As regular readers of my blog know, in excruciating detail, my cat died a few months ago. Basically he was old and his body called it quits.
The day before the vet came out for the last time, she mentioned that I might think about what I wanted to do with his remains. I didn’t really care much what happened to his body after he was done with it; I had the notion that I would bury him in the front yard in the area where he liked to sleep when he was alive. I talked to my husband about it that evening, in case he had a preference.
“I think I’d prefer to have him cremated,” was his opinion. He felt it would be kind of creepy to have Phurball buried in the yard.
I think it’s neat that I’ve been married to the guy for fifteen years and he’s still surprising me.
So we had him cremated. Turns out there’s a local company that specializes in pet cremations; the vet took the body over, and a couple of days later returned the ashes in a little plastic urn, tastefully wrapped in an embroidered velvet bag. I put it on the mantel, because I really didn’t know what else to do with it.
I think I should put the ashes in one of these things, and then start talking about Phurball as if he’s still alive while holding the thing on my lap and petting it compulsively. If someone tries to tactfully point out that the cat is dead, I’d just say, “Yes, I know,” and continue talking about him in the present tense.
Bet that would get rid of the Jehovah’s Witnesses.