"Elvis is dead," said 8-year-old Emily. "Elvis died years ago," her father replied.
"Not your Elvis, 'my' Elvis." "Oh, your chinchilla."
"You never liked him, did you, Daddy?" "I'm not overly fond of pets that shit their own body weight on an hourly basis."
Emily ran out of the room.
That afternoon, family and friends were gathered around a rodent-sized hole in the garden.
Pallbearers Lucy, nine, and Cressida, seven, lowered Elvis into the hole. "Hubs, would you like to say something 'nice' about Elvis?"
Dave ignored his wife's shark eyes. "Elvis... he came, he saw, he shat."