I am a 60-plus-year-old kid that still works as an IT consultant. I hope to write a humorous, slightly apocryphal column with some real life insights.
My apologies go to those who might be offended about my comments on cremation. In this case, the cremation was animal based, so it should not offend you too much. My mother had a dog that was called “Disco” because of the way he moved his hindquarters, during food begging maneuvers.
Disco had an evil doggy side to him. He was sweet to your face, but he was on constant patrol for food like substances. Well, you know the usual hotspots like the garbage container in the house, wastebaskets in the bedroom/bathroom, and popcorn between the couch cushions. There is nothing like saliva wet cushions when you sit down with your guests.
In order to control the stealthy paw thief during my visits, I would put a mini-cow bell on his collar. Of course, I would then yell at him to be quiet during Packer games. Too much temptation was around with all the football snack crumbs on the floor and the empty beer bottles. Don’t get me started about the slurping noise while he worked on those long neck beer bottles.
And of course, I have the usual holiday story about the dog who was temporarily amnestied from wearing the mini-cow bell. So what does he do? He snuck into the kitchen and stuck his snout into Grandma’s special sauce that took five days to make. How could we tell? Try hiding red sauce on a white snout.
Disco led a good life, but not so much as man’s best friend (he stole too much). Then he passed and my mom had him cremated. For some reason, she wanted me to disperse the remains. Why? I don’t know and I lived about 250 miles from her and I had to haul the one pound bag back home. I just put the remains in my back closet. Once in a while, mom would ask if I did the “ceremony”. And I would put her off.
So mom decides to visit for a week. OMG, I have to do something fast! I greeted her at the door, sat her down and gave her some German Pfeffernusse cookies. Check out your dictionaries for that reference! Anyway, I got the Disco ashes bag from the closet and snuck out the back door. It was very, very windy that day. You already know where this is going. I said a little prayer of fear for myself, loosened the ashes bag and started dispersing the remains around the tree in the back yard. The wind just kept blowing the ashes on my pants. The more I wipe my pants, the more the wind coated those pants with dog ashes. The bag emptied, and I slowly got caught up with wiping my pants. Then I saw mom looking at me from the back window. I came in the house with nothing to say. How could mom tell? Try hiding white grey dog ashes on black pants.