Weebs—your funny, syrup-smelling, runt ferret of six years—is dead. I washed her, along with the sheets and towels and underwear. Words cannot describe my sorrow, my regret. You are madder than hell at me for not checking the laundry basket before I dumped the load into hot, soapy water, but I did—one piece at a time, and I still did not see her. My guess is that she fell into the fitted sheet as that piece sunk slowly into the hot water. A while later, I couldn't find her. After long minutes of searching her normal hiding spots where she sleeps, the light bulb went off in my head, and, sure enough, there she was, lying lifeless on the bottom of the wash tub. I screamed and cried, and I had to have your roommate take her out, as I couldn't bear to. Calling you about Weebs was one of the hardest calls I've had to make—and to listen to you immediately blame me is understandable in your grief. But understand: it was a mistake, a very, very sad mistake. So please, my love, forgive me for my stupid mistake. In life, she will be missed, with her laughs, jumps and towel-riding excitement. In death, she will be clean and happy, buried next to her sisters.
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