There’s a pet cemetery a few miles up the road from our house. It’s not of the Stephen King variety and nothing is scary or supernatural about the place — it’s a lovely peaceful spot on a back road. There is a variety of graves in all sizes — horses are even buried there. Most of the graves have markers — some plain, some fairly fancy. I know a woman whose husband is a large, gruff and burly laborer. He had a pet cat that he loved dearly and was quite devastated when she died. “Baby,” his wife told me. “He named that damn cat Baby and paid good money to have it buried at that pet cemetery out north. He bought a headstone and even had a bench made next to the grave so he could go out and sit and talk to her. Can you imagine.” She obviously did not share his sense of loss. Last time I rode my bike out that way I stopped and walked through the cemetery. Sure enough, there was his cat’s final resting place. I sat for a while on the stone bench and said a few kind words to Baby before continuing on my ride.