Urns of Ashes

When Jasper—my Wheaton terrier’s time had come, we chose a private cremation. I also wanted the ashes returned to me. Jasper was more than a pet—he was a beloved member of our family. It seemed only right that his remains not be tossed away like spoiled leftovers.

And when I mentioned to my friend Steve that Jasper’s ashes had arrived—and that they were housed in a lovely maplewood box--- he told me that in his hall closet there were 3 lovely  maplewood boxes. One of those boxes had been moved safely from two houses already.

Which is why I was so dumbfounded the other day to read on Facebook that a friend—who owns rental properties---in cleaning out one of her apartments--found an urn. In it was the remains of the husband of a former tenant.

My macabre sense of humor embraced the real life sit-com playing out in my friends’ house—what were they supposed to do with the ashes of “Mr. Smith”? Because it wasn’t as though the tenant had left a cigarette filled ash tray behind----it was a vessel of burnt-beyond-recognition body parts. In good conscience they couldn’t just put the container out on the curb Wednesday morning with the weekly rubbish. And certainly the urn could not be donated to the Salvation Army as a vintage chachka.

And when my friend thought to bring the urn to the police department the on-duty officer appeared not at all helpful. In fact he started asking my friend probing questions—as if she was involved in some nefarious activity. It would seem that even the policeman thought the forgotten urn was suspicious behavior—worth an inquiry or two.

Because who does that? Who leaves an incinerated family member behind with the unwanted extra wire hangers and dust bunnies? Was remembering to take the urn that much of a burden? What kind of cold commentary was this? I thought Wow that wife must not have really not liked her husband very much—She took the barely used exercise bike and left the urn behind.

And I turned to Steve and said that now that I was in possession of Jasper’s ashes, I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I didn’t want to bury them—what if I sold my house? I would have to disinter them. The new owner might dig them up and throw them away. I couldn’t bear the thought. And Steve shook his head and said I understand. It’s a real moral dilemma.

But we both agreed that even though we weren’t sure what the right thing was to do with our dogs’ ashes, clearly discarding them was the wrong thing. And so the lovely maplewood box filled with Jasper’s remains sits on the sideboard in my dining room next to the decorative antique oriental china plates. I “Endust” the box every few days and try to imagine a better spot to put “him”.

So far I am idea-less.

And who knows what the fate of poor “Mr. Smith” will be? My friend hopes the police will use their resources to track the owner down. In a humorous quip another friend commented that maybe the urn did not contain the dead husband at all—maybe it was just his arm and leg—the equivalent of the high rent the woman had to pay her landlord.

Ultimately the woman’s rent wasn’t behind—her husband was.