A friend told me she knows someone who lives in the countryside and has a cat. This cat goes out to play every morning and always returns with a gift: a dead bird, a mouse corpse, a crushed cicada, a torn glove, a broken shoe, and so on. This poor individual doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or how to turn down these presents. Saying no wouldn’t make a difference—the cat wouldn’t understand, and the gifts would just keep coming.

I didn’t really believe this story when I first heard it. Later, though, all kinds of strange objects began appearing in my bed. Recalling the story, I realized it was probably true.

I’m not sure when exactly Cat got into the habit of leaving me presents. They’re all different, and his reasons for giving them vary too.

Cat likes to deposit these items when I’m not looking. This way, by the time I discover them, it’s too late—they’re already there in front of me, and I can’t refuse them. He brings me scrap paper, fruit peels, chewed-up toys, as well as his own pee and poop, all left on the covers while I’m sound asleep.

To start with, he dug paper and peels out of the trash can and bestowed them upon me. This probably began when he saw me tossing these items away, startling him. Sprinting over, he’d grab the wadded-up paper and bring it back to me. Like a dog, he’d beg for me to throw it again so he could retrieve it once more. After a few rounds of this game, it probably left enough of an impression on him that he wanted to keep playing.

As for the cat pee and poop, I used to think these were pranks he was playing on me. One night, I fell asleep earlier than usual and dreamed that Cat was taking a shit on me. Waking with a start, I realized I’d only been dreaming and let out a sigh of relief. When I lay back down, though, I smelled something awful and familiar. Rising up again, I shrieked. My dream was back, and this time it had infiltrated reality: there was a cat turd on the blanket, on my side of the bed. My cries jolted Husband awake. “What is it?” he said. “What’s happened?”

I pointed at the poop. He ran outside for a look, then came jogging back in. “Aiyah, you shut the balcony door last night with the litter tray outside.” I smacked my forehead. Of course, without access to his toilet, Cat had chosen me as an alternative.

Cat really is quite something. He’s clever enough to know how to take revenge, and he has quite the temper. When he’s unhappy, he can’t be bothered to argue with you. Instead, he chooses this method of venting his dissatisfaction. These aren’t gifts he’s bringing me, but little bombs. I don’t know what else to do except be very diligent in everything I do, so as not to anger him.

When he was six months old, Cat brought me a very special object. As always, he left it by my pillow while I was sleeping.

In the morning, I groped blearily for my phone, only to feel a small, sharp object poking into my palm. Bringing it closer, I saw a tiny milky-white tooth. Suddenly fully alert, I theorized where it had come from. It didn’t look human, which left only one possibility: a cat tooth.

I shook Husband awake to tell him that Cat was losing his teeth.

Squinting, Husband carefully studied the tiny tooth I was holding between my thumb and forefinger, and confirmed that it was indeed a kitten tooth. I leaped out of bed, went in search of Cat, and pried open his mouth. Sure enough, a tooth was missing.

So this gift was also a milestone in Cat’s life. According to human customs, when children begin losing their milk teeth, you have to drop the ones from the upper jaw behind a door, and toss the ones from the lower jaw up onto the roof. That’s how you ensure that adult teeth will grow in properly.

I didn’t do that, though. Instead, I hid the tooth away in a secret place—even Husband didn’t know where it was. I wanted to see whether Cat would get a new tooth if his old tooth remained concealed. Call this a nasty little gift of my own—time for me to return the favor.