Beanie warming her mitts under the radiator
I loved how Tracy was with our cat Beanie. Beanie is enervating because she’s neurotic and needy, not at all warm and cuddly. She wants to be close but only intermittently wants to be petted. She’ll follow us around like a dog, roll over on her back with her paws in the air, and assume the position “it’s playtime!” looking cute as hell. But if you try to pet her eventually she’ll snarl and bite. I love her but I’m afraid of her. She’s wounded. That’s why I love her. She’s wounded in ways similar to me. Plus she complains a lot which I do too. Maybe she got traumatized when she was declawed – an extraordinarily painful process for cats. We picked her up from the shelter when she was about seven. Tracy wanted an older, black cat because they’re the ones who have the hardest time finding homes. That was Tracy – wanting to provide good homes for all living beings.
Beanie’s also a sun seeker. Our flat faces north and west. Beanie will locate whatever shards of sun that manage to find their way through the windows. It’s her form of massage. She’ll seek it, find it, and bathe. Again, like me. Part of why I moved to California from Chicago was figuring that if I was always going to be a depressed neurotic that I could at least find some solace in sunshine and natural beauty. Beanie will revel in the sun so long that she’ll get hot to the touch.
We were in the habit of putting her outside our bedroom for the night and closing the door. If we didn’t she would start crying and jump up on our bed in the middle of the night. Not wanting to be disturbed I thought it best to put her out. In the last year or so of her life Tracy would, first half-jokingly and then increasingly sincerely, plead with me to let her stay. “You don’t love her,” she’d say. Then she’d turn to Beanie. “Your Daddy doesn’t love you,” she’d explain with a wry smile. So I did let Beanie stay in our room on occasion. I couldn’t bear the thought of saying no to Tracy. But only until Beanie would invariably jump up on the bed and cry. Then I’d evict her for the night.
In the morning Beanie would sit a nose length away from the door, staring and crying. As if she ever were to take her eyes off it the door would open and close again before she had a chance. As soon as I let her in she would jump on the bed and sing, sing, sing (or whine, whine, whine, depending on your point of view) until she’d received sufficient petting from Tracy. “You really got your motorboat going today,” she’d say when Beanie was purring loudly. Beanie would hunker down in the narrow ledge between Tracy’s torso and the side of the bed and somehow rest there on the precipice.
She hardly left her side during Tracy’s last days. Tracy would fall asleep with her hand resting on her heavily. Beanie never made a move. I took pictures of them racked out side by side. She was really pissed when we had to throw her out in order to get Tracy moved from our bed to the hospital bed. Given all the comings and goings in and out of our bedroom over the subsequent 20 hours while Tracy died I don’t believe Beanie reentered the room again. No wonder she was pissed.
Projecting ourselves on to our pets is always dangerous. Yet I can tell Beanie is unhappy and confused at Tracy’s disappearance. She still cries at the door in the morning. I used to ask Tracy if she was ready for the onslaught before I opened the door to let her in. She almost invariably said yes. Now when I open the door Beanie looks disoriented, uncertain why no one is there on the bed to greet her. So she hightails it down the hall to follow me into my office. While I finish dressing I pet her a few times but it’s nothing like what she needs or what Tracy used to give her. She follows me into the kitchen where I myself am confused – too early to drink tea or take my pills I check on her food and water bowls. Then I stumble out to my meditation cushion for morning service.
In the past, especially when I did this between 5-6, she would leave me alone. At most she would wait until the last bell, about an hour later, and then come along, before Tracy was up, crying to be petted. Now she arrives on the first bell. So I often do the absolute no-no, what’s verboten in Rinzai Zen, and pet her for the first 5-10 minutes of my meditation until she nests comfortably on the plush zabuton between my zafu and my thighs. She usually rests peacefully for the next 35 minutes as I try to out-meditate her by remaining steadfast in my stillness and concentration. Now I’ve adopted the simple solution of setting my phone’s Insight Timer to five minutes of “warm up” before the starting bell rings.
She quickly got three small scabs just behind her right ear; I assume she inflicted these on herself from over scratching. During the rest of the day she’s more agitated than usual. Evenings Tracy and I used to reserve a spot for her on the couch between us with a blanket or furry cloth. One evening about a week after Tracy died she was especially restless, making an obnoxious racket. I petted her, encouraging her to lie down, but she snapped and tried to bite me. I reacted and hit her, knocking her off the couch. She has a special sensitivity to her right rear leg. I assume she was bitten, kicked or hit in that particular spot as a kitten. Like I said, we’re similarly wounded; we both react thoughtlessly to any perceived offense. In my right mind, I understand her misery and do whatever I can to minimize it. Right then I didn’t have the patience for her. Afterward I thought, “Now at least I’ll find out how long a cat’s memory lasts.”
Turns out it’s longer than you might expect. 20 minutes later, back on the couch, she flinched when I raised my hand to pet her. She scrambled down and was gone for the night. The next day (or was it the day after?), adjusting the couch blanket to straighten things for guests, I noticed a turd sitting on its back edge, flush with the back of the couch. Her complaint was duly noted.
The following night, assuming our usual couch potato positions with a freshly washed blanket, I turned to her and cautiously started petting. “Beanie we have to get along. It’s just the two of us now.” And then I sobbed. Fortunately, crying doesn’t seem to disturb her.
Now, as I write this, she is on the furry mat on the floor by my desk. She doesn’t spend much time in our bedroom anymore. This morning was the first time I can ever recall her not waiting at the door to get in. Instead, I found her resting on this very mat. I do my best to pet her as much as possible but it’s not the same and never will be. One thing is the same though. When I pet her right rear flank, near her back leg, she’ll still occasionally get triggered and try to bite me. Wounding and the reptile brain… they’re a powerful combination.
For her sake, I was afraid to wash the sheets, the pillowcases, and all of Tracy’s clothes. I knew the smell would bring her comfort. And it did. As soon as I took a scarf off the bureau that Tracy used a lot in her last days and placed it on her side of the bed Beanie took to sitting on it. This went on for a week or so. Faced with the choice of a lifetime of dirty sheets and clothes I finally did the right thing. I don’t know if cats can mourn the loss of the smell of their beloved masters. Though I tried and couldn’t smell Tracy in either, I certainly lamented. While washing them all I mourned losing her scent.
XXX