Mouse’s blood ran cold. She didn’t have to think about what Fake Mom was talking about. She knew. And she knew there was no point in explaining, though she tried anyway. Her voice trembled as she spoke. She told Fake Mom what happened. How she tried to be quiet. How she didn’t want to wake Fake Mom up. How she didn’t mean to pee on the seat. How she didn’t flush the toilet because she knew it would be loud.

But Mouse was nervous when she spoke. She was scared. Her little voice shook so that her words came out unintelligibly. Fake Mom didn’t like mumbling. She barked at Mouse, Speak up!

Then she rolled her eyes and said that Mouse wasn’t nearly as smart as her father thought she was.

Mouse tried to explain again. To speak louder, to enunciate her words. But it didn’t matter because Fake Mom didn’t want an explanation, whether an audible or inaudible one. The question she’d asked, Mouse realized too late, was rhetorical, the kind of question that doesn’t want an answer at all.

Do you know what happens when dogs have accidents inside the house? Fake Mom asked Mouse. Mouse didn’t know for sure what happened. She’d never had a dog before, but what she thought was that someone cleaned the mess up, and that was that. It was done. Because that was the way it happened with Bert. Bert was forever pooping and peeing in Mouse’s lap, and it was never a big deal. Mouse wiped it up, washed her hands and went back to playing with Bert.

But Fake Mom wouldn’t have asked the question if it was as easy as that.

Mouse told her that she didn’t know.

I’ll show you what happens, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and pulled her from bed. Mouse didn’t want to go where Fake Mom wanted her to go. But she didn’t object because she knew it would hurt less if she just went with Fake Mom than allowing herself to be pulled from bed and dragged down the squeaky stairs. So that was what she did. Except that Fake Mom walked faster than Mouse could walk, and so she tripped. When she did, she fell all the way to the floor. It made Fake Mom angry. It made her scream, Get up!

Mouse did. They made their way down the steps. The house was mostly dark, but there was a hint of the night sky coming in through the windows.

Fake Mom brought Mouse into the living room. She brought her to the center of the room, turned her in a specific direction. There, in the corner of the room, was the empty dog crate, door open as it never was.

I used to have a dog once, Fake Mom said. A springer spaniel. I named him Max, mostly because I couldn’t think of a better name. He was a good dog. A dumb dog, but a good dog. We took walks together. Sometimes, when we’d watch TV, he’d sit by my side. But then Max went and made an accident in the corner of my house when I wasn’t home, and that made Max bad, she said.

She went on. See, we can’t have animals urinating and defecating inside our homes, where they’re not supposed to go. It’s dirty, Mouse. Do you understand that? The best way to teach a dog is by crate training. Because the dog doesn’t want to have to sit with its own piss and shit for days. And so it learns to hold it. Same as you can, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and yanked her the rest of the way across the living room for that open dog crate.

Mouse fought back, but Mouse was a child, only six years old. She weighed less than half of what Fake Mom weighed and she had nearly no strength at all.

Mouse had had no dinner. Only three Salerno Butter Cookies. She’s just been woken from sleep. It was the middle of the night and she was tired. She wiggled and writhed, but that was the best she could do, and so she was easily manhandled by Fake Mom. She was forced into the dog crate, which was not even as tall as she was when she sat down. She couldn’t even sit all the way up inside the cage, and so her head rubbed against the hard metal bars of the cage, her neck kinked. She couldn’t lie down, couldn’t stretch out her legs. She had to keep them pulled into her, so that they went numb.

Mouse was crying. She was begging to be let out. Promising to be good, to never pee on the toilet seat again.

But Fake Mom wasn’t listening.

Because Fake Mom was making her way back upstairs.

Mouse didn’t know why. She thought maybe Fake Mom was going back up to get her poor Mr. Bear.

But when Fake Mom returned she didn’t have the bear.

She had Bert.

It made Mouse shriek, seeing her sweet guinea pig in Fake Mom’s hands. Bert never did like to be held by anyone other than Mouse. She was kicking her tiny feet in Fake Mom’s grasp, squealing her high-pitched squeal, louder than Mouse had ever heard her before. It wasn’t the same squeal she made for carrots. It was a different kind of squeal. A terrified kind of squeal.

Mouse’s heart was beating a million miles a minute.

She beat on the bars of that dog crate but couldn’t get out.

She tried forcing the door open but it wouldn’t budge because there was some sort of padlock on that door.

Did you know, Mouse, that a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one? she asked, holding one of her knives up in the air to examine the blade in the moonlight.

How many times, she asked, not waiting for an answer to the question she’d already asked, do I have to tell you that I don’t want one rodent in this house, let alone two?

Mouse closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears so that she couldn’t see or hear what came next.

* * *

It wasn’t a week before Mouse’s father had another work trip.

He stood in the doorway saying his goodbyes as Fake Mom stood beside Mouse.

I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’ll be back before you can miss me, her father said as he stared into Mouse’s sad eyes, promising her that when he got home they’d pick out a new guinea pig for her, one to replace Bert. Her father was of the opinion that Bert had merely run away, that she was getting her kicks somewhere in the voids of the house where they couldn’t find her.

Mouse didn’t want a new guinea pig. Not then, not ever. And only Mouse and Fake Mom knew the reason why.