"Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the
kitchen.
"I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the
breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee
had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from
the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had
earned him his name.
"Cook is very much upset," my wife continued.
"Her distress does her credit," I answered.
"She talks of leaving."
I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me
at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the
value of surprise and never rides success to death.
"Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said.
"I have," said my wife, "and she remained immovable."
"Perhaps when the first shock has worn off?"
"There is just a chance."
"Yes, I am sure you can persuade her," I concluded, preparing to leave for
my office.
"Before you go," interrupted my wife, "what are we going to do about the
burial?"
"How does one usually dispose of dead cats?" I asked. "I thought the
dustman--"
"Out of the question."
"I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling
----"
"How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be
handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook
is about funerals."
I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was
abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she
was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had
cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as
an authority on the subject.
"Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said.
"Where?"
"In our garden."
"Who by?"
"Palmer or Emily."
Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid.
"Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would
leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them."
"Who else can we get?" I asked.
"Yourself," my wife made answer.
"Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain
that our only garden is in front of the house.
"If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you,"
protested my wife.
"And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank
you."
"Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our
last hope of persuading Cook to stay."
"By heaven!" I cried, looking at my watch, I am a quarter-of-an-hour late.
I must run."
This was my customary device to evade the embarrassing dilemmas which my
wife not infrequently thrust upon me at this hour. So for the moment I
escaped. All day in the office I was fully occupied. From time to time the
memory of Dundee lying stark in the basement obtruded itself upon my
thoughts, but I dismissed the vision as one does a problem one has not the
courage to face.
The problem remained unsolved when I stepped out of the train on my return
from the City. To gain time for reflection I resolved to make a détour. As
I struck into an unfamiliar side street, I looked up, and there in front of
me stood an undertaker's shop.
The inspiration! I entered. From the back premises advanced to meet me the
undertaker, with a visage tentatively wobegone, not yet knowing whether I
was widower, orphan, businesslike executor or merely the busybody family
friend. I unfolded my difficulty. Beneath the outer crust of professional
melancholy there evidently seethed within the undertaker a lava of
joviality.
"Certainly, Sir, certainly," he said. "It is not perhaps strictly in my
line, but one of my assistants will be delighted to earn an extra shilling
or so by obliging you. What name and address?"