Unclaimed Ashes

“What should we do with this package?” Dianne yelled to Barb.

Dianne worked part-time for Barb, who was an estate sale coordinator. Barb came into your dead relative’s house, sold everything, and kept thirty percent of the profits. Dianne had retired as a bookstore clerk a few years back. She’d always enjoyed going to estate sales, and she frequently ran into Barb. The two had become good friends.

It was Dianne’s job to pull everything out of cabinets and closets and organize it. She’d stack china and kitchenware on the dining room table. She’d line up vases and knick-knacks on coffee tables. Her favorite task was organizing the bookshelves because it reminded her of the thirty-plus years she’d spent working with books. Dianne thought you could tell a lot about a person by the books they read.

Barb’s job was to clean and put price tags on things. She also searched the web to identify antiques and made phone calls to dealers. Each house became a pop-up store or an indoor yard sale for a few days. Once they had organized the contents of the house, everything had to be priced.

After the prep work was done, Barb paid her in cash, and Dianne left and went home. Her work was done. If Barb asked, sometimes she would stick around and help customers if the sale would be longer than two days or if Barb expected a big crowd based on what was in the house. Dianne loved it when Barb asked her to stay for the sale. She liked helping the customers and seeing their eyes light up over someone else’s treasures.

“What package?” Barb yelled back.

“Come look.”

The house they were working on had belonged to an elderly couple. The lady had died several years ago, so it had just been the man living in the house for a while. A neighbor, who checked on him, found him one day last week. He’d died in his sleep in the recliner in front of the television. The couple had never had children. There were no known relatives. A will found in a desk had left everything to the couple’s long-time church, which had contacted Barb.

Houses with few or no relatives required a few extra days to prepare, and Barb charged a clean-up fee plus the usual thirty percent because the house would have to be cleared of personal papers, clothes that wouldn’t sell, and other junk. Barb told the preacher if he’d send a few church members to help clean up, she’d only take her usual cut and forego the clean-up fee. The preacher agreed.

A couple of ladies and some young men volunteered. Barb handed each of them a box of black trash bags and sent them on a scavenger hunt throughout the house. They were to start by clearing newspapers, magazines, calendars, greeting cards, notebooks, and any paper that could not be sold and did not appear to be important. She put another lady in charge of going through clothes. Barb agreed to let the lady take the throwaway clothes to the church to donate to their homeless outreach. While they were cleaning, Dianne found the suspicious package tucked away in the bottom of a closet.

“Let’s open it,” Barb said.

“Are you sure?” Dianne said.

“Yes. Open it.”

“What if there’s money inside? Or guns?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

The package was a large box wrapped in brown paper, the kind Dianne had used in the bookstore to wrap and mail books. It had a lid wrapped in paper too. There were lines across the top and down the sides. Dianne knew they were faded marks where twine had once been tied around it.

Dianne held her breath as she lifted the lid. Barb stood over her shoulder as if she was an anxious kid watching someone open a birthday gift. There was no money or guns inside. Instead, the large package was filled with smaller wooden boxes of all sizes stacked neatly on top of each other like a child’s building blocks.

At first glance, Dianne thought the small boxes were picture frames. The front of each one held a photo of a dog or a cat. There was also a ferret. Another box had a picture of a duck and one of a turtle. A small brass plaque was mounted to the top of each box. The plaque was engraved with a name and a year.

Dianne smiled as she picked up each box and read the names: Bonnie, Chester, Felix, Zander, Brownie, Simon, Baby, Riley, Bailey, Avery, BoBo, Domino, CoCo, Fred, Chubby, Lester, Bob the Turtle, and so many more. She picked up one of the boxes and noticed it had a bit of weight to it. The picture on the front was of a German Shepard. The plaque said her name was Dixie. The date beneath her name was three years ago.

Dianne looked at the back of the box and saw two small screws that appeared to be holding it in place. She dug in her apron for a screwdriver. She always wore an apron while working and kept its pockets stocked with various things like ink pens, extra price tags, and a dust rag. She also had a few small tools. Finding her screwdriver, she removed the back of the box and found a clear bag full of ashes tucked inside. She showed it to Barb.

“What is it?”

“I think this is ashes. It’s the animal’s cremated ashes.”

“Do you think all of these boxes contain ashes?”

“I expect so. They must have had a lot of pets over the years.”

“There are no signs of pets in the house. It doesn’t smell. No water or food dishes,” Barb said.

“You’re right, but look at this cat. The date on its box is this year, and it’s only February.”

“I suppose we should throw them out unless you want to open each one and take out the ashes and the photos. Maybe we could sell the boxes. What do you think?”

Dianne knew Barb wasn’t insensitive. She’d warned Dianne from the very first day that you had to separate yourself from all of this in some way. You didn’t know the people who had died, but when you were digging through their house and assigning a price tag to their belongings, it was hard not to show some sympathy.

“Can I check with the neighbor first?” Dianne asked.

“The lady that looked after him?”

“Yes. I think the preacher said she lives across the street.”

“That’s fine,” Barb said and walked away.

Dianne put Dixie’s ashes back in her box and put the screws back in place. She gently placed her back in the larger box with the others and then put the lid back on top. She let the volunteers know she was stepping out for a minute, and then she walked outside and down the driveway.

She paused and waved at a car passing by. She could hear kids playing in a front yard down the street. It was such a nice neighborhood, much like the one she lived in with her husband, Gary. They’d been in their house for forty-five years now and raised two daughters there. She thought about her neighbors and hoped one of them would be kind enough to look in on Gary should she pass on first. She crossed the street and walked up onto the neighbor’s porch.

She knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by several barking dogs of all breeds and sizes that came to the door. They were not territorial or aggressive. They were just announcing her arrival to their owner. Their tales were wagging, and they appeared happy to see her. Dianne counted eight in all, including a shy Chihuahua keeping its distance but barking along with the rest.

“Oh my! Look at all of you!” Dianne said, tapping her finger on the glass of the door. It was cloudy from the numerous wet noses pressed against it now that no doubt carried out this routine often.

Dianne liked dogs and cats, but they’d never had one. Unlike most kids, neither of the girls had ever asked for a pet when they were young. Dianne wondered why, but she’d never had a pet either when she was growing up back home in Minnesota. Her mother frequently put meat scraps and some milk in an aluminum pie pan on their back porch for feral cats in the neighborhood. Sometimes there were as many as three or four, and rarely the same ones for very long. They’d scatter if they saw you.

Dianne remembered a mother and three kittens one summer when she was in grade school. She wanted to hold and pet one of the kittens, but she could never catch one of them no matter how hard she tried. She got very close to one of them once. When the kitten saw her, it hissed, and Dianne was afraid it might bite. After that, she lost interest and kept her distance.

“One minute! C’mon, guys, get back,” a voice called from inside the house.

A young woman appeared at the door. She smiled at Dianne and held up a finger. She corralled some of the larger dogs into a room nearby. A few of the smaller ones followed, knowing the routine all too well. She shut the door to the room and returned to the front door with just two small dogs still circling her feet.

“Sorry about that,” the lady said, opening the door.

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry to intrude,” Dianne said.

“I have to put the big guys up, or they will dart right out the front door and knock you down. They don’t bite, but they’d lick you to death.”

“Quite all right. These two sure are well-behaved,” Dianne said. She looked down and admired the happy faces of the two dogs. They stood by the lady’s feet and wagged their tails as they looked up at her.

“Don’t let them fool you. This is Sassy, and she lives up to her name. And this guy is Billy. He can’t see very well, but he’s a sweetie.”

“May I pet them?” Dianne said.

“Of course, go right ahead,” the lady said.

Dianne reached down and gave each of them a pat on the head.

“Are you with the estate sale people over at Mr. Wilson’s place?” the lady asked.

“Yes, I’m Dianne.”

“Hi, I’m Jen. Please, come inside,” she said as she held the door open.

Dianne accepted her invitation. The two dogs pranced around her feet and jumped up against her legs.

“C’mon, you two. We have a guest. Be nice. Don’t jump,” Jen said, and the two dogs backed away.

“Oh, they are no bother. I won’t be just a minute. I’d like to ask you a question about Mr. Wilson if that would be okay. His preacher told us you looked in on him.”

“Yes, every day after Mrs. Wilson passed. They were always so nice to me after I moved in. I felt so sorry for him. I’d take his mail in for him and pick up groceries. Sometimes if I cooked a nice dinner and had leftovers, I’d make him a plate and carry it over.”

“That’s so nice of you. I’m sure you had lots in common with the dogs and all. It looks like he and his wife had lots of pets over the years.”

“No. I don’t think so. They didn’t have any pets that I’m aware of,” Jen said, looking puzzled.

“Oh really?”

“Why? Did you find something in the backyard?”

“The backyard?”

“Well, I didn’t think there was anything to indicate the animals, but you must have found something?”

“So you know about all the animals?” Dianne asked.

“Yes, I do. I can explain. I’m actually a veterinarian.”

Jen told Dianne about how being a veterinarian was a gratifying experience; she’d loved animals and had numerous pets ever since she was a child. Helping animals was all she ever wanted to do in life. The bad part of the job was having to euthanize pets due to illness or old age. Seeing an animal go limp from the injection while lying in their owner’s arms as they wept over their pet was never something she got accustomed to seeing.

“It’s humane, but it always breaks my heart,” Jen explained. “What’s even worse is sometimes the owners don’t want to be in the room with their pet during their last moments. Their poor dog or cat is usually afraid. They know something is wrong. They look for their owner too. It just breaks my heart. You’d want to be there for a loved one’s last dying breath, right?”

“Absolutely,” Dianne said.

“It’s so sad. And sometimes they leave them. They don’t know what to do with the pet’s body, or they don’t have a place to bury it. Or they have them cremated and never come pick up their pet’s ashes.”

“Ah! That explains a lot, I think.”

“What do you mean?” Jen said, looking at her.

“Did you bring ashes to Mr. Wilson?” Dianne asked.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were alive, Jen visited with them often and told them about her work. Her office was moving into a new building several years ago and had a closet full of unclaimed pet ashes in the back. Each animal was in a small cardboard box; some of them had been there for several years. Only the employees had access to the closet of ashes. She was torn on what to do with them and did not want to move them to the new office.

“Mr. Wilson said he’d take all of them,” Jen said.

“Did he tell you what he was going to do with them?” Dianne asked.

“He and Mrs. Wilson were avid gardeners, so I assumed they were going to use them for fertilizer or composting or something. Ashes are full of minerals and phosphates. I thought maybe you’d found some in the garden shed.”

“No, but would you mind coming over to the house for a minute? I have something you might like to see.”

“Sure,” Jenn said.

She locked the door behind them. Dianne said goodbye to Sassy and Billy. The two ladies walked back across the street to Mr. Wilson’s house. Dianne introduced Jen to Barb and explained she wanted to show Jen the box.

“I take it you never came back here,” Dianne said to Jen as they walked through the house.

“No, I don’t think I ever went in any of the rooms other than the front room and the kitchen.”

“This is what I wanted to show you,” Dianne said, pointing to the package sitting in the bottom of the closet.

Dianne lifted the lid for her and indicated it was okay for Jen to have a look. Jen knelt beside it and lifted one of the small wooden boxes. She gasped when she saw the picture of the dog on the front. She lightly touched the tops of some of the stacked boxes inside, noticing the plaques and reading the names. She began to cry and held a hand to her face. Dianne found a small pack of tissues in her apron and handed them to Jen.

“He kept every single one,” Jen said, holding back sobs.

“After what you told me, I believe he did.”

“He told me once that he had been a carpenter and liked woodworking. I think he made all of these little boxes for each one.”

“Do you recognize the names?”

“Oh yes! We didn’t have photos of the animals. The breed and date was listed on the form we kept with each one, so maybe he printed these photos or cut them out of magazines. Oh Look! It’s Bob the Turtle! Bob wasn’t a pet. He’d been found on the side of the road, hit by a car, and some kids brought him in one day.”

Dianne asked Jen if she wanted the ashes because she did not know what to do with them, and they’d just have to be thrown away. She offered to help Jen carry the large box to her house. Jen agreed to take them.

“What are you going to do with them?” Dianne said.

“Well, I’m no gardener, so I think I’ll keep them. I think Mr. Wilson would have wanted me to do that. I have that spare room where I keep the dogs when I’m out. It has some nice bookshelves I’m not using where I think the boxes will look nice.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea. Their spirits can watch over you and your happy bunch,” Dianne said.

“Thank you for showing me. I’m so glad they didn’t get thrown out. Even after our office moved, Mr. Wilson kept asking me to bring him any unclaimed ashes.”

“Do you know why he might have done this?” Dianne asked.

“I think so.”

Jen explained that Mr. Wilson told her he loved animals, but Mrs. Wilson was allergic, so they’d never had a pet. He enjoyed listening to Jen talk about her work because he’d grown up on a farm. His father had raised horses. They’d had chickens and ducks. As a kid, Mr. Wilson and his brother had a dog named Petunia that died from a snake bite. He loved the dog so much, and it had broken his heart to lose her. When Mrs. Wilson died, he told Jen the only other time he’d felt so sad was that day when Petunia had passed.

“I told him to let me know when he ever had too many ashes, and I’d stop bringing them,” Jenn told Dianne. “He told me there was no such thing as too many ashes.”