So, I need to tell you about my little buddy Bean. Even if you’re not a “cat person.”
Especially if you’re not a “cat person.”
I met Bean in 2004, back when I wasn’t much of a cat person, either. (I didn’t have anything against them- I just happened to be 24 years of age and was doing fairly well being a Keely Person, to tell the truth.)
But my boyfriend at the time had grown up with cats, and constantly told me how great it would be to get one. Two, in fact, because it’s kinder that way. After all, we were both actors, both pulled crazy hours, and both liked the Beatles song ‘Two of Us.’
So we met these foster kitties at this nice gal’s home. There were four in the kitchen when we arrived; two multicolored babies, one tiger cat, and a tiny ball of grey fluff with a face. (There had been a little girl in the litter but she’d been fostered out earlier.) The gal said they were trying to pair these two bonded sets off, so we sat on the kitchen floor and watched them interact. The two multicolored ones did things like run into the door and table legs and tackle each other. (I wasn’t hugely impressed.) I pointed to the tiger-striped tabby prowling the tops of the cabinets and asked who that cutie pie went with; she pointed to the grey fluffball.
I reached over and picked him up with one hand and, settling him on my lap, contemplated adopting something that was more Furby than feline.
And then he sneezed.
And then he fell asleep from the exhaustion of the sneeze.
And then my heart splatted on the floor and I contemplated shoving him into my pocket and taking right the heck off with him.
(But first there were mountains of paperwork and a startling amount of background checks and even a few phone calls to the families for whom I nannied, asking things like “Would you trust her with a cat?” And when the parents replied that, yes, she was entrusted with the care of their respective babies, they were asked again “But what about with a cat?”)
We named him Bean- and his brother Ender- and, even though he was nothing like Orson Scott Card’s sci-fi/fantasy giant, he made a darned loyal sidekick for his brother, a striped protagonist if ever there were one. (We named Bean’s monstrously large, fluffy tail Julian Delphiki, because it was deserving of its own moniker. ‘Ender’s Shadow,’ anyone?)
The first night I owned him I slept upright, tiny Bean kitten cupped in my hands, because I was terrified he’d slip behind the headboard and die he was so small. I promised him I wouldn’t let him fall down and die which, admittedly, is a weird promise to make to someone you’ve just met.
He was cheerful. He was confused. He was in possession of zero self-preservation skills. (A good friend once remarked that Bean was the only kitten with as much soft fluff between his ears as on the outside of them.)
For a few years there he was everybody’s kitty, and a slew of Chicago twenty-somethings all had their own Bean story. Like when he’d freak everybody out by posing like roadkill around a doorframe, or proudly claim the lap of the one person at each party who was deathly allergic to and/or disliking of cats. (That said, whenever I’d try to remove him, the person whom Bean had claimed would usually insist that it was fine, that Bean wasn’t that allergy-inducing, that ohmyGodBeanwassosoft.)
His vet referred to him as a baby bunny. Maybe he was part baby bunny.
And when my boyfriend moved to New York and graciously decided I should keep the kitties with me (because it would have broken my face to be parted from them), I met another boy who wasn’t really a “cat person.”
But the cats were apparently “P.J. cats.” Because shortly after that they swiftly changed allegiance from me to Team P.J/Can P.J. Feed Us/Let’s Sleep On P.J.’s Neck. (Spoiler: P.J. became a cat person.)
The cats moved into our new apartment with us, Bean not being so sure about the whole thing (but watching his brother to make sure Things Were Okay). They slept in sunny patches together and made great lap cat quilts with their bodies while we watched ‘Best Week Ever’ and ‘Carnivale’ and endless ‘Law & Order’ marathons. The kids I nannied for carried Bean around like a doll and, although he was slightly confused, he was pretty happy about it. And three years later the cats moved with us into our rambling, falling-down house and preceded to live under the laundry room sink for a good week (until Ender let Bean know that Things Were Okay).
And then we brought home a baby.
And Bean was cheerful and confused- and, okay, a little bit more confused- but soon dug how much more often we were home to lay about on the couches so he could lay about on laps.
It was pretty great.
We kept bringing home babies, and those babies started thinking of Bean as their own kitten. He let them. He let them carry him around like a doll and tuck him into their beds and draw his picture on every surface imaginable. Our middle girl decided that she was more of an “older cat person,” since they liked to just sit and chill and so did she.
Bean was definitely becoming an Older Cat, but he was still (mostly) cheerful and only a slight bit confused about it.
And when we brought tiny Arthur Dent kitty into the trio, Bean was the first to welcome him into the fold.
Even though Arthur panicked and swiped at Bean’s face- and Bean retreated into utter confusion for the rest of the day- Bean was still the sole welcome wagon on the cat side of things. (Ender definitely did not feel like Things Were Okay, and when Arthur quickly gave Bean some sort of rough kennel cold, we momentarily found ourselves siding with Ender.)
Slowly, slowly, they became a cautious trio. And then we found ourselves really, really liking how we were a family that had a (cautious) trio to go hand -in-paw with our kiddo trio.
But Bean, who’d long had a problem tooth and a slight heart murmur and a frame that signified a less-than-stalwart constitution, got older and sicker and weaker.
When his vet gently told us that Bean had a fast-growing mouth carcinoma, we were devastated. Not blindsided, but still devastated. She asked us if we wanted to try medicines and treatments and surgery, but her eyes gave us the answers we needed.
We shouldn’t put this little guy through anything more than we had to.
And, after all, I had promised him I wouldn’t ever let him fall down and die.
P.J. found a wonderful doctor who offered in-home kitty hospice(!) and end-of-life options. (Side note: I am highly aware that my sweet, sweet kitten was offered a more humane end to his life than my own father was. Food for thought. Banquets for thought.)
So. After making the most unfair decision that we’ve ever had to make- and after prepping our kids to always hug and kiss Bean and tell him how much you love him every single time you leave the house– we started our goodbyes to Bean.
I won’t get into the gories because a) I can’t, and b) Jesus Christ, I can’t, but I will say that when the moment came for Bean to receive a sedative, he rested his head on P.J.’s shoulder and looked me in the eyes. P.J. held his body and I cradled his little head and he drifted to sleep with more grace than I had ever seen that cat possess in his entire fourteen years of living.
Also.
And this is one thousand percent true.
Right before it was time for him to go, I swear to God I felt my Dad’s comforting hand on the back of my neck. I looked at P.J. and said “My Dad’s here” and P.J. whispered “I know,” and we both turned into weep-buckets.
But I was able to later tell my kids in all truthfulness: My Dad came to get Bean for me.
And I’m extraordinarily grateful.
***INAPPROPRIATE SIDE STORY***
A lot of ridiculously sad things happened immediately afterwards (like, even though Ender and Arthur were there with Bean and later saw us take him outside, they’re still sadly sitting on his things and looking at us imploringly) and that night with our kids (Jasper wailing “I’ll never see Bean again until I get to heaven and I don’t even know when that is because HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD BEAN IS JUST DEAD” was a personal highlight), but I have to share this stupid, stupid moment from the crematorium.
Because yes, Chicago has a pet crematorium and no, you can never tell my kids that.
I had wrapped Bean in a soft fleece blanket for the ride to the crematorium- which, it should be noted, is attached to a major People Cemetery. This is so important to note.
P.J. had spoken to the man who would be taking care of Bean for us, and he had asked us to bring Bean through to the flower shop. He was lovely. He had a great, gentle manner.
The lady at the front desk- whom, I’m assuming, generally worked on the People Cemetery side of things- did not have a great, gentle manner.
“Oh my God, what is that,” she asked as she pointed to Bean’s tail protruding from the blanket. (I mean, yes, he had a large tail, but…what? You legit work in a Death Place. Tone it down.)
I wasn’t super good at speaking words just then, so P.J. politely told her it was our cat who had just passed away, and we had been told to bring him through the flower shop.
“But like, what is it,” she- weirdly- continued, pointing at his tail. “I’ve never seen a tail like that on a dog.”
“No…” said P.J., his ever-affable politesse beginning to, I dunno, sag a little at this point, “it’s a cat. I don’t know what kind he was, pretty much just a mutt.”
“A what?” Her voice was raised at this point.
“A CAT,” P.J. brightly responded.
I swear to God the lady recoiled and ran to the other side of the counter again.
“Oh my God, I hate cats, I’m terrified of them!”
P.J. and I smiled blankly at each other.
Cool, cool, we nodded to each other. So we should just, like, leave our cat over here by the window, then?
Cool.
(We later spoke on the phone with the guy in charge and he assured us that Bean was being well-cared for. And maybe it was just the bourbon, but I was pretty sure at that moment that I believed him.)
***
Sure, okay, that’s a really nutso way to end a story about a beloved pet, but when that beloved pet is also nutso in a really weird way, it just feels right.
Confused and cheerful usually, eventually, find their way back to one another during the times when Things Aren’t (Entirely) Okay.
Rest well, little buddy Bean. You were a Very Good Boy.
And we’ll miss you so, so much.
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