Pet Cemetery ... uh ... Crematorium

Welcome to my wet bar.

It has a faux marble counter, a lovely stainless sink and faucet, one glass shelf filled with an assortment of wine glasses, and a few other wine glasses and a decanter on the counter. The back and side walls are covered in mirrored tiles, and there is a nice white cabinet and two drawers underneath.

Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

I'll share a few things with you.

First, the second glass shelf that used to hold glasses crashed to the floor (with the glasses), oh, around twelve years ago, when Jamie had a temper tantrum and banged the wall behind the bar. Ms. Procrastination here has never replaced it. I vow to do that soon, and I'll take a photo to prove it.

The cabinets are crammed-- and I do mean crammed-- with photo albums, boxes of photos, and sports trophies. I wish I were one of those scrapbooking lovers, because I'd have a hobby for the rest of my life.

The sink? I've lived in my home nearly twenty years, and I can count on two hands, with fingers remaining, the number of times I've turned on the faucet, usually to see if it still works.

And on the alternate weeks when I wipe down this never used feature of my house, I lovingly remember Twitty, our old cat, and Sable, Jamie's ferret, whose cremains rest on the wet bar.

The only "pet" we ever buried was Marvin, Rhett's mouse. Little Rhett and I stood in our backyard on a chilly March night, buried the mouse, made a cross for its grave out of some twigs, and thanked God for his life (Yes, my friends, for a mouse.)

I figure one day the other pets will join the crematorium, and when I'm not clinging to Chaz's urn (the thought makes me cry), I will lovingly dust around the little tins; and maybe ... maybe ... have a glass of wine afterwards.

After all, I do have a lovely wet bar.