martinimade

Yesterday, we put the Mooch in the garden.

I had to pick him up at the vet's, which is where he was being kept until we could get a hole dug. I brought a box. I figured it would be big enough, simply because it was a box he had used as a bed in the past.

The vet tech took the box and came back a few minutes later. "He doesn't fit," she said, "since I can't really curl him up because he's frozen." She dug out a roll of packing tape and left again.

When she returned, she hadn't me the box, which was half taped shut. A blue bag poked out of the other end.

"It's a little awkward," she said, apologetically.

"Of course it is," I said. "He was that kind of cat."

The Pie Goddess, the Grill Master and kids brought flowers, picked because they looked strange, like Mooch.

We untaped his awkward box and placed him in the ground.

We did unzip it a) to make sure that we can the right catsicle, b) to make sure his favorite toy was in there with him and c) to let wee critters in to do their work of returning him to his base elements. Which were base indeed.

Words were said. A haiku from Scott's sister was read:

redolent of pee
a home lacks its psycho cat
the trout stands alone

Dirt was flung on his body, as were flowers.

Right now, the rock marks the spot. Eventually, after the spring thaw, which we hope won't heave him out of the ground in a rejection by the earth type deal, we'll get a more appropriate marker. Maybe a rock that warns of evil beneath. Something along the lines of abandon all hope all ye who dig here.

Trout, since I mentioned him, seems to be handling his grief.

I keep bursting into tears -- but worry not for the Trout. He's very handsome. Dim as a bucket of hair, but handsome.

Anyhoo.

I had some time to finish up some knitting while sitting with the ailing Mooch.

Modeling shots -- and a post that doesn't mention cats either living or dead -- tomorrow.