07 October 2016
Story #830
R. Linda:
When Mam divorced me Da, she moved out of the old abode to come here to live with us. In their bedroom closet for more years than I can remember, there was this bronze urn that once had nothing but Irish pennies in it. I was told it was me Da's, given to him by an old flame before he met and married Mam. Mam never used it, but me Da put pennies in it for a few years, and then it stood at the top of the closet empty all these years out of sight, out of mind, my mind in particular.
When Mam moved, she left the urn where it was because why would she want it? So I get this phone call from across the pond. It is me, Da, and he wants to know why she left him an urn and who is inside it. Further, it has been creeping him out for almost two years since she left.
At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Urn? I don't remember an urn. And why should I? I was never frequenting their closet, so like I said, out of sight, out of mind, and really, I didn't know where it came from in the first place. I told him I had no clue what he was going on about, and then I wondered if it was HIS cat's ashes Mam had put in an urn.
He had a cat, and he put that cat in the cat carrier one day and told Mam the cat was sick and he was going to the vet. Well, it seems the cat was sick a lot, and every day, he would take the cat in the carrier to the vet. Then one day, he told her the cat was still at the vet, but he had visiting hours after dark to visit the cat.
Mam was not born yesterday, and she suspected there was nothing much wrong with the cat but with her husband. She thought he was seeing someone, and well, he was! His excuse was the cat. Well, seems the other woman was not a cat lover, so the cat suffered, stuck in the carrier, had no water, and probably little food, if any, and then the cat really did get sick. By this time, the cat was home, the husband was thrown out of the house, and Mam was going to the vet for real.
Once there, the cat was diagnosed with malnutrition, and so they looked at her very funny. She sighed, shrugged her shoulders and instead of telling them what she thought, she said, "I be not the trooble, it be you. For eight weeks, me old man been bringing da cat ta ya, then visiting the cat here at night."
"Hold on, Mrs. O'Sullivan," the vet interrupted her. "We have not seen the cat for an exam and shots since last year."
"Oh really," Mam feigned surprise. "So me old man wuz lyin' about da cat, wuz 'ee?"
"Maybe, he brought the cat to another vet." The man said.
"Oh no, no, he tole me it wuz YOU who wuz treatin' 'is old cat, allowin' 'em to coom after hours ta visit da old ting."
"We don't have visiting hours, and we are not open after dark, " the vet said, looking alarmed.
Well, all this just confirmed what she had already reckoned. As it turned out, it was a sad story; she nursed the old man's cat until it succumbed, as it was beyond help and very old to have been treated so ill. She got rather attached to the thing and was upset that the old man had never asked after his cat. In the end, she was tempted to be done with everything having to do with the old man and was near to cremating the cat, when she decided instead to give it a proper burial in the back garden. So when I asked her whose ashes were in the urn, she looked at me askance because she didn't know what I was asking her, we discussed the urn to wit, she replied, "Oh dat urn."
"Yeah, he said you made the urn in a ceramics class."
"Oh no, no. Dat was from Rita, his old flame. It was a terrible job she did on it. Ye could see her heart wasn't in ceramics. It wuz ugly and has been in da bedroom closet since we bought the ole house. If ye talk to dat old slipper tell him it wasn't mine, it wuz Rita's and 'is cat's ashes are in it."
"Are they?" I asked.
"Noo, I planted the cat in the garden. But tell 'em da cat's in da urn."
"He told me you left it with someone inside to creep him out. He hasn't looked in it and won't touch it," I said.
"Really? He flatters himself I'd care enough ta doo sumthin' like dat." Said she. "An' he doesn't know me to know who'd be in da urn? Here ye go, me mother wiz cremated, tell 'em the cat and me old mother be in the urn togeter."
"I can't do that," I said aghast. "Isn't your mother's urn buried?"
"It was last time I looked, but he's so stupid he doesn't realise that. So tell 'em wot I tole ye."
And she left the room.
So here I sit, shaking me head, half tempted to do her bidding and creep the old geezer out completely, or, be honest Gabe, and correct his memory of who the original owner of the urn was, or just not call him and leave things as they are.
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
When Mam divorced me Da, she moved out of the old abode to come here to live with us. In their bedroom closet for more years than I can remember, there was this bronze urn that once had nothing but Irish pennies in it. I was told it was me Da's, given to him by an old flame before he met and married Mam. Mam never used it, but me Da put pennies in it for a few years, and then it stood at the top of the closet empty all these years out of sight, out of mind, my mind in particular.
When Mam moved, she left the urn where it was because why would she want it? So I get this phone call from across the pond. It is me, Da, and he wants to know why she left him an urn and who is inside it. Further, it has been creeping him out for almost two years since she left.
At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Urn? I don't remember an urn. And why should I? I was never frequenting their closet, so like I said, out of sight, out of mind, and really, I didn't know where it came from in the first place. I told him I had no clue what he was going on about, and then I wondered if it was HIS cat's ashes Mam had put in an urn.
He had a cat, and he put that cat in the cat carrier one day and told Mam the cat was sick and he was going to the vet. Well, it seems the cat was sick a lot, and every day, he would take the cat in the carrier to the vet. Then one day, he told her the cat was still at the vet, but he had visiting hours after dark to visit the cat.
Mam was not born yesterday, and she suspected there was nothing much wrong with the cat but with her husband. She thought he was seeing someone, and well, he was! His excuse was the cat. Well, seems the other woman was not a cat lover, so the cat suffered, stuck in the carrier, had no water, and probably little food, if any, and then the cat really did get sick. By this time, the cat was home, the husband was thrown out of the house, and Mam was going to the vet for real.
Once there, the cat was diagnosed with malnutrition, and so they looked at her very funny. She sighed, shrugged her shoulders and instead of telling them what she thought, she said, "I be not the trooble, it be you. For eight weeks, me old man been bringing da cat ta ya, then visiting the cat here at night."
"Hold on, Mrs. O'Sullivan," the vet interrupted her. "We have not seen the cat for an exam and shots since last year."
"Oh really," Mam feigned surprise. "So me old man wuz lyin' about da cat, wuz 'ee?"
"Maybe, he brought the cat to another vet." The man said.
"Oh no, no, he tole me it wuz YOU who wuz treatin' 'is old cat, allowin' 'em to coom after hours ta visit da old ting."
"We don't have visiting hours, and we are not open after dark, " the vet said, looking alarmed.
Well, all this just confirmed what she had already reckoned. As it turned out, it was a sad story; she nursed the old man's cat until it succumbed, as it was beyond help and very old to have been treated so ill. She got rather attached to the thing and was upset that the old man had never asked after his cat. In the end, she was tempted to be done with everything having to do with the old man and was near to cremating the cat, when she decided instead to give it a proper burial in the back garden. So when I asked her whose ashes were in the urn, she looked at me askance because she didn't know what I was asking her, we discussed the urn to wit, she replied, "Oh dat urn."
"Yeah, he said you made the urn in a ceramics class."
"Oh no, no. Dat was from Rita, his old flame. It was a terrible job she did on it. Ye could see her heart wasn't in ceramics. It wuz ugly and has been in da bedroom closet since we bought the ole house. If ye talk to dat old slipper tell him it wasn't mine, it wuz Rita's and 'is cat's ashes are in it."
"Are they?" I asked.
"Noo, I planted the cat in the garden. But tell 'em da cat's in da urn."
"He told me you left it with someone inside to creep him out. He hasn't looked in it and won't touch it," I said.
"Really? He flatters himself I'd care enough ta doo sumthin' like dat." Said she. "An' he doesn't know me to know who'd be in da urn? Here ye go, me mother wiz cremated, tell 'em the cat and me old mother be in the urn togeter."
"I can't do that," I said aghast. "Isn't your mother's urn buried?"
"It was last time I looked, but he's so stupid he doesn't realise that. So tell 'em wot I tole ye."
And she left the room.
So here I sit, shaking me head, half tempted to do her bidding and creep the old geezer out completely, or, be honest Gabe, and correct his memory of who the original owner of the urn was, or just not call him and leave things as they are.
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| Photo of the "creepy urn" taken by the old fart with shaky hands but you get the idea |
Gabe
Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved
LMAO it would have been creepier if your dad had heard voices coming from the urn
ReplyDeleteso what you're saying is your dad killed the cat in all actuality. i think you should tell him exactly what your mom said to say.
ReplyDeleteI feel for the cat. That was lousy and he deserves to be creeped out. I'd be tempted to tell him what your mam said, but why bother?
ReplyDelete