They had 19 happy years together until Bogus galloped to the end of life's trail in 2009 when he died July 7. But he didn't leave his owner's side for long. The ashes of Bogus now reside in a 23-by-16-by-11-inch Amish custom-crafted oak box. It bears a brass plaque with his name and dates and carved cowgirl touches such as a lasso, riding boots, hat and saddle.
“He was born free and is free again,” says an inscription. Christianson means every word and likes the idea that not only all dogs, but all pet creatures great and small go to heaven, where those who loved them will see them again.
“I'm hopeful about that,” she says. “I really am.”
In the meantime, Christianson says giving their pet horse, pony, dog, cat, bird, lizard or whatever a decent send-off provides devoted pet owners such as herself a sense of closure and a way to memorialize their furry, feathered or scaly friend. That's the guiding principle behind Christianson's Companion Cremations, a business started nine years ago with her husband, Richard, and based out of their five-acre homestead in Waynesville.
Operating in a 50-mile sweep that includes Decatur and many surrounding towns, (and statewide for horses), they will come and pick up you dead pet and cremate them for you. If you only want to live with the memory and never see the cremains, the service stops there; straight cremation prices range $20 to $35 for smaller pets and up to $400 for a horse.
But many owners do want the constituent dust of their favorite of God's creations to return to them, and the Christianson's are happy to oblige.
They will hand-deliver the mortal residue in wooden cremains boxes available in various sizes and with all kinds of personalization. Inclusive prices range from $75 to $500, depending on the size of the animal. The cost includes nice little detail touches like a gold-embossed “Certificate of Cremation” listing the pet's name, owner's name, and when he or she “was taken on a final journey.” On the back will be a poem, targeted at the animal involved.
One recently cremated pony named Mr. Banana Pants, for example, has a certificate quoting these words by author Stanley Harrison:
“... somewhere in time's own space, there must be some sweet pastured place, where creeks sing and tall trees grow, some paradise where horses go. For by the love that guides my pen, I know great horses live again.”
“We want to provide the kind of service we'd accept for our own pets,” says Richard Christianson, 65. “And we want to do it at a price that's affordable; we don't want people to feel like they were raked over the coals.”
How does someone get into the pet cremation business? Bonnie Christianson had been working on the production line at the Mitsubishi Motors plant in Normal when a layoff ended her personal production run in 2004. She begun casting around for a good entrepreneurial career opportunity, and her husband spotted an article about the pet cremation business in a magazine.
“The idea didn't do anything for me at first,” she says. “And others said it would never fly.”
But the deeper the Christiansons sifted the facts, the more they realized the venture wasn't just so much hot air: Pet cremation turned out to be a solid business opportunity tapping a need for owners to deal with their grief and dispose of their best friend. The couple had to make a hefty investment in cash and time to get the equipment and the various complex licensing and planning approvals needed, but they had their first crematorium – big enough to take a horse – up and running by the end of 2006.
Richard Christianson, a Mitsubishi production worker himself for 24 years who managed to retire in 2013 before the plant went belly up, runs the cremation service full time. His wife, who also has a day job in the office of a veterinarian, works the family business every spare hour she gets. They both do critter pickups and returns with Richard Christianson, these days assisted by a hired employee, operating the diesel-powered cremation machines that hit temperatures of 1,400 degrees.
And that is now “machines” in the plural, having worn out and replaced the original big cremator and added two smaller ones to cope with increasingly heated demand.
“Our business has far surpassed what everybody, including me, thought it would ever do,” Richard Christianson says. “And serving people like this, it really gives us so much satisfaction. I think this was God's calling for us.”
That calling extends to extensive customization, right down to redistributing beloved ex-pets however their owners want. Christianson recalls one very particular owner whose cat had to be returned with its cremains divided among seven small urns.
“They put one in each room of their house,” he says. “They just liked the idea of the cat always being in the same room they were in.”
(Herald & Review - Jan 18, 2016)
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