I once had a pure black fancy rat named Blackie. Born on March 31, 2024, she tragically passed away on February 1, 2026.
In our short two years together, she caused me countless troubles, but also soothed countless moments of anxiety. Before deciding to keep her, I researched everything. Everyone said fancy rats are intelligent, gentle, affectionate, and loving, but their lifespan is extremely short. From the day I decided to bring her home, a seed of sadness was quietly planted in my heart. However, I had never truly experienced the pain of separation before, and I still made up my mind to bring her and her sister home.
When Blackie first arrived, she was extremely timid, hiding in a corner all day, afraid to show herself. After a few days, she gradually lowered her guard and eagerly awaited leaving her cage to play. I gradually relaxed my restrictions, from cage-keeping to semi-free-range, and finally, the cage door was never closed again. It and its two sisters were mischievous and caused countless disasters: a large hole was chewed in the sofa, countless small holes in the bedding, socks, clothes, shoes, and curtains were all chewed up, and nothing on the table or wallpaper was spared; even cosmetics often suffered the same fate. I still remember that night when it chewed through my makeup primer and secretly dragged it into my bed; the icy liquid woke me from my deep sleep. It would also find a pile of face masks in the middle of the night and carry them all to its little corner outside the cage. Those moments, both funny and frustrating, now only fill me with tenderness.
But tragedy struck unexpectedly. I naively thought it would stay with me for a very long time. On the morning of February 2, 2026, I found it motionless on the floor. I immediately took leave from work, rushed it to the hospital, hoping for a glimmer of hope, but the doctor said it had already passed away. I was consumed by endless self-reproach, regretting leaving it corn kernels as a treat before bed, guessing it might have choked while hiding the food, and regretting sleeping soundly with earplugs in, missing its faint cries for help.
Later, I took it to the pet funeral home near my home to say a proper goodbye. The staff lit an eternal lamp for it, cut off a small tuft of its black fur as a keepsake, and I watched it walk into the crematorium. That little black mouse that would jump onto my bed and gently lick me awake every morning at four or five was gone from my world forever.
But I still believe our story isn't over... I carefully placed its urn in the deepest part of the cabinet, promising that decades later, we would rest together somewhere in the world, never to be separated again.
