It’s funny where you mind takes you if you follow it – at least it can be funny how my mind works in this way. Take this morning. I was out for a bike ride, following one of my favorite routes north on the People Trail and then out in the country, riding some of the county roads. I noticed that someone’s cat had lost it’s life on the road, likely hit by a car as it crossed in front of it.
It was a pretty cat, a kind of grey tabby, and I immediately began to wonder who it had belonged to. I imagined some young children who might be sad about losing their cat in this way, maybe their dad seeing it on the road and stopping to scoop it up, take it home and bury it.
The burial of family pets and animals can be a rite of passage for children. I for one don’t favor sheltering children from these happenings, as death is a natural part of life, and grief is central to the human experience. Better to walk with them and help them process it from a more honest and healthy perspective. That’s the path we always took with our own pets and family. All of this led me to reflect on my own childhood, and how it was that I inherited the role of the Family Undertaker.
I grew up on a five-acre plot of land, in a rural part of the county, where we had pets and animals. There was always a family dog, and a variety of cats, sometimes with kittens. In addition, there were the dogs and cats of neighbors that would come onto our property to visit.
We also had a pond, with a fenced in meadow of land around it that we called the Sheep Lot. You guessed it, there were sheep that dwelt in that plot of land, as well as a couple of goats, and a plethora of ducks. The ducks would nest in the Spring and often hatch broods of ducklings, which became fodder for the snapping turtles that lived in the pond, or the cats that prowled the banks. There was a simple block building that served as shelter for the sheep in the winter or rainy weather. It was often lined with straw for bedding. I remember once walking into that building to find a fox with one of our ducks in it’s mouth staring back at me.
This was the life of my childhood. The animals, including the ducks and sheep, were as much pets to me as the dog and cats. And, over the course of some years, I learned that animals, like people, die. Sometimes it’s due to accidents. Sometimes it’s due to old age. When it happens, there is usually a discovery of the death (the fox with the duck, the duckling with a turtle bite through it’s breast, the cat on the road), followed by a time of mourning the loss, and the necessity of disposal (burial) of the body.
We used a portion of the Sheep Lot for the burials. And, more often than not, once I was old enough, I was the one who did the burying. I buried ducks, cats, a racoon, dead birds, one of the sheep (that was a big hole), and maybe one of our dogs.
I developed my own technique for grave preparation. I learned to cut and skim the sod off the top of the grave so that it could be reapplied later. I measured the size of hole that would be needed, given the size of animal to be buried. Then I was sure to dig a grave deep enough that the deceased would be given an eternal rest free from any vermin who might come and dig it up. This was important, I learned that grave robbers live among the wilds of the world.
I had to keep track of where prior graves existed in our version of a pet cemetery, though I never did mark the graves. One didn’t want to double dip, so to speak. So, I carried a kind of mental map of the area in my head. “That’s where I buried the sheep. That’s where I buried Tiger my cat. That’s where Buster lies.” It got a bit crowded and I had to keep expanding the borders. But it was a task I took on with pride and a stoic sort of calling. I was the family undertaker.
Looking back, all of this seems to have been training for the professional role I would later occupy as a pastor, and now hospital chaplain. Becoming comfortable with death, and the appropriate rites of grief and burial, may have prepared me, in part, to stand at the graveside of numerous people over the years as I officiated graveside funerals and led committal services.
I’ve lost track of how many times I have done this. I know that in my last pastorate alone I officiated over 130 funerals. Now, as a hospital chaplain, it’s rare to work a shift without a death. I respond when notified, often meeting the deceased and family for the first time. I extend my condolences to the family, ask them to share with me about the deceased, offer words of comfort, and share a prayer of thanksgiving and commendation if they desire. It’s an important ministry, helping in those transitional moments, to acknowledge the gift of a life and the sorrow of a death, and the continuation of living for those who remain. I do think I learned some of these things firsthand in my family undertaker role, taking care of the deceased pets and animals of my childhood.
We continued the tradition as we said goodbye to our pets with our own children and grandchildren. My daughters companioned me to the vet as we had two beloved Corgi’s put down over the years, their quality of life and suffering demanding such an act of mercy. I buried their cremated remains alongside the planting of trees on our property. The grandsons assisted me with the last burial and that tree is known as Boomer’s tree. It was kind of a full circle moment.
Cemeteries are sacred places. I have been to many of them to perform last rites of passage. I have some favorites. There’s a beautiful cemetery in Vernon, Indiana. And it’s hard to beat the Hope Moravian cemetery for it’s setting. Flatrock Baptist, not far from our home is nice. Maybe the bests view I ever had in a cemetery was in Snohomish, Washington, standing graveside on a hill overlooking the Snohomish River, with the Olympic mountains off in the distance.
But it all started with that Sheep Lot cemetery of my childhood. And it all came back to me because I passed some family’s beautiful kitty whose life had ended on the county road. It’s funny where your mind will take you, if you let it.
Daniel M. Cash © 2025
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