Bea To Three

She was nameless when she came to us.

We were never quite sure of her exact age, either.

Adult spayed female. Mostly grey, with a white chin, gloves, boots, bib and belly.

She had a lovely little face that asked for wire rim glasses and delightful little Victorian hat. And of course, one could see her sipping tea. Holding the cup cradled between paws.

I would end up calling her Beatrice. Bea for short.

The boy, that owned her called her “Cat.”

He was an art student at Otis and roomed in the loft above us.

One of three or four spoiled nitwits that moved through the space that year.

I never liked art students. Looking back, I’m grateful to lack a proper “education” in the arts.

The obnoxious noisy hedonistic entitlement even put off my punk rock ass.

Trust fund babies are the worst. They don’t even make good artists.

Leo, the boy that owned “cat” seemed way too high and way too selfish to remember to care for her.

My two cats, Icky and Cosmo practically handed her an engraved

invitation for pets and snacks.

All day every day, enter through the cat door.

And that she did, making herself quite at home.

Once in a while, Leo would come looking for “Cat.” She’d be sitting on the coffee table or sofa with the other two. I’d point, he’d grab her they’d go back upstairs.

She’d be back down with us after he got high and passed out.

Leo once told us that he had given cat a hit of acid. This after he explained that he had to declaw her, because “furniture.” His family did it to all their cats.

I asked him why he gave the kitty a hit of acid.

“To see what it would do.”

I said, “Why don’t we hold you down and give you a cup of drano?

You know, to see what it will do?”

He laughed nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Am I?”

There’s a reason why my punk pals used to call me Scary Terri.

It was then that I knew he was not going to keep this lovely little creature. I would find a way to make her mine, to love her and keep her safe with Icky and Cosmo.

That opportunity showed up in June when all the boys in the loft above graduated. Leo was getting ready to pack up and go back to Texas. He and his co-dependent were going to drive and didn’t

want to take the cat. So he came down to our space and asked if I’d like to keep her.

I agreed. We’d take her and from now on, her name is Bea.

It would be roughly a month before the boys packed up and trekked back to the Lone Star State.

During that time they would get strung out on heroin. The building owners would start a process called pinking on the brick building we all lived in. Which would cause a lot of dust and kick up old fungus. In turn, triggering an asthma attack in Bea.

The trip to the vet with meds and oxygen treatment ran us upwards of $500. Which was one paycheck for me.

Once we got Bea sorted, she started to thrive.

Even catching a small bird to put on the wood block I was carving for printmaking. No small feat for a declawed kitty. She sat so proud on my work table.

A few days before Leo was about to leave for home, he dropped by. I could tell he was high. He asked me if he could have his cat back.

I said, “You know, that’s rather unfair to her and to us. She’s become a fixture around here. But if you truly feel like you cannot live without her, sure. You can have her back after you square up the vet bill.”

“What vet bill?” he asked.

I went and got the invoices from the kitty cat E.R.

“I’ll be nice. You owe me $500. Bea has asthma and needed steroids and oxygen. I won’t charge you for the food she’s eaten or the litter she uses. Okay?”

He looked at me, looked at the bill, looked at Bea sitting on my coffee table and conceded.

Leo then asked if I’d make some tapes of some of my music to listen to as he and the co-dependent drove back to Texas.

Two days later he came to collect the tapes and say good-bye.

We never heard from him again.

Jeff and I along with the three cats stayed another year and a half in the loft. And then we moved to a tiny house on a huge lot in Echo Park.

Indigenous neighbors from Mexico raised chickens and grew their own food. Their gardens were paradisal and all three cats were in heaven. It was quite a change from living in DTLA skid row adjacent.

Cosmo and Icky were the princes of the backyard. Sometimes they would harvest a small chickenfrom our neighbor's yard. I always felt bad about the kitties doing this. Maria would send her daughter Marcie down to tell me not to feed the boys so they would finish up what they killed. We always obliged, it was a beautiful practice and reverence for the nature of all beings.

Echo Park is a community of stairs and walk streets. Bea became the queen of the cul-de-sac, or front yard. She would park herself at the top of little Fargo near the stairs that took you up to the Preston Avenue cul-de-sac. Over time, she decided she liked our neighbor’s front porch.

It was across the street from us. So Bea had a view of our house and the steps to Preston Avenue. Our neighbor Karen, was an unstable drunk, but she loved cats. We weren’t the best of neighbors, we made concessions for Bea.

Breaking bread and the love of cats are the way to peace in this stupid world. At least it was on Fargo Street.

Karen’s cottage was one of two on a single lot. Steph & Andrew lived in the back house. They were artisans, from time to time hosting gatherings to promote their work. With limited parking guests would park up top on Preston and walk down the steps to their yard. Bea would either perch herself on their fence and gather pets from the guest going in and out. Or she would park herself at the top of the cul-de-sac and work it for all it was worth.

Everyone loved Bea. And she soaked it up.

Later on, another cat named Number 3 would take up where Bea left off.

Often, Bea would come and sleep on my chest. She usually tip-toed in when we were sleeping deep. Icky and Cosmo would be on the couch or a chair. Or outside in the back yard.

Waking early, and sensing her presence, I’d lay still and pet her. This was our time together.

It was also her gentle reminder to fill the bowls.

Like I said, we never knew Bea’s age. When asked, Leo was too high to give a straight answer. I figured she had to be at least 6 when we rescued her.

During the winter of '99, Bea came in from sitting across the street on Karen’s porch. She trotted through the cat door and walked across the kitchen to the living room dropping on the floor. It looked like she was having a seizure.

Not knowing what was happening, I dropped to her side and pet her.

She came around. Looked at me, one eye dilated. Getting up she went to eat, as if nothing happened.

I watched her for a few days and she seemed to be doing okay.

She’d eat, get some love and then go across the street to the neighbor’s porch. This was her routine until an afternoon in early autumn.

Bea, coughed out her last breath on Karen’s front porch.

Karen had panicked and run across to get us, saying something was wrong. We got there in time to say, “Aw, Bea…”

I picked her up and we took her back to our house. We wrapped her hand woven cloth with herbs and incense and a few cat toys.

Jeff dug a deep hole in the back yard and we placed her in it.

Icky and Cosmo her witnesses to a fond farewell.

That night, all the neighbors came around with drinks to celebrate the little grey cat.

Karen brought a casserole from Costco, not knowing what else to do. She was a mess between witnessing Bea’s passing and funeral protocols. I felt bad for her, even though it was my cat.

In good Irish fashion, we celebrated Beatrice late into the evening with lots of laughter and a few tears.

The yogi Sadguru says that “life” enters the corporeal 42 to 48 days

after conception. He also says that extraordinary beings may take a little longer, 84 to 90 days.

Buddhism says that reincarnation occurs in 49 days.

Other theories say that a soul —what ever that is— can take anywhere between 1 day and 300 years.

How are these numbers determined?

Who came up with this math?

Vasanas, karmic imprints, go around looking for the appropriate body. Whether that is human, animal or plant.

Stupid questions form in my mind. Are there Vasana Body Shops in every mall?

Reincarnation seems more like possession, to me. If you see my head spin a 360, call a priest.

Roughly a week after we buried Bea, I woke up to a warm purring body on my chest. Eyes still closed I reached to pet what I thought was Bea. When I realized I was actually petting a cat, I looked.

This wasn’t Bea. It was a small little tabby kitten. With a white muzzle, bib and belly. And a right eye with a dilated pupil.

I nudged Jeff.

“Look at this.” I said, petting the little one.

She hopped off the bed and went in the kitchen to eat with the boys. Icky and Cosmo, welcomed the kitten.

I got dressed and went across the street to see if my neighbors knew

who the kitten belonged to.

Turns out it was recently adopted by a family up the stairs on Preston Avenue. I returned the little one to them.

And every day for the next two weeks, this sassy little cat came down the stairs to my house where she would hang out with

Icky and Cosmo, lounge on the couch and eat in the kitchen.

A friend of ours asked me what I was going to name the cat.

Knowing the kitten wasn’t mine, I said, “I’m giving her a number so

we don’t become attached. She belongs to a family up the stairs.”

Yolanda, the adopter, would come down and ask me to keep her, saying, “I don’t think she likes my kids. They’re too rough with her.”

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

“We call her Whiskers, she doesn’t seem to like that either.”

I said, “We call her her Number 3.”

“Number 3 is yours now.”

Later on, Cucuy our Macaw would rename Number Three, “Happy Kitty.”

Jeff and I bought a house in 2001 and left Echo Park. Two years later a friend would leave her husband and room with us in the interim between deciding what to do. Go back or move on.

Along with her came a 4 year old. One morning they were talking about setting up a routine.

“Number one, wake up, go potty and wash your face.

Number two, brush your teeth.

Number Three—“

“Number Three is a CAT!” the little one interrupted.

That brat was a smart ass from the get go.

Shelter kittens more often than not, come with some sort of issue. Like feline dental disease, or chronic upper respiratory issues or worse, Feline Leukemia.

Number Three was a shelter kitten. Her mother exposed her to the virus, that remained dormant. Unbeknownst to us.

She would live to be 6, when the FLV would claim her.

We used to play around with the idea that Bea came back as Three.

Similar temperament. Similar shape. The dilated pupil, and the fact that the two boy cats accepted her without any fuss. Not to mention her attachment to me.

Is reincarnation real? As an agnostic atheist, I say no. There is no scientific proof, and the argument for it is always anecdotal.

The Bea/Three connection was more projection on my part than it was anything else.

And unless you are a cat with a loving owner, why the hell would you want to come back?