This is insane. After she died, my cat was cremated for $165, ashes shoved into an approximately 6-inch by 3-inch box. With a fake-gold label "Gracie" on the side.
Some idiot at work asked me, after I'd told her that my cat had just been cremated, where I'd had the ashes buried. I said I didn't have the ashes buried. Why not?: "Gee --- I'm not FROM HERE. I'm just RENTING. I didn't/couldn't HAVE HER ASHES BURIED anywhere..."
What does happen with me and Gracie is that she's now in said 6-by-3-inch box on a shelf in my bedroom. When I'm feeling particularly sad, I curl up on my side in bed and place her wooden box in the nook between my belly and legs, the way she used to sleep with me. And then I stroke the box and talk to it. (Yeah, go ahead and make fun.)
And when I wake up in the morning and want to sit on the side of my bed with a cigarette before I go to work, I remember that Gracie didn't like the smoke, and so I make sure I move her fucking 6x3 box back across the room, back onto that shelf, before I smoke.
And when I'm on my way home from work, I STILL inadvertently think of coming home to her and feeding her the second I walk in the door...