HARRY, WHAT DID YOU DO WITH BERNIE’S ASHES?

“Okay, Harry, tell the truth: What did you do with Bernie’s ashes?”

“I ate ‘em.”

“You are them? Really?”

“Really.”

“What did they taste like?”

“Awful. What did you think they’d taste like, brownies?”

“Harry, Harry, Harry. How could you do this?”

“How could you leave them there, so enticing and available?”

“Only you would find someone’s ashes enticing. I left them on the memorial altar where we have Maria of Guadalupe and Kwan-Yin and photos of others who died.”

“You left them in a very small wooden canister right by the edge. All I had to do was jump up on my back legs and–voila!.”

“Harry, Harry, Harry!”

“Doll, doll, doll!”

“I opened up the urn carrying Bernie’s ashes just before going down to New York. I transferred some into another urn to bring to Auschwitz-Birkenau at our next retreat there, which is what he wished. I was about to lock up the big urn again to bring down to New York when I got tempted to take just a little for myself.”

“You gave in! You let Lucifer have his way!”

“This wasn’t sex, Harry, it was Bernie’ ashes!”

“I know just how you feel, doll, temptations come my way day and night.”

“I looked for something to put it in and there was a tiny wooden round canister, perfect for holding just a smidgeon. I put it on the memorial altar before going out the door to drive to New York. I come back 5 days later and see something  broken on the kitchen counter. I think it was around the 4th time I came in carrying stuff from the car and passing by the counter that I realized what it was. What kind of a crazy dog eats ashes?”

“I did it for you, doll. A lesson in impermanence. Gone, gone, everything’s gone, not even ashes left. And that reminds me. Who’s your next teacher?”

“What do you mean, Cur?”

“Aussie the Juvenile Delinquent told me that the Man used to say that you should always have a teacher, and that when his main teacher died he looked for someone new. So who’s going to be your next teacher?”

“I haven’t even thought about it, Harry.”

“I have an idea about who that should be. Moi.”

“Toi?”

“Moi. Harry the Cur.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not, doll?”

“I can’t have a dog as a spiritual teacher.”

“What is this, specieism?”

“I don’t think we talk the same language, Harry.”

“Look at the teaching you received from me on impermanence. Could anything have been more eloquent than eating up Bernie’s ashes? Could anything have been more transformative?”

“I don’t feel transformed, Harry.”

“The greatest transformation is the one you’re not aware of.”

“In fact, Harry, I feel pretty pissed.”

“Did the Man get you pissed sometimes?”

“Yes. During the 33 years I knew him, he sometimes got me pissed.”

“See? It’s working already. I rest my case.”