death notices

Evening at the Chateau.
A handsome poet is quaffing coffee in the kitchen.
Enter my sister Marie stage left.
"Will I put the Dad's death notice in the Irish Independent or the Irish Times?" she asks me.
"I don't have a horse in that race," I answer.
"What do you mean?" sez she.
"They're both anti Catholic newspapers," quoth me. "The Irish Times wishes to impose Bolshevick dicatorship on Ireland, disguised as something it calls atheistic humanism. The Irish Independent seeks to establish the neo feudal worship of its proprietor Tony O'Reilly as the new State religion. If it was up to me the Dad's death notice would go in the Curate's Diary and nowhere else."
"James we need people to know about this," sez she.
"That's why I'm going to trust your judgement, Sister," quoth me. "And if I pop my clogs anytime soon and you get lumbered with organising my funeral, just bear in mind that I don't want any death notice in any anti Catholic rag. I'm including the Daily Mail and RTE in that by the way. I can't for the life of me see why Irish people insist on voluntarily paying a death tax to atheistic abortionist anti Catholic druggie hoor master newspapers every time we die. Why do we still force ourselves to finance the satanic hand that strikes us? I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns."
The sister sighed.
"Never change," sez she.
"I won't,"quoth me agreeably.
Exit the sister to the garden, and enter the lady millionairess stage right.
The lady millionairess was a lifelong friend of the Dad's.
"James I've got the wording of the death notice here," she informs me. "Will you take a look at it?"
"Whatever you've decided is okay with me," says I.
"But I'd like you to check it all the same," insisteth she.
I read the death notice.
It is good of its type.
Only a single phrase gives me pause.
The phrase comes in the final sentence of the notice listing the Dad's nearest and dearest.
We're all there.
His late wife Lilian, his late son John, the living members of the family, cousins, the lady millionairess herself, other friends, neighbours, etc etc.
But the key part right at the end reads: "... and not forgetting his beloved and constant companion Jess."
A poignant pallor comes into my piercing blue eyes.
A casual reader might be forgiven for thinking Jess was a sexy mistress and not a Wicklow collie sheepdog.
I briefly consider warning the lady millionairess of this possible interpretation.
Then I think: Ah what the hell, let it ride.
"That will do nicely," I tell her.
If you had been there, gentle travellers of the internet, you might have noticed a certain famous fleeting grin playing about my magnificent preraphaelite features.
I think the Dad was smiling too.