Death of a dormouse

MARTHA:

When I was a young girl, I had a pet. Not many young girls had pets of their own. There’d be family pets or pets that belonged to one of the parents. Boys would have pets. Albeit most mothers didn’t know half the pets their boys would keep in the house. Rats from under the floorboards, bugs out of the garden, frogs from a scum filled creek or marsh, snakes and even flies. Boys could have pets, but girls? Girls were pretty. They played with dolls and had tea parties. If they had a pet it would be a Poodle, Pomeranian or maybe a fluffy Persian cat. Not me. I got me a dormouse. My parents didn’t mind or at least my mother didn’t. She said it was good to broaden my horizons and try new things. A pet was an important responsibility that would teach me life lessons or something like that. I agreed with everything she said, anything to get me a pet. I named her Daisy, because that’s how she smelled. She was a beautiful flower of a mouse, with deep, beady black eyes. She was smart too. We did everything together. I would color or do my homework and Daisy would scamper back and forth watching me. She would follow the pencil with her nose, almost catlike. She helped me play the piano, even though she didn’t weigh enough to push down any of the keys. I’d even take her for walks in my jacket pocket. She loved being in my pocket. We could go in the kitchen, out to the market or even school and nobody would know she was there. My step-daddy never liked her though, I could tell. He never said anything, never yelled or nothin’. Sometimes he would even smile when Daisy’d do some neat trick or scamper up my arm. I didn’t know it then, but it was all an act. Secretly he’d been plotting a way to rid himself of my dormouse. Then one day momma found rat droppings near the flour. Well my Step-daddy ddin’t want no rodents getting’ into our food so he ran to the garage. When he came back, he was holdin’ some type of poison. Momma told him not to spray it out, but he didn’t listen. We had to leave the house for nearly the WHOLE day. I tried to find Daisy but my step-daddy’d already sprayed the house and we had to go NOW. Momma dragged me out kicken’ and screamen’, but she hauled me out anyways. That was when I heard the squeak. Daisy ran cross the living room to the door I was standing at and I picked her up right before Momma grabbed my elbow and yanked me out of the house. I didn’t notice until a few days later that Daisy was acting real strange. She wasn’t as fast or smart as she used to be. She’d even leave messes all over the place for me to clean up. You know, the type of messes people don’t like to talk about, the messes people make in the bathroom. Anyways, three days later she was dead. I yelled at my step-father, calling him every name I could think of. “Murderer!” I’d shout anytime I saw him. For weeks I followed him around, “You killed my mouse. You did it on purpose. You’re a filthy murderer.” Since that day, I cannot think of death, without thinking of that nasty guilt I shot at my step-father.

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“Deaths dark door creaked daintily open in gradual progression. Defenses were down dispensing the desired response. She screamed. She cried. Nothing could deter the dauntingly despicable dread deaths daring entrance had deliberately caused. Distractedly she drew a breath dispersing dreadful thoughts. Daisy, her delicate delightful pet dormouse, died that day of a definitely deliberate predicament. Her despotic but daft stepfather had delivered deadly poison deceitfully delighting in dispatching destruction. Depression drowned her distracted mind dispatching disgust, distress and dreadful doubt. Despite diplomatic diligence designed to dispel despair, his exhausted declarations landed on deaf, disappointed ears. His decadent decorum was driving her daunting mind delirious. Despair caused debatable decision, from distinguished distress, to demonstrate deliberate disapproval of his devilish deed.”