Crematory

Posted on April 3, 2003 in Cats Grief

I took Tracy down to the crematory this afternoon. I looked around the house for a suitable box. Down in the garage, I located the one that my Compaq lap top had come in. It had a plastic handle, depth, and was long enough to fit her body without distorting it too much.

I lifted her into the box. Her head crooked and twisted beneath the chest. “Oh, my poor baby!” I cried, as if she could still feel it. “I’m so sorry!” I straightened out her head and closed her eyes. I’d often looked deep into those eyes on dark nights, smiling because in them I appeared to be worth gazing upon. I often talked to those eyes, told them my worries and my problems. Those eyes made me feel that I was being listened to and respected for what I was, regardless of what I believed.

The drive took half an hour. The place turned out to be an animal hospital near the airport in Newport Beach. I walked in, carrying this box full of dead cat into a lobby filled with people who were anxious about the health of their living pets. The receptionist looked oddly at my box without air holes. “Is this ‘Only Cremations’?” I whispered to her, so as not to alarm the others. “This is my cat,” I explained. She understood immediately and fetched the Russian woman who took the money for dead cats.

We made the arrangements. I paid for a cedar “remembrance box” in addition to the cremation. I thanked everyone, remarked that the cat had died at age seventeen — a good age for a cat — to comfort the others whose pets still lived, and left before I worried them more about their pets.

Outside I met a kennel worker walking a bull mastiff puppy who was large enough to eat Cleveland — including the suburbs — and slurp up most of Lake Erie. Did I want him? she asked. I explained that I lived in a condominium and that I kept cats. She understood. The dog liked me: he licked my hand, and wagged his tail when I hugged him. His neck was as big around as a four year old’s waist. I promised that I would keep my ears open because he did seem like a good dog. (Orange County readers: call Back Bay Animal Hospital in Newport Beach if he sounds right for you.) I got in the truck and went back home to Virginia Mew, who I found sleeping on a chair.

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In grief, you sometimes imagine outrageous, morbid, funny, sick things. Consider this alternative scenario for the pet hospital/crematory that came to mind as I drove away:

I walked inside, carrying Tracy by the tail. “Hey, I’ve got a DEAD CAT here. What the fuck do you want me to do with this DEAD CAT that I’ve got?” The receptionist blinked and the people waiting with their precious pussies and puppies blanched. I swung Tracy up on the counter by the tail. Her plump belly exploded as she hit. Wiping the pus from my face, I licked the gore traces from my lips. “This certainly brings her down to under ten pounds. Do I get the discount now?”

You know, I think Tracy would have found this very very funny.