Watch

Not everyone opens the bags. We’re supposed to, of course, to make sure the animal inside matches what the forms say it should be, and remove any collars that have been left on. But it’s time-consuming and, depending on the state of the animal when it died, it’s not always a pleasant thing to do. You can tell if someone isn’t checking the inside of the bags on their watch because collar tags will be left sitting in the ashes after the cremation. It’s no problem: we have a machine that acts as a magnet to remove all of the metal objects left behind at the bottom of the furnace. Usually there will be microchips and occasionally there will be metal plating from an old surgical procedure or staples from a recent one. The owners don’t want to hear that kind of thing rattling around inside their pet’s casket and the grounds staff don’t like them being deposited in the memorial gardens either, so we remove them and they’re disposed of separately.  

The memorial gardens are kept away from the crematorium. The visiting families don’t like to smell the fire or blood or faeces or burning hair, so those treats are just for the staff. The storage freezers are next to the vans’ unloading bays, with the furnaces behind. I’ve had worse jobs. It’s a nice team, and it feels good to know you’re treating these people’s best friends with dignity after the end of their lives. It’s more than meat animals get. 

It’s my job to take the body bags from the freezers to the furnace and then package the ashes into the little caskets and urns. There’s supposed to be two of us in the position at any time, for health and safety reasons. I’ve never heard of anyone falling into one of the furnaces, but the bags can be heavy and most of the paperwork is supposed to be countersigned. Today, though, I’m on my own. I don’t mind holding the fort, but I’ll have to cut some corners to get everything through before the end of my watch. I start with the bodies that will be cremated on their own so that the ashes for that individual can be returned to their families. I’m opening the bags to check they match my paperwork and cremate them one by one. I used to be able to smell the frozen death on them – despite the protective masks we wear – but I’ve been working here long enough that I’m numb to it now. The wife says she can still smell it on me when I get home from a shift, though.

Most of the animals are elderly today. One cat has been hit by a car and what’s left of her face bloodies my gloves. A dog must have remained unfrozen for some time after his death because the bottom of the bag is full of worms that must have escaped their host after the dead beast was no longer a safe home for them. We don’t see that very often. A good number of the fleas, however, somehow survive long enough to reach us and jump out of the bags onto our overalls. I realise that I’m not looking forward to maggot season.

 All the pets whose owners chose not to have their ashes returned to them get cremated together, and it’s those ashes we end up scattering in the gardens here. I fill up my trolley from the freezer and in they go to the big, communal furnace. One of them is particularly large and I know that working alone with cadavers like this is taking its toll on my back. I don’t have time to be too thorough when we’re short staffed like this; I don’t open the bags. After the furnace has done it’s job, the light above the door tells me that it’s cool enough to empty it. I finish the dregs of my coffee and open the door. I use a long scraper to pull the ashes from the bottom of the casement and into a lined box ready to be scattered, then go to empty the little collection slot which is now housing all of the metals which have been removed by the magnets. The usual microchips. A collar tag. A man’s wrist watch.