The death of the family cat led to the question of a proper disposal and replacement - until a little miracle, writes Peter Cunningham
I HAVE JUST read about a new cremation service for pets in The Irish Timeswhen Anna comes in with her two little girls and asks, "Have you seen Lucy?"
Lucy is black with white paws and a long luxurious tail that ends in a splash of white. I say, "No, I haven't seen her, why?" Anna, with a protective glance at her children, says, "Because there's a black cat on the road outside the gate and it's D-E-A-D."
We are inordinately fond of Lucy, ever since we rescued her as a kitten from the roadside where she was dumped by some wretch. Lucy is canny, but she is wild.
She likes to roam and hunt for field mice. Now, apparently, she will roam and hunt no more.
Pet cremation is an efficient solution to an often messy problem. What do you do with a golden retriever weighing 50kg who has taken on the 46A and lost? Do you bury
dead goldfish or simply flush them down the loo? These questions are going through my mind as I slip away from the children and, with a bin-liner in hand, make my way to the gate.
Cats are hard to kill, I have read. They are said to have nine lives. To say that someone is catlike suggests agility - not the sort of carelessness that results in getting run over. About 25 yards from the gate, however, I see an ominous black lump, the same colour as the tarmac. I approach gingerly. Sure enough, a black feline with white paws and the imprint of a Pirelli tyre lies flattened and very much D-E-A-D.
Cremation is convenient, but in the country an old tradition exists of planting a tree or shrub over the remains of a dead beast. This neatly remembers the deceased and fertilises the tree.
I catch the dead cat by its white-tipped tail and open the bin-liner. The deceased seems light - but then there is a lot of B-L-O-O-D and other inner parts around, so obviously she would not weigh the same as she did after breakfast. I have already begun the process of depersonalising her. She is now "the dead cat".
As a family we are emotional - probably as a nation, too. We could never have created an empire with colonies if every time a cat was run over we bawled our eyes out. Tonight we are meant to be going to the pictures, but we cancel. When the children, oblivious to the tragedy, have left, we set out to bury the dead cat near a tree.
Although it has been raining for three months, the chosen burial ground is fibrous with roots and stony. It takes half an hour to excavate a shallow grave in which to place our late pet, now wrapped in her favourite blanket. Stones are laid on the remains to discourage burrowing night-creatures. I shovel in the clay, pat it down and we stand in reflective silence. Lucy would approve of this peaceful spot.
In the countryside cats keep rats and mice at bay. Disloyal it may be, but within 10 minutes of the burial I am already thinking about Lucy's replacement. As I pop out ice cubes for stiff drinks - a pet wake - there comes from the garden a female shriek. Misfortunes come not single file but in battalions, I think as I hurry out. Walking languidly towards us in the evening light, tail erect, is Lucy.
She must be wondering these days why we are always so pleased to see her. And if you are reading this and, you know, little Puss hasn't shown up for her supper recently, please rest assured that she was sent off with dignity and that come next spring she will be surrounded by bluebells.
