The Peripatetic Journey of a Synaptic Aversion: Thursday, September twenty-first, eight thirty-four a.m. Dear Dr. Chrisamalani, I am writing you this note in order to more intimately acquaint you with the events that have led to my recent demise. While traveling along a certain stretch of the interstate on the previously mentioned date and time, I happened upon a strange and most unfortunate queer twist of destiny. As I was commuting to my place of employment at a relatively acceptable traveling speed, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a certain unexpected flash of movement. Before I had had proper time to react, the creature dashed before my moving vehicle and was, in an instant, gone, beneath me. In horror I quickly pulled aside to learn the identity of my victim. I approached with sickened curiosity. In my innocence I had killed a native panther that had foolishly (oh foolish, foolish beast!) sprinted after some elusive vermin it had hoped to make a meal. I was detained the greater part of the day at this miserable scene, because the police had been called to assess the scope of my crime. Panthers being an endangered species, it is illegal to kill one, you know very well. Hence, it was determined that I should be brought before a council for a hearing to determine whether or not a crime had actually been committed. This was done. At the hearing, I was appointed a representative of the Panther Hostility Castigation Association (PHCA) to represent my case. This representative was something of an enigma. She was most certainly an atypical sort. She told me a tale that explained how she had once been a panther herself. She was kind enough to present me with a picture of one of her kin so that I might better grasp the experience of her community as viewed through her eyes. This picture I submit to you that you also might benefit from it after having given it considerable, careful observation. As she spoke to me of the panthers' wild and innocent natures, their carefree, yet disciplined dependence on the environment and on each other, I came to understand their plight more meaningfully than anyone could ever have imagined. They are a helpless species. They live in simplicity. In their environment, they are familiar only with such behavior as honesty and trust and sincerity. They prosper in an atmosphere of caring and nurturing, and ideas such as cruelty and hatred are foreign to them. The thought of having to secure themselves from harm by a careless motorist is an incomprehensibility to them. After having elucidated their tender plight to me, she judged me guilty of having maliciously slaughtered the poor little helpless creature. So now I write to you, Dr. Chrisamalani, from prison. I write to tell you that, should you be late for work one day, please do not exercise haste in your attempt to be prompt. I teach you this to warn you not to let them do to you what they did to me. Be late. Be creative. Your superiors will appreciate and understand your efforts. It is better to have a creative excuse for your tardiness than to be shamefully reduced to the miserable condition in which I now find myself. Your Sincere Friend, Vlad