Yesterday, I picked up the ashes of my cat on the way home.
“Hi,” I said to the vet nurse at the animal hospital. “My name is [insert the LQ’s real name]. My cat Harold was euthanized here last week, and I’m here to pick up her ashes.”
The nurse went to the back, came out, and gave me a pretty, aromatic cedar box with a little brass plaque on the the top and a tiny padlock and key. The plaque has HAROLD engraved on it.
“Thank you,” I said.
I walked out,
Went back into my car
Closed the door,
Set the box onto my lap,
Laid my head onto the steering wheel,
I meant to bury Harold’s ashes next to the silver maple tree in the backyard. There used to be a dilapidated doghouse there from the previous owners. It was shaped like a little country house, including front porch. Harold used to hang out, lying on the front porch, soaking in the sun.
But seeing that beautiful box, with the ashes of my little cat-girl in it — I can’t seem to make myself bury it.
It’s so silly, and yet I can’t help but feel sad.
I miss her.