that morning. Turns out Polar will happily share his home with six other creatures…as long as the gravy train arrives on time. Bill, on the other hand, will simply head for take-out.
