Scattering Jake's ashes
Some ten years ago, I owned horses. My best friend had a lovely old horse, Jake, for her daughter. Tragically, they'd only owned him for some three weeks when he was struck down with colic and had to be put down. Jake's previous owner had made it a condition of his transfer that as and when he popped his clogs, she would pay for him to be cremated and his ashes were to be scattered on the field where he last lived. As my friend had real problems getting her head around the logistics of his cremation and what happened afterwards, I offered to help out with it.

Our first problem was that the ashes went AWOL. I spent a day on the phone to the Abattoir and all points east, trying to track him down. At 6pm, I eventually tracked him down to the stable yard from which he had been bought. I went and collected him - at about 2ft x 2ft 6ins, an extraordinarily small box for such a large creature - and he stayed in the boot of my estate car until the weekend, when we would be able to attend to his enscatterment with due ceremony. It felt very strange, knowing he was back there as I was driving along. I kept apologising to him for going too fast over the bumps, and felt as thought I should leave a carrot or two for him overnight.

I met up with his owners at the stables and brought the cardboard box through for them to see. We weren't sure how much of the whole cremation thing the daughter understood at 8yrs old and so we were slow in opening the box and investigating further, so as to give her plenty of time to get used to each stage in the process. Quite apart from anything else, WE weren't too sure what to expect.

Consequently, we were as nervous as a pair of kittens when we came to opening that box. We started to get the giggles when we realised that the cardboard box was so well sealed with packing tape, it was almost as though they expected him to make a bid for freedom. We opened up that box using just our fingertips, at arm's length and with an attitude of someone expecting a large white horse to burst out of it with a sign around his neck, saying "Fooled Ya!".

So ... there inside the cardboard box was not, as we anticipated, a lot of finely ground ashes ... but a plastic bag. We then ponder on whether to undo the knot on the plastic bag, or cut it open. Hmmn. Well, there's still a chance that horse might pop up like a Jack-In-The-Box, so we'll opt for untying. We lost two fingernails before we lost patience and hit it with the scissors, revealing inside the plastic bag .. a pine box.

Now, we've SERIOUSLY got the giggles. I wrestle with getting the pine box out of the plastic bag, out of the cardboard box. That done, we see something wrapped in more packing tape and plastic, inside the bag, beside the casket.

Its his shoes. *sob* Never did a set of four horseshoes look so forlorn. They'd still got the nails in them. They, quite obviously, were still attached to him when he went in for cremation. Too much .. they go back in the bag and get tucked away in the cupboard.

So - we're still no closer to being able to sprinkle these ashes - and we're now both giggling and in tears. The next job is to work out how to get inside the casket. There's no discernible fixings or way to open it. By now, we're not sure we really WANT to open it, but we promised so we were committed. I turned the casket over and there, on the underside, were eight screw heads. I tell you, this whole thing was capable of withstanding nuclear attack, it was so well sealed. We purloin a screwdriver and get to work on the screws, which turn out to be about four inches long. We're rapidly getting the idea that most people don't open these caskets.

In time, the screws are undone and the base plate of the casket is ready to be removed. We've lost the Jack-In-The-Box idea now, so its not too difficult to do. There underneath, at last, is .. another plastic bag. Okay, so now we're in hysterics. Crying, laughing, hanging onto each other, gasping for breath .... its the never ending story of Jake's ashes. Somehow, we pull ourselves together and continue.

This time, we're quite convinced that there's going to be another box inside the bag, so we set to with the scissors to cut off the knot in the bag top. There, inside, he is. A flipping gigantic great pile of dark grey dust. Pause for breath and composure. The ashes are much finer than we'd anticipated - and a lot heavier. It’s definitely a wheelbarrow and shovel job. Definitely not a "graceful sprinkling lightly from the fingers, while delicate lace hankies are held to brimming eyes", job.

Daughter joins us and is quite unconcerned at the sight of the ashes - and completely unmoved by how both her Mother and myself appeared to be just a tad deranged. So, the next problem is exactly where in the field. After all, its about 20 acres. As the wheelbarrow is heavy and we're flagging a bit, we decide that anywhere qualifies as "scattering him on his field which he loved so much", so we'd just get on with it.

Roll sleeves up, dig shovel in and try to encourage the ashes to fall gracefully in an even sprinkle. Nope. They fall, with a heavy plop, in one lump. Next shovelful, we adopt the windmill technique and throw them in an arcing curve .. which the wind then catches and throws back at us, covering us from head to foot. After much spitting and spluttering, we're verging on hysterics again.

Daughter, very wisely, decides to leave us to it and wanders off again muttering about "barking mad". We've cracked the scattering technique, as the windmill approach works beautifully, provided you throw them downwind of yourself. However, as we reach about halfway down the bag, we realise that some lumps are starting to appear in the fine ashes. Further fingertip exploration reveals that there are shards of bone, but they are literally knife sharp! No good at all for spreading across a field where horses (and a donkey) were roaming.

So, there we are, sorting through the remaining ashes which have had to be tipped out into the wheelbarrow and placing the shards into the plastic bag. Quickly, before daughter comes back and we have to explain about the lumps of Jake we're having to sort out. We're up to our elbows in him, by that time, crying with laughter at the absurdity of it all. We, plus the whole stable yard and farm are wearing him, thanks to the wind. Scattered? I'll say he was scattered.

We dutifully continue spreading the now-sifted remains - and carry the rest wrapped in plastic in a pocket. By this time we're breathless with laughter, as each sweep of the shovels sends ashes to all points of the compass, riding on the wind. During which, I notice Lucy. The donkey. Staring. At us.

Warning bells went off in my head, but I was beside myself by then and didn't really hear them. We managed to scatter the last two shovelfuls as Lucy approached, long chocolate brown ears pricked to attention and bright eyes alight with curiosity. She reached the first of the piles which had just "plopped", instead of scattered ... and delicately sniffed at it. She raised her head and looked thoughtfully at us as we hung onto each other for support and realisation dawned as to her intent.

You see, there's nothing that donkeys like more, than a dust bath. Down she went, over onto her side, onto her back until all four feet were pointing skywards and she wriggled and squirmed and .... changed colour.

Well that was it. That completely did for us. We were in screaming hysterics and had to sit down, but my knees gave way and I lay, shrieking with laughter, on my back in the grass. How we survived that, I'll never know.

When we were once again able to walk, we returned back to the yard where we toasted Jake's long life in champagne and ate strawberry tarts. Forgetting to wash our hands first. Never has a horse travelled so far in so short a time.
(Felidae, Thu 11 May 2006, 17:50, Reply)