Jack picked up Katie's ashes last Thursday. They came in a nice cherry-stained box with two screws in the bottom keeping the base on tight, along with a certificate from a crematory in L.A. that insists these are, indeed, our dog's cremains*. Along with the box came a complimentary pawprint, which is done, according to a slip of paper in the bag, by developmentally challenged people. The clay pawprint was still soft and I had to bake it at 275 degrees for 10 to 15 minutes if I wanted the print to be permanent, which I did. Which I did standing in the kitchen, crying, and trying to imagine a developmentally challenged person taking my dead dog's foot and pressing it gently into a circle of wet clay. Sometimes the world.
*That link is kind of funny because one of the related phrases they note is "eternity leave."
Anyway, it's done. And now we have Cookie, who spends her days sleeping, barking at Peanut, and wondering when we're going to get in the car and go pick up Jackson so she can knock over some preschoolers.
Why won't you let me chew on this delicious tortoise's limbs? Why?