Paw Paw Pitiful Me

I've never been much of a baker. I think it's too much of an exact science.

I've never been much of a housekeeper either. I think that's just because I'm lazy. It's not that my home is a pig sty, but it certainly boasts its share of clutter and chaos. Kind of like my head. But there are certain items in the house that achieve enough of a level of importance that I become somewhat particular about them. There are photographs that require a clear space in a place of prominence; there are clothing items that never get strewn on the floor of my closet; and there are possessions so precious I display or store them in a place where I know they will be safe from anybody else's touch.

I have yet to find that perfect place for the tasteful velour bag containing Leo's ashes and his clay paw print. I've made progress though. Yesterday, I finally moved it from a shelf in the laundry room (where, as you can imagine, I would seldom cross its path) to a shelf in my office, where I spend a considerable amount of time. But I still cannot bring myself to pull apart the drawstring and sort through the contents of the pouch.

The ashes, I'm guessing, will remain sealed within the wooden "urn" which is, in turn, sealed within some larger packaging, for quite a while. But the clay paw print needs to be baked, and I need to get around to that before the last tangible vestige I have of Leo becomes, in the summer heat and humidity, just another lump of clay.

Which brings me back to my aversion to baking, the terrifyingly exact science. As I've been known to do with cookies -- even the kind that come pre-cut into oven ready discs -- I might overcook the precious imprint, burn the edges of the phantom toe pads. Or I might undercook it, only to have it crumble into my oven mitts.

Okay, enough excuses. The truth is I don't know how I'll react when I remove the clay from the pouch. The baking is the least of my problems.