Warning, animal lovers, do not read. The events in this short story can upset you, more so if you’ve had/have pets.

Losing a loved one is one of the most heart-wrenching feelings in existence. It tears you inside out, and many are unable to control tears or half huffed breaths. The thought of their absence is hard to register, any continuous reminders making one ache and shiver.

A corpse is rarely held in one’s hands. Human cadavers are easily identifiable, pronounced dead in a hospital, or at a gruesome accident. Death is usually obvious. Not always, however. Sometimes, one may go to their loved one, only to find them laid out in an odd posture. Seemingly sleeping, you find yourself pushing away a sudden grim thought, denying such a thing could happen. Not in such a normal day, not without a symbolic reason or precedent to it.

Sadly, the more you stare, your mind grows even wearier. When you lay a hand on their cold body, you realize the truth. You freeze, finally registering the signs that hint of death’s arrival in the night. Their chest is still, breathless. Eyes are open, glassy, and empty. Not a single twitch, nor a sound.

Such sight is so common for pet owners… With less lengthy lives, it is expected for them to pass. With a good life, they grow old, less energetic. But you still feel that their passing is something far ahead, never expected. You are never prepared.

Twelve years, a long age for a rabbit. A bunny white as snow, feeble and gentle, never bitten once. Blindness takes him, and yet you still hang onto the hope that his passing will be foretold, visible. He still hops in the garden, lounges without trouble in his coop. You know it is coming, someday, yet you keep brushing away all dread.

You can deny the truth, until it’s right in front of you. Then, you hold their stiffened corpse, surprised to find you cannot lay them inside a heart-shaped box. They need to be placed in another container, less significant, less adequate. After minutes of searching, you can’t find any recipient that can alleviate such inappropriateness.

It is what it is. You still think they might be asleep, ill, comatose. There is a small nagging hope in your mind, that they are not dead. But you can’t find any pulse, nor breathing. You check twice. Death is clear, yet you keep thinking about it.

You grasp your phone with quivering hands, hoping to find a funerary service for your dear pet. It is a holiday, no one answers. Due to that inconvenience, you ponder the possibility of them trashing the ashes, mixing them with others, forever parted from you.

You can’t let your pet be thrown out and forgotten; you need to send them off with respect. You live hours away from any funerary facility… but you do have a furnace. Old, antique; it could fit a dog. Its non-industrial design seems adequate, respectful. It can be closed and opened to set a pyre inside. The lower opening also allows for you to collect the ashes once all is said and done.

So, you gather your most comforting rationale and do it. You cut wood, to then assemble it all as a bed for them to lay on. Cuddled inside a blanket, you let them rest over it. You pause, still wishing for them to move or twitch. What you are doing seems wrong, even if it is the most sensible course of action.

Hours have passed, half a day, and they have not awoken. They are dead. Secured by the blanket, you place wood around it. With plenty of space for the flames to breathe, the fire will reduce everything to ashes.

The lower lid is closed, you take a few moments… and then ignite the pyre. Your eyes fixate on the growing light, the fire slowly creeping up to your pet’s body. The urge to lunge and take them out pierces your mind. Tears build up as you control the impulse that would only lead to your hands being burned. It is too late to go back.

With great restraint and indecisive glances, you close the furnace. The sound of the creaking wood reaches you, arrhythmical, chaotic… Then, a strong thud. A second one. You swear you can hear a screech. Fumbling panicked moves.

Such thoughts consume you. The idea of your pet burning in agony torments you. Wondering if you just condemned your pet to such fate, you move closer. You burn your hand on the now scorching lid, uncaring of harming yourself. Wide-eyed, you look downwards.

It’s just a pyre… the wood is broken, cracked, as any fire does to it. Even if not burning, the blanket is immobile by the coals, not a breath or twitch. Frozen, gone, cold yet warm. No matter how many signs of death there are, and no matter how still you force yourself to be, the thoughts still creep inside you. While sitting wearily, you stare at the furnace for hours, secured by its warmth in a cold night.

The sounds that torment you are not coming from the furnace… yet you still hear the pained gnawing of teeth. Not even as you collect the ashes can you stop hearing it. The fire was effective, clean. The bones are white, the urn beautiful. It was a personal way to send them off, without mistake or fault. It was done at home, close and meaningful. But it still feels wrong, somehow. You find no respite in months.

It haunts you.