Martha was buried today under an oak tree planted by my father 20 years ago. We took turns digging the grave, Dad, mhaille (who'd driven me out to the Valley) and myself. By the way, Cockney accents don't work for gravediggers unless they're wearing dishevelved top hats and shawls. I gave the little cat one last scritch goodbye, wrapped her in a towel, put the towel bundle in the grave and shoveled the dirt back on.
After patting the dirt back down Dad said a few words and then, in true Protestant fashion, we went back inside for coffee.
This, then, is the end of the chapter. There's a blank page before the start of the next chapter, which is often what happens in certain stories.