I am of the opinion that only wealthy sentimental idiots in California take their dead dog or cat to a pet crematorium. The kind of rich people in that Mandarin Oriental advertisement where they claim Fluffikins would be welcome to bunker up with you in your hotel room. Well maybe they let super-wealthy guests do this in MO in America, but not, I suspect, in good old MO Hong Kong. It was tempting to march in to Connaught Road HQ with Dog Xiaoping on a lead to check-in, but I never did. And now I never will, because he toppled off his perch last Wednesday.
This brings me back to pet crematoriums. Life styles of the Rich and Famous-type TV shows would suggest these places are pure sickly saccharine. I would have agreed, until they said hound died, unexpectedly, while under sedation, at the vet, during a minor procedure.
The phone call about cremation options followed the one apologising for his sudden demise. All very matter-of-fact and Hong Kong. Choices were: cremation, not individual, ashes not returned. Individual cremation: ashes returned, or not. A couple of thousand dollars and Xiaoping would come home in a jar with his photo on the front. I said yes, thinking ashes could be scattered later, still in shock from his untimely departure.
Goodbye dear
But there was more. Did I wish to attend the cremation? Attend? Certainly not. The place: “Goodbye Dear,” was in a Kwai Chung industrial building. But the sight of a sobbing helper at home made me relent and decide we should go. Friends warned it would be grim. Helper was prepared to sacrifice Sunday afternoon to see her bristly charge of 11 years head off to doggy heaven, so it seemed justified, sort of. The industrial building was indeed grim from outside, but inside, more pleasant than any local human equivalent. Granted, there was a distinct whiff of ash, but it was dignified and peaceful. Photos of grateful customers lined the walls.