Samantha said she had set out to Saint Lucia to spread ashes.
“Oh,” said the technique instructor. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, it has been hard.”
“I’m sure. So, why Saint Lucia?”
“Well, her name was Stout.”
“Scout?”
“Stout, with a t.”
“Stout, sorry.”
“Because she was, you know, a chocolate Lab, on the chunkier side.”
Samantha was already at the point of tears, which was impressive.
“Would you like a tissue?”
“No, no, thank you.”
With this, she pulled a handkerchief out of her bosom and blew a wet one into it.
“Sorry, about Saint Lucia, I still don’t see the connection.”
“Saint Lucia is a major exporter of beer, and Stout is a kind of beer, so, naturally, there’s a poetry.”
“Oh, okay. So how did Stout die?”
“I find that question very insensitive, but I’ll answer it.”