A few weeks back, after I wrote about wanting to have a white elephant Christmas, a friend shared an article about a couple that deliberately hosts an annual Bad Christmas Party (bad in a fun way), where the evening’s festivities culminate in a white elephant gift exchange.

“Everybody brings something, and we pick numbers to determine the order in which gifts are chosen and opened,” the hostess was quoted as saying. She said most gifts come from second hand stores, with guests competing to outdo each other with the gift that’s judged as the absolute worst.

“Our friend George is really good at finding strange portraits,” said the hostess, who told how George once brought a gigantic glamour shot he’d found at Goodwill. The photographic portrait of a heavily made-up woman with teased hair-a total stranger to them-appeared to be nearly life-sized. At five feet tall by four feet wide.

What the rest of that article was about, I can’t say, because at that moment, inspiration struck. I was busily imagining the beautifully confused expressions such gifts might prompt if given to unsuspecting friends or family members. 

Especially if the recipient is celebrating their first holiday with the group.

The first year my brother brought Sherry, who is now his fiance, to our parent’s house for Christmas, I inadvertently had some fun at her expense. My teenage nephew, Zac, seldom turns down a dare, so for Christmas that year, I’d gone to the Clay Center’s gift shop and purchased a variety of flavored bug treats (cheddar-flavored crickets, nacho worms, scorpion lollypops). 

Zac was quick to open the disgusting treats and pop a few in his mouth. His younger sister, Madeline, tried a few, too. Both gave them “not bads,” then offered Sherry a bite. At the time, she’d only been dating Kurt a few months, so to prove herself a good sport to his kids, she reached in, got her cheesy worms, and barely flinched as she tossed down a few.

She made it a good 30 seconds before having to run to the sink.

But sometimes, the gag gift doesn’t turn out as planned. Last December, my daughter and I were out shopping when Celeste spotted a large, creepy vase. It was adorned with identical faces-which had eyes, but no pupils-repeated many times all the way around. Looking at it was disconcerting as it seemed just a tad out of focus, like an image set over the same image, but not completely lined up. So awful was it that while she was carrying it through the store, several customers stopped her to comment. It was, she decided, the ideal prank gift for her stepdad.

For weeks before Christmas, she’d retrieve the vase from its hiding place in her closet to show friends or visitors, and they’d laugh over the reaction she thought Geoff would have. She planned on acting as though she found the vase manly and attractive, perfect for his home office, and knew he’d be too considerate of her feelings not to display the terrible thing.

But the one reaction Celeste didn’t anticipate was that Geoff would go nuts over the vase. He absolutely loved the strange thing.

In fact, he loved it so much he decided it was too good for his office. So he placed it lovingly on our mantle instead. 

I’ll frequently sit at my computer, certain of the subject about which I will write, when my attention will be drawn another direction. Such was the case this evening, when I glanced away from my screen long enough to see our tough and once-feral black cat, Sully, stretched out on the floor next to a stretched out brown rabbit. 

And the rabbit was NOT Sully’s dinner. 

Sully, the epitome of independent cats, is hardly a snuggler, yet there he was, accepting the companionship-starved rabbit’s somewhat aggressive snuggles with only a modicum of disgust. 

For the first month or so after the rabbit, Winnie, came aboard Fuller’s Ark this past June, we kept her segregated from the other animals, fearing they’d harm her. Murry, our oldest dog, was first to make contact. Mere minutes after meeting, he was treating her to a thorough ear cleaning, something he’s continued to do on a regular basis.

 Dog No. 2, Chewie, greeted Winnie in the same jovial manner he treats all but vacuum cleaners, lawn mowers, and the first ankles he sees following a knock at our door. With splayed paws and wagging hind end, he invited Winnie to a game of chase, thus treating us to our first of many opportunities to see a rabbit chasing after a dog. 

Canine No. 3, Roo, reacted the same way she does with all non-meat forms of stimuli, be it thunder or dust. She hid in the closet. 

Cat No. 1, a 22-pounder named Squirt, hasn’t had much contact with the rabbit since Winnie lives on the second floor and Squirt doesn’t do stairs. (Squirt doesn’t do much of anything beyond occasionally serving as a hairy speed bump, though in that, he excels. We haven’t had a speed-related accident in our hallway for nearly two years.) 

But Cat No. 2, the aforementioned Sully, was living the life of a self-sufficient and mostly feral cat when we met five years or so back. In those days, catching moles was his specialty, and I would often see him at post next to a mole mound, one ear cocked to the ground, listening for movement. Eventually, he’d slam his paw deep into the soft ground and pull out his catch. He was wickedly accurate, and I suspect he removed more moles in those years than most dermatologists do in a lifetime. 

As wild as Sully once was, I couldn’t imagine we would ever feel comfortable allowing him anywhere near the rabbit. At first, it wasn’t difficult, as the rabbit was mostly caged. Once she mastered her litter box, though, we began leaving her loose longer and longer. Before long, her cage had become just another of many dust gathering, but mostly untouched possessions, much like the ironing board and exercise bike. And eventually, someone forgot to shut the door to my home office, which I share with both our rats and the rabbit. Next thing I knew, there was Sully, whapping at a peanut shell that Winnie had been trying to hold still long enough to chew open. He would whap one and she would chase it, then she’d drop part of the shell and he’d whap it again.

I kept a watchful eye on the odd couple, fully expecting Sully to make the transformation from mildly amused feline to blood lusting carnivore any second. But the change never took place. 

These days, it’s become normal to see cat and rabbit napping together. Sully seeks her out, deliberately pushing his way in the room, tolerating her glee as she races laps around him, excited over having a guest. Sully will check out her food and take a few licks of her water before choosing a comfortable spot, then he’ll pretend not to notice her sidling up to him, worming in closer and closer until they’re back to back. 

Prior to this, I never would’ve considered Sully a candidate to be a companion. He’s independent, aloof, self-absorbed, and there’s his atrocious singing voice and those noxious fumes he sometimes emits. Yet as I look at Sully, lying on his back on the floor, furry black belly exposed, I can’t help but smile at my baffling cat. 

And the rabbit who loves him.