When I was in 8th grade, we got a puppy named Sonora. Great dog. She was smart, loyal (though she did love to run, and if she got out of the house, so help you it’d take an hour to get her out of the fields nearby). We got another dog my sophomore year, Buster. Sweetheart. He was dumb as a rock, but loved to herd. I can’t count the times he tried to herd me down the stairs. To my doom.
When I was 19, Sonora died. She’d been in terrible health (she could barely walk anymore, and kept getting sick) I came up to my parents, and we took her to the vet to be put down. Sang her to sleep, petted her- and left her so that they could take care of her body and get her cremated.
One week later, I was on the phone with my mom. “I got a package,” she said, opening it. “I wonder if it’s the… huh, why would I get a tin?” So she opened the tin. “OH MY GOD, it’s Sonora.”
Sonora went up on a shelf.
When Buster passed away, he was cremated and this time my mom was prepared. But the tin was smaller than Sonora’s, so she opened the tin. On top of the bag of remains was a silk rose. Which brought us a laugh, because Buster wouldn’t answer to his name half the time- but he would always answer to Pretty Pretty Princess.
Over the years my mom would tell me that she’d be cleaning and find the tins and wonder what they were, and start laughing that she’d forgotten. The best was the time that Sonora ended up on a table with a bunch of Christmas tins, and she was looking for something to pack a present in and opened it to find our dog.
My parents just moved across the country, and my mom’s been unpacking the boxes (which were packed by the moving company my dad’s worked hired). I got a phone call.
“THEY DID IT TO ME AGAIN,” she shouted and laughed. “I saw tins in a box and opened it, and it was the dogs. And they were in the breadbox.”