My cat died this past holiday season. I am a cat person by nature, we have three remaining. This particular cat was passed down to me when my father passed away when I was twelve, and I was very close to her. I had her cremated and there she sat in a plastic box at the vet's for a few months while I tried to summon up the emotional strength to pick her up. I didn't want to employ Dear Hubby to do the deed knowing full well he would be likely to come back with the wrong cat and possibly a different species altogether... however, I finally gave in when the anxiety to have her home became overwhelming when I was bedridden with an illness.
Me: "Okay stop everything. I need you to listen because this is important."
Hubby stops and cracks a joke by dropping the clean laundry he was carrying to the closet onto the floor.
Me Again: "I'm serious! I need you to go pick up Kitty. Now, they will have her in a little plastic box. Take her urn (one I had bought the day after her passing) with you and have them transfer the ashes into it. Make sure they close the lid tightly because the threads on the top are messed up... but don't let them seal it shut. I don't know if I want to spread the ashes or not. Can you do this?"
Hubby agrees and heads out while I worry over it.
Phone rings. It's Hubby.
"Hey. They have her in this other box. Do you want me to have them transfer the ashes?"
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