… not in his old familiar bully-boy form, of course. But he’s home.
The only other time I had a private cremation (for Jasmine), my dog came home in a plain cardboard box. This time, Robbie arrived in this sweet little tin.
An envelope claimed his certificate of cremation was within. Skeptical me figured the pet cemetery was offering confirmation that this little box really did contain the mortal remains of my bully boy. After all, the potential trust issues with cremation are enormous. How do I know this is really Robbie? Not somebody’s cat? Or a mixed-up batch of assorted burned animals? Or sweepings from somebody’s fireplace? I opened the envelope eager to see what assurances the crematorium might offer.
But what was inside was no certification of anything. Just a poem so glurgy it could induce a diabetic coma. Especially those last two lines. (I do not think Robbie would want to spend eternity sleeping on a soft cloud in heaven, dreaming pretty dreams. And he certainly wouldn’t do it sweetly; trust me, sweetness was never Robbie’s thing.) Still, as I rolled my eyes at the sodden sentimentality, my eyes teared up.
My neighbor J. has offered a handmade wooden box. Shortly before his sudden death, her husband made a number of pet coffins and small containers for ashes. The tin from the crematorium is cute, but Robbie will soon be partly scattered in the woods while the rest of him remains at home, in a lovingly handmade box, next to Jasmine.