An Open Letter To Joyce

Dear Joyce (our humble flat mouse),

I am writing this letter today to inform you of all the things I wanted to tell you that I never did.  If I could go back and tell you while you were still here I would.  But I cant.  Firstly you may be wondering why after your little mouse body was found underneath the sofa pillow last night we thought it would be appropriate to then give you a name.  Let me explain.  The day before we found you, B and I watched a documentary on Netflix about a woman named Joyce who's body was found in her flat 3 years after she died... the next day we found you, approx 2 weeks after your demise.  Therefore, we thought it would be logical to name you after someone who had been in the same predicament as you.  After all I didn't want to name you while you were alive because we just sort of took up by the river one day, we didn't belong to each other: You were an independent, and so was I. 

Karen Brockman knows best

You sort of just pushed your way into my life one day and I felt like you took me for granted!  On my birthday you only got me 36 presents, 36!? But last year.  Last year I had 37!  You never contributed anything to your upkeep, you never paid a penny towards rent, nor did you offer to cover the cost of your meals and at the end of the day you didn't even seem grateful for the life I was providing you with. All I wanted was a little peace and quiet, at least while I was trying to study, eat and sleep.

However, discovering your body the other day put everything in perspective.  I was shaken to my very core.  When I lifted that pillow and knew you'd been there the whole time, right under my favourite sitting spot, I mean I wasn't expecting that (biggest plot twist since finding out that Fiona had been an ogre all along!).   But I guess nobody expects to find a dead mouse, freshly flattened, right where they had just parked their behind. 

I want you to know that I just wasn't happy anymore and I hadn't been for a while!  I thought I was making myself clear the night you came scurrying home at a ridiculous hour pleading maddeningly "G, G... G, if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?" and I retorted with "Frankly, my mouse, I don't give a damn".  I can't help but wonder why you didn't stay away and if things would have worked out differently if you had - I know they would have!  Then you returned and I just thought that you were a sad, strange little mouse and you had my pity but then you got possessive!  When you snuck into my room at night and told me to choose between Ed and you and I told you I'd rather be Ed's whore than your wife then I spat in your face and yet you refused to leave - I'll admit I was a little frightened, I may have screamed like just once when I saw you that night!

Because you're worth it, amen and out 

After that I knew you had to go, I called in the cat's because I needed to send a message.  I had heard rumours on the grapevine that they were dangerous and that they had a very particular set of skills, skills they had acquired over a very long career.  Skills that made them a nightmare for mice like you.  I guess what I had heard was right.  I can't honestly say that I'm sad that you're gone.  What I am sad about is the fact that you had to die. You died on a Saturday morning(unconfirmed).  And I had you placed here under our tree.  And I had that house of your father's bulldozed to the ground.  Momma always said that life was a part of death... I sure wish it wasn't.  

However, now that we've found you and sent you off to a better place I don't just feel basted in relief, I feel marinaded in it

Yours sincerely,
Queen G (and her cohorts)