While awaiting the return of my hound, Buddy, battling an infection in the recesses of the veterinary clinic, I found myself at the front desk, requesting a cup of coffee. In their infinite benevolence, they provide a veritable cornucopia of Keurig containers, with promises of caffeinated elixirs to soothe the anxious soul.
Armed with three chocolate chip cookies and the harmonious symphony of the coffee maker gurgling a serenade, I witnessed a curious scene.
A woman waltzed into the clinic and, with an air of solemnity, proclaimed, “I’m here for ashes.”
As quick as a jackrabbit in a thunderstorm, a dutiful attendant scurried into an adjacent room, undoubtedly on a mission of utmost importance, as I, in a moment of misguided empathy, turned to the woman and, with the gravitas of a funeral director, intoned, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The woman regarded me with a gaze that could strip the bark from an Aspen tree and responded, “My dog is named Ashes.”
At this revelation, my face turned a shade redder than the throat of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird in full mating display. Another attendant, displaying impeccable timing, handed me my coffee, and I slinked away, cookies in tow, vowing to keep my nose firmly out of other folk’s affairs.
Later, as I settled my bill with all the grace of a chastened schoolboy, I mentioned my mortification to the kindly coffee-bearer, saying, “I was so embarrassed, I could have crawled into a cave and died.”
Without missing a beat and with a wry smile, she asked, “Would an urn do?”
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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