I've always found myself in a peculiar state of internal conflict when it comes to embracing the entire Pet Cemetery phenomenon.
On one hand, it's undeniably disheartening to realize that you're amidst a multitude of departed pets—creatures that once terrorized the mailman, turned your pristine carpet into a makeshift bathroom, and executed flawless kitchen raids when you least expected. Yet, on the other hand, it's hard not to curiously revel in the ornate graves, humorous epitaphs, and, let's admit it, the downright absurdity of the whole spectacle. Whichever way you wag your tail, Catalina Island boasts a rather impressive final resting place that beckons for a visit. That is, of course, if you happen to have a peculiar fascination for the dearly departed denizens of the animal kingdom.
To truly grasp the peculiarity of this place, a bit of context about the unique landmass this field of furry and fuzzy death occupies is in order: Catalina Island. Positioned 22 miles off the Newport Beach coast, Catalina is renowned for its ritzy sailing scenes, top-notch golfing, and a throng of tourists hunting for the elusive California buffalo. Cars are a rare sight on the island, and that's a breath of fresh air for folks like me from Los Angeles who are accustomed to the sweet and calming sounds of grating engine noise all day. Instead, everyone zips around in golf carts, turning daily life on the island into a perpetual loop of the movie Caddyshack (or at least that's how I like to imagine it). Given this idyllic backdrop, it's downright bizarre to fathom that something as grim as THIS would find a home here, and rest assured, it's not featured in any of Catalina's glossy tourism brochures.
Adding to the eccentricity, the cemetery is nestled in a secluded corner of town, on the way to Catalina's illustrious Wrigley Memorial—a nod to the gum magnate himself (!). The cemetery is slyly tucked away, with no prominent signage, making it easy to whiz past at the breakneck speed of 20 mph in your souped-up golf cart, completely oblivious to its morbid existence. Yet, I implore intrepid souls to pause for this macabre detour and immerse themselves in one of the island's quirkiest offerings—aside from buffalo milk, the island's libation of choice.
And what lies in store are a series of graves—the exact type of stone graves that you and I will inevitably occupy one day, albeit with a tad more pizzazz, personality, and a generous dose of creativity in the nomenclature department. I'm pretty certain that my final resting place won't feature a tombstone proudly declaring, "Rex the Mighty: He ate the whole thing," but the distinguished clientele of this cemetery could very well earn such an honor.
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Some are heartfelt
Others, they're leaning into it.
There are also some messages that pose more questions than answers
and this
What's particularly odd is that, given Catalina's relatively modest population of about 4,000, the chances of every pet on the island ending up here are surprisingly high. Picture taking your dog for a morning stroll past this cemetery, fully aware that good old Baxter is gazing at his forever home alongside his canine comrades. It's a bit twisted, sure, but let's not forget that these pampered pets are securing a more luxurious burial than many humans across the globe have had. Besides, the nearby ocean and coast offers better views than any of my departed Ohio forefathers will ever experience in their final resting place.
The graveyard's location is quite picturesque, a far cry from some of the dilapidated death spots scattered across these pages. Enveloped by twisty trees and scattered leaves, the plot exudes a serene vibe as you wander around admiring the eclectic final resting places. There are even charming benches to sit on and reminisce about all those times Ginsberg the Chihuahua inadvertently bit his own crotch.
Also, if pet cemeteries are your thing (You sick bastard! How dare you) you should also check out the Beverly Hills of dead animal sanctuaries.
