When we buy lobsters from grocers, or have them flown in by FedEx from Maine, or when we choose them from the tank at the seafood restaurant, where they crawl around on top of each other, antennae slowly waving, we experience a distinct and oddly excited perplexity. We might arrive at home with the lobsters in a paper bag or box, still alive, claws softly scraping the paper or cardboard—horror-film like—with the slow but persistent motions lobsters make while living. We take the lobsters out and, claws safely held together with rubber bands, place them on the table or perhaps the floor.