To the mouse I shall be dissecting this afternoon

Hey.

We’ve known each other for more than a week now, 11 days to be exact, and I know this because you’re special.

I remember visiting you on that lazy Saturday morning and you looked at me with your red, searching eyes, as if to say, I’m pregnant. You weren’t mistaken.

I don’t know if you were excited as I was—or I was excited as you were—but knowing that you were conceiving half-day old kids thrilled me to pieces. I told my friends all about it, and they were wishing you all the best.

From then on, I kept coming back to you, talking to you, handling you by the tail to see if everything was alright. Thankfully, you seemed to be in perfect health.

But right now, I, who glaringly and openly professed to be your friend, will do to you the two most despicable things one could ever do to a friend—one, I’m going to kill you, and two, I’m going to kill your babies.

I’m not even going to ask for your forgiveness, but all I ask for is that you hear me out one more time because what I will say is true.

Your death will not be humiliating as the deaths of those who ate Racumin for breakfast and drooled moments later. It will not be useless as the deaths of those who craved for cheese and stumbled upon a painful trap. It will not be cruel as the deaths of those who happened to see a cat and got teethed by it.

Instead, yours will be glorious, filled with celebration and dignity and honor because, yes, people will learn from it.

I will never forget you.