The Life And Death Of Dave

Dear Dave,

You're sudden death took me by surprise. Fear and a bit of bile rose up in my throat when I came upon you, curled up in pain and obviously half dead. My first instinct was to step on you put you out of your misery but my darling children insist you pass on in a natural fashion. So instead of smacking you to death with a broom helping you along, I sat on Death Watch, peering intensely at your chest, waiting for the rise and fall to finally stop.

(Really, that wasn't the sounds of happiness you heard when you finally bit the dust. It was my death whoop, so overwhelmed was I with your passing.)

You were a good mouse friend. Fric and Frac loved you dearly. I'll admit, I thought you were cute, with your big ears, long tail and fabulous white fur. I'm sorry you were only two months old, but in the life of a mouse, surely that is middle aged.

You were courageous right from the start. You nibbled on your big brother's tail with impunity and stood your ground in the rodent ball when your neighbours, the Hamsters, tried to invade your turf.

How I'll miss your leaping ways. From the moment I first opened the box the pet store clerk stuffed you in, and you sprung out at me as though you were wearing invisible springs for foot wear, I was freaked right the fuck out charmed with your Mexican Jumping Bean impersonations.

I'm sorry I complained about the aroma you emanated on a daily basis. I realize now it was the stink of love. Frac's room just doesn't seem the same with out the lovely mixture of rotten apples hidden under his bed, sweaty socks and mouse shit love. I promise you Dave, I'll never forget that scent.

I know your passing was unexpected. You thought you had many more months, years even, to run that little rodent wheel, spin in that ball or climb the seemingly endless and ridiculously overpriced array of tunnels I was forced to purchase when my Darling Sister In Law imposed thoughtfully delivered you to us.

You will be missed by all. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. will miss sniffing your ass and drooling as he watched you run around in the ball, bumping into walls. He will surely miss you Dave, and the hope you gave him that one day you would run free and provide him with a delicious, freshly served snack.

You deserved a better burial than me threatening to flush you down the toilet insisting on a modest affair. Frac lobbied hard for you, insisting that we box you up, drive you to Bug's cemetary and bury you next to his brother. Forgive me, for not planting you in consecrated ground, mere inches away from my son's head. Forgive me for not wanting to tarnish the sacred soil of our family burial ground with the rotting remains of a rodent.

I am not completely hardhearted, dear Dave. I saw the tears in my children's eyes and felt them spring up in my own (I assure you, they were not tears of joy, oh sweet joy.) After all, I did find you a box to plant you in, instead of the ziploc baggie I threatened to stuff you into. That must count for something.

And I did bundle up and head outside with my devastated children, cussing and moaning the entire time to find you a suitable resting place. I only vetoed the flower bed because I thought your remains might be dug up in the spring. Really, I was respecting you, even if the kids just thought I only cared about my flower gardens.

Did I not stand in silence as my son dug your shallow, sure to be found by the nearest feline grave? Did I not offer to say a prayer over your fluffy white, dead body? Does it really matter that once you were buried and the kids were walking into the house I jumped up and down on your grave? As I imagined the crunching of your bones, I swear I was only packing the dirt, securing your grave site.

Dear Dave, you were a good friend mouse to us all. You will be sadly missed, I assure you.

At least until I go to the pet store and fork out $2.99 for the next one.


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Dave. Or at least, an artistic rendering of what was once a mouse named Dave.