Writing the post about my mother’s bequeathals made me think about what I will leave my totally unsuspecting beneficiaries. The booty is sure to change depending on the timing of the departure because I intend to spend every ill-gotten dime on cruises and pool boys. But, just for the sake of argument, let’s say that next week I’m soundly thumped on the noggin by a meteorite.

My worldly goods might be better described as worldly odds & ends. To begin, there is the livestock issue. Sundance, being a parrot by trade, is sure to outlast me. I’m thinking Linda better get to liking the feel of little bird feet better than this photo indicates.

Then there is my horse. Oh, not a real steed that can be put out to pasture. Not a figurine to be tucked away by the recipient in the same cabinet with the film camera, the card shuffler, the Suzanne Somers Thighmaster, and anything else that will never again see the light of day. It’s a full size carrousel horse, the real thing, carved in 1919. Not so easy to just plunk down in your living room, right? I mean, how many of you actually have an equestrian decorating theme?

However, the horse will be easier on the heir than my signed Dali print of Sharon ferrying souls to hell. I don’t really remember the part of The Divine Comedy that said the ferryman had cajones the size of bowling balls, but in this interpretation he does. And there is an agonized soul staring directly at them. For the beneficiary with a boudoir a la bordello, it’s perfect.

When you don’t have progeny, there’s a sense of freedom about what to leave to whom. I’ll have a dandy time selecting the lucky recipient for my multi-color sock collection, my Mavericks CDs, the complete No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, and the malevolent HDTV that defies my programming ability.

One thing I will definitely not leave behind is another pile of flesh to be shoveled into a hole in the ground. It’s cremation for this body. The only problem is that I’ve had it with hot flashes. Maybe by the time of my Famous Final Scene they will be able to freeze dry me to the size of a pea, take aim at yonder star, and jettison me off the back nine into the great beyond.

Note to Donna: Here’s a photo of the ruby thumbprint pitcher. I’m no expert on Depression glass – or even if this is the real McCoy – but I think it’s pretty.