Earlier this year, we realised that our flat unit has become rat-infested. Everytime we open our door as we return from class, we'll be greeted by a black something running across the narrow corridor outside our rooms. And at night, Jerry (I'm not whether it was a he or she, let's just call it Jerry) would be happily fumbling in the rubbish bin, presumably rhythmically gyrating his hips to the music blasting nextdoor.
We initially had our share of shrieks and accelerated heart rates whenever Jerry suddenly decides to make himself seen or brush across our feet. But as time passed we grew familiar with Jerry and he became family. We lived happily forever.
Nah, happiness doesn't last forever, you see.
Little did i know that when i came back from classes last Sunday, i saw this on the washing machine...
Jerry inside a jug with a lifeless look in his eyes. The condensed vapour of his last few breaths of air could still be seen.
My heart sank.
A closer look at Jerry. And the bloody murderers put the jug just beside the pots and pans they cook with everyday, how yucky is that?
Though Jerry wasn't one of the cleanest pets around, but we share the same zodiac sign. OK, we don't share it. My zodiac sign is simply the rat. Who cares anyway?
