Saturday morning I collected Cleo's ashes from the Vets. They are now nourishing the roots of a rosebush and not just any old rosebush.
When we lost Oliver, our Persian ginger tom, to an RTA a few years back we buried him near the bottom of the garden. You can do that when you have half an acre. Our neighbour, cat feeder and house-minder Mike bought us a rose called appropriately "Whiskey Mac" which we planted next to Oliver. When we lost Oscar ["Saddest news about Oscar"] we buried him next to his chum Oliver.
When we sold the cottage the rose was the one plant we had to bring with us; by that time we already knew Cleo's biopsy results. A small London garden is not really suitable for an inhumation so we had an individual cremation for Cleo. Her ashes went in first then a little soil to cover, then some fish and bone meal then the rose.
I cannot be doing with this macho "boys don't cry" b*ll*cks. I had a good old sob but in the summer I can look at the roses and smile.
Sa Calobra, a Mallorcan Mountain Meander...
4 months ago