Weimat finished dusting the animal headed Coptic jars on their display shelves and rearranging various tiny sarcophagi of simulated metal and plastic wood against the pegboard 'coffin' wall. He swiveled his long muzzle around, inspecting the showroom.

Spot lights gave a somber light to an L-shaped anteroom with swirl patterned, red bordered floor carpeting, heavy stuffed chairs, wall paintings of enlightened meadows along with flower arrangements of realistic plastic inserted into waist high vases. Real flowers being astronomically expensive. The near center of the room had a gilded, locked door obscured behind an accounts desk. The stained oak desk being further camouflaged behind a tall fern plant and flanking jars. Around the far side of the anteroom, behind heavy curtains, lay the small temple room for Services.

Velvet like, sound adsorbent paneling muffled city noise beyond the heavy glass entry doors of the Apophis Non-Denominational Funeral Home. Actually a shop along a busy city avenue.

Weimat idly adjusted his 'kilt'. An Egyptian shendyt in white with faded red dye stripes. A quick glance at his arms to verify his oddly colored pelt, dark with bluish undertones, had no odd splotches. Fur still well groomed, and dust free. A canine in a costume emphasizing his role as a showroom Anubis. A sales dog for the grieving when they came in to discuss arrangements for the ceremonial disposal of the departed.

The young Ibizan hound's height, lean build, short pelt, jackal like ears and long tail made employment almost instantaneous when the college dropout had walked by the Apophis a month earlier.

Mr. Potter, the owner of the funeral shop, had been standing outside at the time. Wearing an ebony minister's frock laced with the distinctive tang of preservative chemicals. Cheap, eratz tobacco cigarette dangling between incisors. The rat had taken one look at the passing dog and literally snatched him off the sidewalk with a job offer.

With the economy in a permanent recession, Weimat accepted the showroom job. The only snag being required to dye his brown and white pelt with blue black food coloring once a week. It made for some awkward stares when he went home on the subway. At least he didn't have to deal with the gruesome preparation of 'clients'. As that was Mr. Potter's profession.

"Tink tingle!"

Weimat's ears snapped upright, radar dishing towards the opening front glass door bell. He discretely slid the duster into a hollow tube under a shelf. He turned around, standing erect as the frame-less, glass door opened. An elderly cat lady stepped past the threshold. Discordant traffic and construction noises roared in like a hurricane.

Statue still, Weimat wore a dignified expression on his muzzle, patiently waiting for the hydraulic damped door to close.

Stillborn Silence.

"Good day Madam." He said to his first customer since taking the job.

"Good day to you young dog." Replied the elderly feline.

Gray tabby in appearance and dressed in a modest blue dress. Her neck had a pearl necklace and pendant that seemed appropriate to someone with more expensive tastes in clothes. She was leaning on a cane, weight shifting back in forth in a spry manner. Her head was almost silver in color.

She glanced around, yellow slit eyes pausing to glance at the Coptic Jars. "How convenient to have your place so close to mine."

"In what way Madam?" Weimat replied.

The cat raised her cane, pointing the tip towards the glass entry door. "I moved into the condo across the street just a week ago, " striped tail switching. Her balance without the cane seemed impeccable.

"And today, I just noticed your business from my balcony."

She ceased talking. Pausing to glance at one of the paintings for a while. Fixing her attention to towards the Fern plant and tall jar obscuring the Accounts desk. Leaning onto her cane again.

She suddenly spoke. "I will be needing your services. Call it planning."

"Madam? May I inquire your name?"

"You can call me Joan Silver."

"Joan, are you thinking ahead for yourself when it's time to take The Future Journey?"

"Oh. Not yet. Not for quite a while," she pulled her lips in a sharp grin. Which faded suddenly.

"It's for my husband," her tail switched. "He's...passed on so suddenly."

Weimat offered his sympathies as required by his job. Pausing after his condolences, then added, "And what services would you care for? There are choices, Joan, in which you can remember your loved one."

"Do you still do Cremation?"

Weimat nodded. "Rather than subject the departed to fire. We have the ability to condense your loved one into a powder most pure and memorable for a relic container. Followed by a memorial service that can be hosted here or at a temple of your choice."

The dye colored dog paused. Allowing time for his words to sink in. Thankful that his sales pitch training had insisted he avoid describing the technical details of high pressure, alkaline driven chemical breakdown and flash evaporating a corpse into shattered powder. Burning had been outlawed.

"That sounds suitable," Joan replied. "Can I see a price list?"

Weimat hesitated. Thinking of the training sessions with Mr Potter. Where one had to slowly steer the customer away from pricing and gently reel the grieving towards various plans and Coptic Jar choices. Naturally to higher priced options as well as gently suggested mini Sarcophagi and profitable burial plots.

Before he could begin his sales pitch, Joan Silver strode over to the accounts desk partially hidden behind the fern plant and jar. And just as swiftly, plucked out the price sheet that normally lay under a cover brochure.

Oh crap, Weimat thought to himself, I forgot to hide it!

"Mrs. Silver. Allow me to tell you of our.."

"Good gravy, hold your Egyptian horses. I just need to see how much it'll cost."

Holding the sheet, she tapped a clawed finger on a line. "I like this one. Item 2B, Beige Coptic Jar. Along with basic chemical freeze drying, unclothed."

She looked up. "Perfect for a cheapskate spouse. Don't you think?"

"Madam, I..."

"Call me by my name. Can I take this as a copy?"

"Mrs. Silver, there's the matter of arrangements."

"Don't worry, my spouse's accounts lawyer is due to arrive this afternoon to deliver the final separation papers. He'll be told to contact you with the particulars."

She suddenly purred, then cut the happy sound off. Twirled and strode off towards the door.

"Wait! What about..."

She turned around. "Do you mean Mr. Silver? I'm sure things will come as they may. Good day young dog."

With that, Joan Silver opened the glass door and left. Leaving a jaw agape Weimat.

He eased to the door, looking through the glass, watching the elderly cat stride across the street towards a high rise condo. Shouldering her cane, she entered the building just as a deliver van pulled up on the street in front of the building's brass entryway, blocking Weimat's view.

He heard the gilded door next to the accounts desk opening behind him. The door led to the processing part of the Funeral home. A greyish rodent wearing green surgical smocks walked out.

"Weimat! I just noticed on the monitor you had our first walk-in this month. How'd it go?"

Weimat's tail sagged. "I'm sorry Mr. Potter. I screwed up."

He gave an account of the odd conversation with Joan Silver.

Mr Potter listened, saying nothing as Weimat wrapped up his summary. The green smocked rat leaned over the accounts desk, snagging a toothpick from a bamboo holder and walked over to the glass entryway. He stood there for a while, rubbing the toothpick against an incisor.

He said at last, "Hmm. Maybe I should call the pol...," and stopped. Then turned around, making his way to back to the accounts desk. Shrugging. "Nope. It's not our affair."

"Mr. Potter, was there anything wrong with the way I did the sales script?"

"Dog," snorted the rat. "You just don't get it. She picked us because we're so damn cheap and quick. It's something you'll learn as you get older."

"What do you mean? She's not coming back."

Outside, there was a loud, muffled WHOMP!

The pair rushed to the glass doorway and walked out.

Across the street, the parked van's roof sagged like a collapsed cake. Atop the deliver van, a black furred arm, bloody felid face and tail draped over the damaged side.

Mr. Potter looked skywards towards the condo balconies. Then at the van.

"I think Mr. Silver has just dropped by."

© 2013 Sirius Dogfire ("SiriusDF"). May not be reprinted, re-posted, or redistributed without permission. A shorter version of this story appeared in the January 14, 2010 Thursday Prompt series hosted on FurAffinity during Poetigress's journal.