It all started solemly enough.
Cinders, a wonderful, large black hamster was much beloved by the children of the house. He had a long hammy life and had one day passed quietly, much as he had lived, except for the times his wheel banged on the side of his cage all night long.
It was DECIDED by the youngest children, as only they can DECIDE such things, that there would be a burial, and the funeral procession was planned.
A hole was dug at the base of a tree so his body would provide food for the tree.
Lovingly wrapped in a tissue and placed gently in his grave, Cinders was sprinkled with flowers and words, and dirt was replaced in the hole. A rock was placed on top to further mark his grave.
It was about three days later that the kids’ dad arrived to pick them up. They decided to tell daddy all about the passing of dear Cinders and to take him out to the grave so he also could pay his respects.
For some reason, I was walking far ahead of them and got to the gravesite first. To my great dismay, what was there was no longer the tidy grave we had left.
The grave had been dug up and Cinders was absolutely, completely missing. If I had not been so sure he was dead when we buried him, I would have sworn he had dug his way out and walked off to find a home where people wouldn’t put dirt and rocks on him.
Since the grave was behind the garage, no one else had yet seen, and I knew the youngest children would be devastated to find out Cinders had been removed from his grave by the ever-enterprising outdoor cats.
By then the oldest kids had arrived at the grave, they had trouble comprehending at first what had happened. Then they, too, realized we had to do SOMETHING before the youngest ones arrived.
I sprinted to their dad, who was making rather quick progress to the gravesite, and I whispered, “Delay!” It took several attempts before he finally understood that he was to plant his feet and not move. Luckily, he and the youngest children were by a flower garden so a discussion about flowers began as I tried to casually sprint back to the gravesite.
With the help of the older kids, we kept lookout for any wayward kids who might leave the ever-so-fascinating discussion of flowers, scootched dirt wildly back into the grave and re-located the rock (at this point I’m thinking that cat must have been very determined to get that hamster), and tried to locate whatever remained of the body.
We finished fixing the grave just as the others approached, apparently forgetting the “don’t move” request.
“See, Daddy? We buried Cinders right here, didn’t we, Mommy?”
I started to sweat, the kids knew that I didn’t lie to them, but they were too young to understand or forgive the edibleness of Cinders to the cats.
“Uh, yes, yes we did, we buried Cinders right there.”
“See, Daddy? See how we fixed it for him? That’s where Cinders is, right, Mommy?”
I attributed the drip of sweat running down my spine to the hot summmer day as the older kids casually walked the area, still looking for the body or any parts that might remain.
“That is right where we put him,” I said, watching the older kids out of the corner of my eye. “That’s absolutely where we left him.”
The youngest children nodded their heads sagely. I was off the hook, and the older kids were sworn to secrecy.
It was years later when we finally told the youngest ones the whole story of how Cinders had fed a cat instead of a tree.
After the initial surprise wore off, they agreed with the way it was handled and understood they were protected from further heartbreak, but they were amazed so much had happened behind the scenes that day.
We never did find any part of Cinders, and I am forever grateful for that!
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