Not the medical examiner

Yesterday morning I got a call

from Jane. The first thing she said was, “What are you doing?” I told her that I was keeping the grandchildren until 10:30. Then I asked, “Why?” Well, she commenced to tell me how she had shot this raccoon that was in her garden, and how it had dragged itself into

one of her ornamental grasses, and she didn’t know whether it was dead or alive. If it was still in that grass and was dead, she wanted me to dispose of the body.
I told her to get a stick and dig around to see if she could find it, and that I would be there when I could.
A little later she sent me a text, and what follows is a record of our digital conversation.

When the grandchildren went home, I went to Jane’s to find that the raccoon had in fact succumbed

while trying to exit the ornamental grass.

So, Jane brought me a shovel, and I put the raccoon

on the back of the golf cart turned funeral coach, which…

seemed to grick Jane out.
We rode to the place where the body was catapulted to its final resting place.
Then Jane asked, “Did you see where it was shot?” I said, “No, I’m the funeral director, not the medical examiner.”