Compare and contrast: Tig at rest

Apparently, I ordered an urn.

Three weeks ago, I was probably far too grief-stricken to realize exactly what I was doing when I requested Tig’s ashes be returned to me. Because now, I have an urn. An urn full of Tig. You know, when my father’s remains were returned to me, they were just in a box. In a plastic bag inside the box. Because we told them we didn’t want an urn.

I have a certificate, too. I suppose I can use it to make sure I don’t have to pay a double pet fee anymore with my rent, but that’s about the end of its usefulness.

At least this time, I didn’t have to deal with a funeral home representative telling me that he had my father’s “cremains” ready for pickup. Yes, they call them “cremains.” And yes, I really did want to punch the guy in the nose every time I heard that word.

I put the urn outside in Tig’s favorite spot. I wanted to see how it looked.

That wasn’t the first picture. The first picture was of the urn upside down. I couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t stand up straight. Then I finally realized the flat part was on the top and it should have been on the bottom. I don’t know from urns. Cremation isn’t really a Jewish thing, and I know a lot of my readers are shocked that I cremated my father. Well, it was his wish. We honored all of his wishes before he died. That one, we waited ’til after he died to honor.

Dad’s “cremains” weighed way more than Tig. Although Tig cost nearly a third of what Dad did, and he was nowhere near a third the size of my father. What’s that all about?

So, anyway. There’s Tig. In his urn. Resting. Sort of.

I think I like this picture better:

I’ll bury some of the ashes underneath Tig’s favorite spot. Then I have to figure out what to do with the rest of them. And the urn. Geez. I didn’t realize I ordered an urn. Boy, do I not want that thing around.