Farewell, beloved Rat. You've been a faithful companion, constantly perched next to my right hand and always eager for the next opportunity to dart across my desktop. I will miss you terribly.
More than any other mouse, you really get me. Your pliable body is molded just for my grip, a perfectly shaped and weighted handful to accommodate my odd-sized mitts. You indulge other eccentricities, like my need to scroll sideways in Excel. And you do everthing else one might expect of a modern mouse bred from premium stock—well, everything except disco lighting. I'm so glad we always agreed on that.
There's no telling how many miles we covered over these past four-and-a-half years. The twinge in my right shoulder says a lot, and so does the dull ache in my heart. But even with wear and tear written plainly across your weathered hide, you've still got looks that could kill. That aggressively angular style will always catch my eye.
A not-so-modest mouse, you tracked true for most of your life, remaining as nimble and precise as the first day we met. But things haven't been the same lately. First, it was the occasional stumble or repeated middle click, both easily written off as minor slips. Then your movements became more frequently jagged, like those of a knife losing its edge. Looking back, I feel awful about yelling at you that one time in Photoshop. I'm sorry; I know now you were doing your best.
And now, well, you're paralyzed—responsive to clicks but unable to move an inch. Closer inspection of your vital organ reveals no easy path for a transplant. As much as I want to hold on, the time has come to pull the plug.
So farewell, beloved Rat. You were awesome, different, and the best damn mouse I ever had. May your memory live on forever in my museum of peripheral taxidermy.