Several weeks after the drive to deliver Amethyst’s corpse for cremation, I got word that the cremains were ready for pickup. I did that drive again and came home with a black plastic urn that rattled when shook and was sealed against inadvertent opening with white surgical adhesive tape. The urn was tagged with a card bearing the word “Amethyst,” and the tag was stained with some sort of dried brownish fluid. The tag was also affixed to the urn with the same surgical tape. I was also given a padded envelope containing a paw-print in ceramic. I mentally thanked my colleague’s wife for recommending such a thoughtful establishment. I pulled the tape off of the urn and put it on the mantle piece. I had a single remaining shed claw sheath, which I added to the shrine along with the paw-print. The card was filed along with the remaining paperwork pertaining to Amethyst’s veterinary bills. An odd aftershock occurred about a week later when a call from the southern vet’s advised me, once again, that my “cat was ready.” This turned out, of course, to be a miscommunication. It was shortly after this that I began this memoir.
