Put on the sweater that has IRELAND written across the left breast and is a deep itchy green. The hiking boots from Goodwill that hang off the ends of your feet a little. When you get there with your prolapsed rodent in a box a girl in a bucket hat asks What Kind Of Small Pet Do You Have. You tell her it’s a hamster distractedly and she says Aw I Have A Bunny. You think about telling her this is the last time you’ll see your hamster before they administer a lethal injection into her soft underbelly but that seems a bit harsh. You want to ask the girl if she would please shut up. Harsher. You give your hamster in a cardboard box with her intestines poking out to the receptionist and solemnly walk back to the car. You wait for the inevitable call that She Won’t Make It and they ask you to pick out an urn even though you said you didn’t want to keep the remains. So you pick out an urn without seeing it (Something Small when they ask what color) and drive away as they promise to call you when the cremation is done. Your sweater itches against your nipples and the girl with the bucket hat watches your car drive away. They never call about the remains. You wonder where that small urn sits now.