I saw you dashing from the corner of my eyes. I had to put everything down to go inspect, and caught the end of your tiny tail right under a few empty bags I put against the wall. I looked around for something to hit you. There was no stick, and I was afraid if I had left to look for the broom, you’d escape; so I picked up my gym shoe and slammed it as hard as I could on top of where I guessed you were. I could swear I felt a tiny bit of wiggling under my hand, though the cushioning was quite thick. After a couple of minutes pressing down just to make sure, I lifted the bags. And there you were. Tiny, feeble, so soft to the eyes because I’d not touch you, one of your ears still stood pointy up. blood squeezed out from your little head. I cried. It’s not the first time I killed. I helped my dad to kill so many of your race before, when I was small. We would trick the little guy/gal into one room of the house, lock the door, and then each of us with a thick cane in our hands, we’d go from side to side to corner the guy. Usually I’d be the one to take watch, but sometimes I’d hit too if my dad couldn’t turn around fast enough. And I kill mosquitoes and roaches any chance I have, and I never feel bad about them. But you. You were just a baby rat. So inexperienced, and that’s why I could get you. You didn’t know that that wasn’t a good hiding place. You didn’t know once I got so close, you’d better bolt out instead of staying put. I picked up your body to put in the bag, and your upper half fell down, weightless. I almost want to say next time, I’d just try to shoo your brother or sister away, but I can’t promise.