Dig it!

Despite my cultivated 'sophisticate' and indeed 'sophisticat' air, I admit I still have a rather schoolboyish (read Viz) sensibility when it comes to things 'toilet' related (yes, I know we say lavatory, but lavatory humour doesn't sound right).
I was recently on holiday with my fart obsessed neice and nephew and found, despite myself, their constant parping irritating because I was stuck in the back seat of a hot car with them, but also quite amusing.
Unfortunately, a cat, no matter how dear, evacuating its bowels on the carpet in front of you as you try to watch TV, or worse, eat supper, is neither grown up, nor funny. And so it was that we (as in my adopted household) decided that it was time to put poor Max to rest. Context: A spastic colon, pain, lots of drugs (him), lots of cleaning up (mainly me) and too many 'oooh, what's this?' toddlers running around.
It will be a chance for 7 year old Erin to learn about the cycles (and circle) of life, we figure. 'Erin. You know Max has not been well for a long time: we are going to ask the vet to come round and put him to sleep so he can go to heaven and feel better.'
Erin: 'Oh good. Does that mean we can get a kitten?'
So, the day arrives. I am at work and feel a pang at midday - the appointed hour.
I have agreed, nay insisted, that I bury Max, given that latterly, I was his refuge from screaming children, brown stains on the duvet a small price to pay for offering comfort to a creature in need (yes, I changed the covers!)
And so it is with heavy heart that I arrive back at a nearly empty home – Mylo, Max's brother is on the sofa as fat and uninterested as ever – to find the dispatched Max awaiting me. He is sealed in a plastic bag on the coffee table and still warm!
Forget finding the one you love entwined with another, this is heartbreak.
I take him into the garden and begin to dig.
Propers, btw, to grave diggers. Have you tried to dig any kind of hole lately? It's not as easy as the movies make it out to be!
As I am digging, fighting back the tears, young Erin and younger Molly decide to come out and jump on the trampoline.
So far, so vaguely annoying.
And then Erin starts singing: Happy dead day to you, Happy dead day dear Max, happy dead day to you.
From the mouths of babes and innocents, eh.
Please don't invite her to my funeral!