Beana by Rebecca Plante

Beana was an exceptionally loving, sweet, generous kitty whom I first met in an animal shelter in Athens, GA in 1994. She had survived for six months in a shelter that used euthanasia because she was so affectionate and interactive, with her friendly trilling meow-chirp and her loud purr.

Besides her temperament, she was noteworthy for one of her ears, which was tiny and strangely shaped. Everyone who met her wanted to know why her ear was the way it was. She may have been around 14 (maybe older or a little younger) when I noticed that she was a touch thinner and seemed to be regurgitating any people food she got. Ultimately, she was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a rare cancer in people, dogs, and especially, in cats.

Her diagnosis came after several odd blood test results. (All her treatment was accomplished at the Cornell University Small Animal Hospital, with Dr. Jennifer Kim handling her care.) My biggest fears were whether the chemo would make her overtly sick or would cause her to suffer; whether I was doing the right thing by trying to prolong her life and keep her happy; and whether I would know when it was time to let go of her and to let her go gracefully.

Beana hated cars - her funny little ear also came with a busted eardrum, making her dreadfully carsick even on short drives. Her oncologist nicknamed her "Triple Threat," and I got over my embarrassment and simply began transporting Beana to the vet in a covered litter pan with the opening taped over. She would stick her little nose through the tape and try to lick whomever was carrying her pan. At first, Beana was just going to the vet for blood tests and occasional diagnostics; I was able to pill her at home. She took prednisone daily from her diagnosis until her last day, along with a chemotherapeutic agent I had to special order from a formulating pharmacy (they made her dosage into tiny capsules that were precisely measured, to solve the problem of imprecise pill cuts at home).

She took her pills virtually without complaint, making that aspect of her care a breeze. She had several remissions in the year following her diagnosis, giving us a few glorious weeks here and there without car trips, litter pan carriers, and vets. Eventually she relapsed sufficiently that the oncologist decided that Beana needed intravenous chemotherapy, which she received about once a week for several months. Beana tolerated all the forms of chemo exceptionally well, never having any overt distress, signs of illness, or upset.

One day I noticed that she seemed physically uncomfortable, unable to settle, rest, or knead until she fell asleep. I called the vet, who told me to watch her overnight; the next day she seemed back to normal, but her appetite, always healthy, had fallen off. Beana spent the last couple weeks of her life dealing with constipation, suppressed appetite, thirst, and the attendant medications prescribed for these issues! When the vet finally told me that it was time, I spent a couple of hours with Beana, telling her what a good kitty she was, how much I loved her, and what a good friend she had been to me (and I was comforted to know that Dr Kim was very sad as well). As Dr Kim gave her the final chemicals, Beana began to purr. I held her on my lap for fifteen minutes while she gave me the comforting gift of a purring vibration that somehow, miraculously, persisted after she had gone. She gave me many many other gifts while she was here. The picture shows her in one of her favorite positions, snuggling up to me. She would, about once a month, spontaneously approach me, arrange herself on my lap and chest, hugging me and gazing up at me.

In the last year of her life, I learned a lot about patience, about unconditional love, about caretaking with joy, and about making every moment meaningful. Beana gave the sweetest kind of love and companionship, and I now volunteer at a shelter so that I can keep the flow of love unbroken.