© Bradley Jacoby
Beanie continued to show his intelligence and understanding in new ways each day. He would come when called, stop when scolded, and chat when spoken to. He squeaked to wake us, get fed, or solicit attention in excess of that currently on offer. We would often hold an outside door open for him so he could enjoy a small dose of the outdoors. A gentle word was all that was required for him to understand that this particular open door did not represent an invitation for egress.
Another surprise came when I realized Beanie loved to rough house. A cat? Rough house? He had already shown himself to be a big fan of the hiney rub, expressing his approval with a dance of sorts and a succession of squeaks. One night, though, I pursued it to an illogical, vigorous end and found Beanie squeaking hard before rolling on his back and brandishing his claws. The gear presentation was just part of the game, as a carefully executed poke or two would have him back on his feet for another round. If I stopped before he had had enough, I could expect a playful nip intended to provoke further "hostilities." I seem to recall cries of concern emanating from somewhere at the time, but Beanie and I would just shrug them off and return to our sparring.
Beanie's health continued to be excellent, despite his FIV. It was over nine years before he caught another cold. Then he came down with a much rougher one year later. The illness took him from us on the morning of August 26, 2006. A blood sample taken the day before suggested that the FIV virus had awakened. His immune system was completely destroyed and his liver had failed. He apparently had no right to be breathing, much less walking about. Tough little guy.
We are honored to have shared Beanie's company for some ten years and know that he treasured his time with us as well. Armed with this understanding, we now attempt to come to terms with this terrible loss. He will be sorely missed.