Harold & Mortimer

It was the best she could do. After all, her choices were limited and she didn't know what the authorities would think. They were fussy about funerals, even, she suspected, second-time ones.

And it had been an accident. Mortimer hadn't meant any harm. In all his life, his sweet pug heart had held only love and certainly he had worshipped Harold, had sat on his feet, snuffled his ankles, trotted after him on endless ambling walks on the beach.

Still, he had done it. The urn had only been on the table a few seconds while she dusted the mantel. And she had removed poor Harold to that prettier imitation Ming vase that he had always loved. That plain black one hadn't suited him at all, he who had loved colorful ties and spicy food.

After Mortimer's broadside, the vase shattered and Harold littered her ancient Oriental carpet as his desires had cluttered her life for so many years.

Agnes spent the rest of the day in the kind of confusion she hadn't felt since Harold had broken his neck and died after tumbling down the stairs, having tripped over a chew bone.

Now she was out in the back yard reburying Harold. Well, it was the first time for a burial. The previous disposition couldn't have been called that. A cremation was still suspect in the eyes of many.

Keeping a nervous eye out for any signs of a blue uniform, Agnes carefully lifted the neatly folded and tied vacuum cleaner bag into the freshly dug hole, and bid Harold farewell for the last time.

© 2004 Zen Oleary