Standish and Bean by Aaron F. Schnore

Two very different cats, whose owners take them to the vets at the same time every year, form an unlikely friendship.

Image generated with OpenAI

I.

The waiting room of the Happy Paws Veterinary Clinic was bright and scrubbed, with blanched wood floors and animal prints in plastic frames. Near the reception desk, a coffee maker gurgled. The smell of stale coffee mingled with the sharp aroma of antiseptic.

The door opened and The Grand Dame entered, swinging an expensive pet carrier in her manicured hand. The carrier itself was cylindrical and emitted a faint, pulsing hum. Its transparent casing was spotless, every bolt, bushing, and LED light installed with precision.

Inside, a regal Oriental Shorthair sat upright on his haunches, tail neatly coiled around his paws. His coat was pale and sleek, smooth as porcelain. His ears were oversized and sharply angled, rising from his skull like twin sails, alert to the slightest sound.

The cat's name was Standish. With a level stare, he scanned the waiting room like Cato the Elder surveying Carthage.

After checking in at the front desk, The Grand Dame set the carrier down in one smooth motion. With her Gucci flats pressed squarely on the floor, she held an iPhone to her ear. "Jean-Pierre," she said. "It's me. Look, it is a lovely community garden, but you know my motto: gentrification means progress, not punishment."

The door opened again. The Artist entered, carrying a paper shopping bag that sagged under its own weight. One handle was torn. The paper crinkled as something inside shifted.

"Those hipsters can enjoy their tomatoes and Pabst Blue Ribbon for two more weeks," The Grand Dame continued. "Then construction starts. End of story."

The Artist shot her a look from across the room.

Quietly, The Grand Dame concluded, "Call me later. Ciao."

The Artist set the grocery bag down carefully beside Standish's carrier, then slumped into the nearest chair. She wore a thrift-store flannel and scuffed combat boots. A faded Yankees cap was pulled low over her eyes. Unwashed blonde hair spilled out beneath it. She groaned audibly.

A fuzzy, bullet-shaped head rose from the shopping bag like a periscope. The mixed-breed cat had dark gray fur, the color of a battleship. Two blazing yellow eyes locked onto Standish. A fresh cut zigzagged across the bridge of the gray cat's nose.

His name was Bean.

Standish blinked at the ragged gray cat in the bag. Bean hissed.

Standish recoiled. "How rude!"

"Lighten up," Bean said. "That's just how we say hello where I'm from."

"And where would that be?"

"You know the dumpsters behind the park?"

Standish paused. "I do not," he said.

Bean studied him. "You're an indoor cat. Aren't you?"

"I prefer the term domesticated," replied Standish. "And, yes, The Grand Dame and I live in a spacious brownstone. It's quite charming. Originally, I hail from a reputable breeder in Canada. TICA and CFA certified, naturally."

Bean tilted his head. "Did those ears cost extra? You could cover Yankee Stadium with those things."

Bean laughed. Standish did not.

"Modestly oversized ears," Standish said coolly, "are a defining characteristic of my breed: the Oriental Shorthair. And they are perfectly proportioned."

Bean licked his paw and touched his injured snout with a wince. "I like your spaceship," he said.

Standish straightened. "This is the Caldera Clima-Pod 5000," he said. "Hand-crafted in Germany. Climate controlled. Titanium-reinforced frame. Independent airflow zones." He shifted slightly inside, the carrier responding with a soft whir. "And a memory foam mattress."

Bean leaned forward in the bag to peer at it. "Must've cost a fortune."

"The Grand Dame's remuneration allows for such luxuries," Standish said. "Where, may I ask, did you acquire your most curious mode of transportation?"

"Food Town."

"Well," said Standish, "historians say Hannibal crossed the Alps in a wicker basket."

Bean perked up. "Hannibal? You mean the big orange bodega cat by Grand Army Plaza? One eye? Likes string cheese?"

Standish exhaled. "Yes. The very same."

Bean looked around. "I've never been to this shelter," he said. "Looks nicer than most."

"Shelter?" Standish snorted. "No. This is a veterinary clinic. An excellent one at that."

Bean's ears flattened. "I'm at the vet's?"

"Yes. Likely for routine care. Preventive medicine. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"Not if we make a break for it," Bean said in a low voice.

"You mean... escape?" Standish stammered. "Absolutely not."

"As they open your cage, we bolt," Bean said. "I distract. Scratch, bite. How's your hiss?"

"I do not hiss," Standish said, the word sour on his tongue.

"Fine. You run."

"There will be no running, either," Standish insisted. "I am here for my biannual dental cleaning."

"Dental?"

"And a bath."

Bean shuddered. "I've never taken one of those."

Standish leaned forward and sniffed. "You don't say."

Nearby, The Artist rocked on the bench, a Clinton-era cell phone pressed to her ear, the screen webbed with cracks. "You're wrong," she whispered. "Having a cat will make me more responsible. I'll drink less. I'll make more art. I swear." She paused. "Just please don't tell Mom and Dad about Bean. Promise?"

On the floor, Standish studied Bean's nose. "You're injured."

"The other guy looks worse."

"You quarreled with another cat?"

"Dog," Bean said. "Mean one."

A metallic door opened behind the desk. A vet tech poked her head out. "Bean?"

The Artist snapped awake and lifted the grocery bag. Bean ducked down as the paper crinkled. As she carried him away, Bean popped back up and hissed at Standish - sharp, theatrical.

As the barbaric gray cat disappeared, Standish recalled a Civil War documentary he had watched recently on The History Channel.

"I do not like that cat," he thought, paraphrasing Abraham Lincoln. "I must get to know him better."

---

II.

Standish arrived first.

Everything was the same at the Happy Paws Veterinary Clinic as it had been a year ago. Same waiting room. Same chairs. Bright. Scrubbed. Unchanged.

Standish reclined inside his Caldera Clima-Pod 5000 as if posing for a portrait. Posture calm. Paws tucked with ceremonial neatness. But his eyes flickered as he watched the door. Waiting. The Grand Dame was, as usual, on her iPhone, composing a message that would alter the fate of another block of affordable Brooklyn real estate.

When the door finally opened, Standish knew from the smell that it was him. Bean. The ill-mannered, hissy dumpster cat.

But it wasn't Bean's scent that alerted him to his arrival. It was The Artist's.

She looked worse than before. Smelled worse, too. Clothing hung from her hunched shoulders like a flannel-shrouded scarecrow. Her hands trembled as she carried a plastic carrier toward the receptionist's desk. It had once been clear; now the casing was clouded and gouged with scratches and grime. Duct tape secured the handle to the lid.

An upgrade over the shopping bag, thought Standish. Barely.

The Artist lifted the carrier.

The handle snapped off.

The carrier hit the floor with a bang.

"Fuck!" she yelled.

Inside the cage, Bean was five pounds of sinew and bone, his gray fur dull and matted, speckled with dried flecks of paint. His ribcage jutted from his sides. A flea collar dangled around his neck.

But the greatest indignity was the muzzle strapped to his face. Bean looked like a feline Hannibal Lecter.

Bean's yellow eyes met Standish's. He tried to hiss, but the muzzle prevented it. All he could manage was a thin, strangled sound, something between a wheeze and a whistle. Standish laughed before he could stop himself.

Bean narrowed his eyes. "Something funny?"

"I was just admiring your restraint," Standish replied. "A bold fashion choice."

Bean pressed his forehead against the rust-corroded grate. "They said I have to wear it because of what happened last time."

"Last time?" Standish echoed. "You didn't bite Dr. Ramirez - did you?"

Bean didn't answer. He just stared.

"My goodness," said Standish. "You are an incorrigible one."

Bean eyed Standish in his Pod. "What are you here for?" he asked. "Another bath? Getting fitted for a new foam mattress? Maybe get those gigantic ears chopped off?"

"My biannual advanced oral imaging exam," Standish said, with a yawn. "And a consultation about switching to a new brand of spring water. The Grand Dame says the current kind makes me... gassy."

Bean blinked. "Gassy?"

Standish twitched his tail. "And what brings you in today?"

"I'm here to get..." Bean looked around, then lowered his voice. "Fixed."

"Hm," said Standish. "That's standard operating procedure for a cat your age."

"What?" Bean craned forward. "Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," said Standish. "Do you?"

"Sure," said Bean. "I 'fixed' my share of rats in Prospect Park."

Standish went very still. "That is not," he said carefully, "what it means."

Bean blinked. "It's not?"

"No." Standish groomed himself. "In this context, 'fixed' refers to a surgical procedure that prevents you from producing kittens."

"So they're taking something from me."

"One could say that," Standish said.

Bean's eyes widened. "Why would My Girl do this to me?"

Standish hesitated. He could explain population control, public health, the ethics of domestication. Instead he said the simplest true thing he knew. "Because she cares for you."

"No," Bean said, deflated. "She thinks I'm a bad cat."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because she says so all the time!" Bean shot back. "When I knock stuff over. When I chew her brushes. When I bite her."

"Do you do these things on purpose?" Standish asked.

"Of course."

Standish didn't argue. He switched tactics. "Manners," he said, quoting Edmund Burke, a philosopher he remembered from The History Channel, "are what vex or soothe. Corrupt or purify. Exalt or debase."

Bean stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"They're not my words," Standish said. "But they ring true."

"I have no idea what they mean."

"They mean," said Standish, "that how you behave matters. Especially to those who care. Those who stay."

Nearby, The Artist spoke softly into a phone she had borrowed from the receptionist. "No, Dad, I'm at the vet. Not the bar." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yeah. Okay. Bye."

She hung up and folded her arms. The Grand Dame glanced over, shook her head slightly, and resumed scrolling.

"Listen," Bean said to Standish, quieter now. "I like My Girl. She feeds me Friskies. She's a great painter. And she can drink twelve beers a night."

"My stars."

"But I belong outdoors," Bean concluded.

Standish tilted his head. "May I inquire...what is that like?"

"Outdoors?" Bean cocked his head. "You mean you've never been outside?"

"Not really," Standish said. "Only when The Grand Dame transports me. From our building to the boarder. Or the groomer's. Or here."

"In this spaceship of yours."

Standish sighed. "Correct."

"Being on the street has its moments," Bean said. "Grass under your paws in the park. Eating from the dumpster. Chasing rats." He paused. "But it gets cold. And scary. You gotta know how to run. Where to hide. And when to fight."

Standish was awestruck. "Is that where you learned how to hiss so triumphantly?" he asked. "On the street?"

"Actually, my old man taught me," Bean said. "Best hisser in Prospect Park."

"Perhaps he could move in with you and your disheveled companion," Standish suggested. "During the colder months. A pied-à-terre, if you will."

Before bewildered Bean could respond, the hallway door swung open.

"Bean?" the technician called.

The Artist stood too fast. She waited for the wave of nausea to pass, then lifted the carrier from the bottom with a grunt.

As he rose into the air, Bean leveled his stare at Standish.

"Wish me luck, pal," he said. "Hopefully I've got one of my nine lives left."

The door closed. He was gone.

As the waiting room fell quiet, Standish savored the word "pal" like the final note of a Chopin etude.

The Grand Dame bent forward. "Thank god they're gone, Standy," she said. "Riffraff like her shouldn't be allowed to have pets."

Standish shifted in his Clima-Pod, turning his back to her. For the first time in his life, he wished he could hiss.

---

III.

Something was off. Standish could not explain why. The Happy Paws waiting room was the same as always. His Clima-Pod rested where it always did, jauntily angled beside The Grand Dame's chair as she frantically thumbed a message on her iPhone.

But Bean was not there.

Standish watched the door anyway.

He had been waiting longer than usual. Long enough for The Grand Dame to set her phone down once, then resume scrolling. Long enough for the receptionist to finish a crossword and start another. Long enough that waiting itself bore a weight he felt everywhere.

He noticed the flyer only when The Grand Dame did. She leaned forward, peering at the corkboard by the pamphlets and forgotten leashes.

"That cat looks familiar," she said, looking down at Standish. "Doesn't he, darling?"

The flyer was crooked, thumb-tacked at one corner. MISSING - BEAN, it read in uneven block letters. Below it: a photograph taken from too far away. A gray blur near a trash can. A suggestion of ears. A phone number scrawled in marker, the last digit smudged where someone's hand had shaken.

Standish studied the flyer carefully. The proportions were wrong. The angle misleading.

The cat in the photograph looked smaller than he truly was. Less defiant. Less bold. Less Bean.

A feeling blossomed in Standish's gut. Not panic. Not fear. It was guilt. I called him a ruffian, he thought. Then had the audacity to lecture him on manners. Oh, Standish. You really stepped in it this time.

Standish remained seated in his Pod, gargoyle-still, eyes fixed on the door.

When it opened, the entry was not triumphant. Bean crouched in the same battered carrier as before, The Artist hugging it against her chest with both arms. She still looked rough. Still bruised. Still exhausted. Yet, somehow different. Upright. Focused. There was no smell of stale beer or paint thinner clinging to her today. She moved with intention.

And Bean was alive. That was the important thing. He looked exhausted, though. His eyes darted constantly, ears erect, tracking every sound, every movement, every potential threat.

The muzzle was back on, snug and unforgiving, turning every breath into an insult.

When The Artist set the dilapidated carrier on the floor, Standish saw it: Bean's tail was gone. What remained was a short stub, wrapped in a crude bandage that had already darkened through.

Bean turned to face Standish. His yellow eyes flared.

Standish leaned forward in his Pod. "Bean," he said softly. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Bean paused. "But I survived."

"How?" Standish asked.

Bean told the story in fragments. A window left open. A night that stretched too long. The Artist passed out on the floor. His food bowl empty for days. Cold that made everything else negotiable.

So he left.

He went back to Prospect Park. Looking for the dog. The one near the Parade Grounds. The one who killed his father.

"I lost my tail," Bean said. "But I won the fight."

Standish was spellbound. "You mean... you 'fixed' the brute?"

Bean licked his paw and dragged it across the mottled fur of his neck. "I did."

Standish rose in his carrier. "You must tell me," he said, "how you delivered the coup de grâce."

"Coo," Bean slowly repeated, "de... what?"

"The fatal blow," Standish clarified. "Was it your razor-sharp claws that did him in? Your ferocious fangs?"

"It was the B-35," said Bean. He swept his paw sideways in dramatic fashion. "Bam!"

The B-35, thought Standish, awestruck. It must be an advanced combat technique.

"I suppose," Standish said carefully, "the crude but effective parchment aided in your rescue?" He motioned toward the corkboard, but the MISSING flyer had been removed.

"No," Bean said. "My Girl's brother found me at a shelter. Brought me back. To her." With a perplexed look, Bean added, "She kept saying sorry. I still don't know what for."

"You can live without a tail," Standish said. "But, alas, she" - he glanced toward The Artist - "cannot live without you."

Bean absorbed this. "She said she was happy," he said, "but she was also crying. Why?"

"Those were tears of joy," Standish explained. "Humans are complicated creatures. Observe."

The Artist stood at the reception desk. "Bean doesn't have an appointment," she said. "But he's hurt."

The receptionist nodded. "We'll let Dr. Ramirez know. He can see Bean today. But it may be a while."

"That's okay," The Artist said. "I'll wait."

Her phone hummed.

The Artist answered. "Hi. Yes. Jimmy found him. We're at the vet's office now. They're going to look at his tail." Her eyes swelled with tears. "Dad, I'm done. I mean it this time." Crying now, she continued, "I almost lost Beansie. He's hurt. He could have died."

The receptionist handed her a tissue. The Artist nodded thanks, listening. "Yes. I actually went last night. It was at some church down the street. Jimmy watched Bean." She dabbed her cheeks. "Someone offered to sponsor me," she said. "I almost said no, but she had a Blue Öyster Cult shirt on, and I thought - fine. Don't Fear the Reaper. My favorite song. Beansie's, too. So maybe it's a sign that -"

The call dropped. The Artist sniffled and slid the ancient phone into the pocket of her faded flannel.

"The reception here is dreadful," The Grand Dame said from her chair.

"I also might've forgotten to pay my bill," The Artist muttered.

The Grand Dame extended her iPhone. The Artist shook her head, but the gesture landed anyway. She offered a faint smile.

"I'm glad you found your cat, dear," The Grand Dame said.

"Yeah," The Artist said softly. "Me too."

On the floor, Bean turned back to Standish. "I saw Hannibal when I was back on the street," he said. "Over at the bodega. Told him I met you. He's never heard of you. Said he'd remember the ears. I mean, who wouldn't?"

Standish winced. "I may have... misstated our association."

"Why'd you say you're friends?"

Standish considered the question. "The Grand Dame keeps The History Channel on while she's away," he said. "Which is...most days. So that's my friend. My only friend. The television."

The orderly opened the door. "Standish?" she called.

The Grand Dame stood. Paused. "She can go first," she said, nodding toward The Artist.

The Artist mouthed thank you. She muzzled Bean once - without protest - and lifted the carrier. As she rose, Bean caught Standish's eye.

"Goodbye, Standish," he said.

Standish lifted his chin. "Bean?"

"Yes?"

"Fear not the reaper."

Bean's eyes narrowed. "Never."

---

IV.

Standish was scratching inside the Clima-Pod. Not delicately, either. His hind leg was a blur, furiously clawing at the side of his neck like a propeller gone haywire.

"Darling, you mustn't do that," The Grand Dame said. "Dr. Ramirez will sort this out."

Standish stopped scratching long enough to look at her, ears twitching, then resumed with renewed vigor.

When the clinic door opened, he paused.

Bean was in a real carrier this time. It was nothing fancy. Not climate-controlled and reinforced with titanium. Nor was it duct taped together, salvaged from a dumpster.

Standish hardly recognized the cat inside. The stubby remnant of Bean's tail had healed. His gray coat was glossy, clean. He was fuller through the middle. The oversized flea collar had been replaced with a snug leather collar with a small gold, fish-shaped tag engraved BEAN. Bean's calm demeanor belied the threat implied by the ignominious muzzle, once again strapped to his snout.

Bean wasn't the only one who had undergone transformation. As The Artist greeted the staff at the front desk, Standish noted her stylish polka-dot dress and shiny pair of Doc Martens. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. And The Artist's eyes - coral blue, Standish now saw in the absence of the paint-spattered Yankees cap - were clear and alert. When he sniffed the air, Standish detected only the faint scent of lavender soap.

The Grand Dame noticed the change, too. When The Artist set Bean on the floor next to Standish, she glanced up from her laptop, paused mid-email, and did a double take. The Artist smiled at her, taking a seat nearby.

The Grand Dame realized she was staring. "I'm sorry, dear," she said to The Artist, "but if you don't mind my saying so, you look remarkably well."

The Artist blushed. "Oh, thanks," she said. "I'm doing better than the last time you saw me." She looked down at Bean's carrier. "We both are, actually."

"Splendid," The Grand Dame said, and returned to her computer.

Inside his luxury Pod, Standish was so happy to see Bean he'd forgotten how miserable and itchy he was. "I like the new ride," he said.

"PetSmart," Bean said proudly. "Aisle three."

"You look well," Standish observed. "Shockingly so. Almost... domesticated."

The fur on Bean's neck stood on edge. "You calling me a housecat?"

Standish sniffed the air. "Did you get..." He lowered his voice. "Bathed, as well?"

Bean sighed. "Yes," he said. "And it was horrible." He raised his paw. "She cut my claws, too. My weapons of cat destruction." He curled up on the folded argyle blanket, still warm from the dryer. "But I survived."

"What a relief."

"Hey," Bean said. "I saw you on TV. You never told me you're famous."

Standish looked away. "You are mistaken."

"No, it was definitely you," Bean insisted. "My Girl loves this show about Brooklyn homicide detectives. It's called -"

"Marcy Avenue," Standish intoned. "Thursday nights at nine."

"Yes!" cried Bean. "You play Ears. Sergeant Danner's feline sidekick. The other detectives make fun of his ears, but Danner always says -"

"'Big ears hear big lies,'" Standish recited dryly.

Bean leaned forward. "It was you."

"No," Standish said quietly. "That is my brother. Edmund."

Bean tilted his head. "Your brother is a TV star?"

"Indeed," Standish scoffed. "Among other things. We were bred for shows, you see. TV shows. Cat shows. Spectacle." He rested his head against the carrier grate. "The whole litter achieved fame and glory. Except me."

"I don't understand."

"I was briefly on the cat-show circuit," said Standish. "In my younger days. But, alas, I had a... deficiency."

Bean frowned. "Deficiency?"

"My bite alignment," Standish said, showing Bean his seemingly flawless teeth. "Barely noticeable to the layperson - or cat - but to a discerning judge, completely unacceptable."

"That's your deficiency?" Bean said. "I would've thought it was your ears. No offense."

"Please," said Standish coolly. "These were considered my greatest strength."

Bean shook his head. "Those judges don't know what they're talking about. You're... just right."

"You're kind to say so," Standish said.

Nearby, The Grand Dame noticed The Artist drawing in her sketchpad.

"These two really do seem to like each other," she observed.

The Artist looked up from her drawing. "They really do."

"Are you an illustrator by profession, dear?"

"No," said The Artist. "I paint. But sketching helps me relax." She angled the pad, revealing a pencil portrait of Standish.

The Grand Dame gasped. It was almost photorealistic. Every contour, every muscle, every detail was rendered perfectly - the composed posture, the alert eyes, the faintly imperious set of his mouth. Especially the trademark oversized ears.

"Oh," she said. "That's lovely. You are immensely talented, young lady."

"Thank you," The Artist said, a little shy. "Your cat's beautiful. Have you seen that show Marcy Avenue?"

The Grand Dame nodded. "Yes. Ears is having a moment, isn't he? We got our Standish from the very same breeder, my late husband and I. McMahan and Sons in Ontario, Canada. Highly regarded for their Oriental Shorthairs. A years-long wait list, unless you know the right people."

"I see," said The Artist.

"And how did you two come to be together?" The Grand Dame asked, gesturing to Bean's carrier.

"Well." The Artist tapped a pencil against her chin. "It was two years ago. I was too broke to buy food, so I went dumpster diving in Prospect Park. And there he was. Waiting."

The Grand Dame shifted in her seat. "How fortuitous."

"He hissed at me," The Artist continued. "I swooned. We've been together ever since."

Back on the floor, Standish was scratching again.

"Are you okay?" Bean asked.

"Allergies," Standish replied sharply. "Dust mites. Beatrice must have forgotten to clean under the bed."

"Beatrice?"

"The housekeeper."

"What were you doing under the bed?" Bean asked. "Were you in trouble?"

"Trouble?" Standish repeated. "Heavens, no. It was the dogs."

Bean's fur quilled. "Did you say 'dogs?'"

Standish's face went expressionless. "Mitzy and Theo. Cocker spaniels."

"You know their names?"

"Regrettably, yes," said Standish. "They live upstairs. They like to barge into the apartment when they're in the corridor."

"And they're mean, huh?"

"No," said Standish. "They're quite friendly. Just unspeakably rude. They run amok. They eat my food, and scatter it everywhere. Drink water from my bowl like a pair of dehydrated gibbons. Destroy my favorite yarn, imported from Peru." He sighed. "So I hide. Eventually they go on their way."

Bean stared at him. "Why don't you fight?"

"Fight?" Standish fidgeted in his Clima-Pod. "Heavens, no. I mean, technically they are my guests. Besides, The Grand Dame would be quite upset if I made any sort of fuss."

"You need to hiss," Bean said. "Show Mitzy and Theo who's boss."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let me hear your hiss," said Bean. "Right now. Like you mean it."

Standish refused. Bean insisted. Exasperated, Standish finally acquiesced. "Fine," he said, and let out a barely audible rasp, like air squeaking out of a semi-inflated balloon.

"Come on," said Bean. "That was terrible."

"I do not hiss, young man," said Standish, turning in a slow circle inside his Pod.

"You're just gonna let those dumb dogs boss you around?" Bean pressed. "You're just gonna hide?"

"Precisely."

Bean snorted. "I guess they know you're a just a spoiled, pompous, scared little housecat who they can bully."

Standish jolted. "Spoiled? You take that back."

"Oh. Did that make you mad?" Bean asked. "Good. Hiss at me."

"Remember what I taught you about manners, young man?"

"Yes," said Bean. "And you need to teach some manners to Mitzy and Theo. My way."

Standish lowered his tail. "I've grown weary of this."

"Hiss like you mean it." Bean urged. "Pretend you're that guy Winston Churchill storming the beaches of - uh - New Jersey."

Standish blinked once. "As an ally, Churchill would never -"

"Hiss!"

Exasperated, Standish tried again. Slightly louder than before, but still just a weak rasp.

"Again!"

Standish opened his mouth, but only exhaled silent air. It was the worst one yet.

"Unbelievable," Bean said. Then, with a mischievous twitch of his stubby tail, he added, "I bet Sergeant Danner and Ears would know how to stand up to those dogs."

That did it. Ears. Something in Standish snapped. An image of Edmund flashed through his mind, smug as ever. Standish went taut.

Then he hissed.

It came out sharp and sudden, like a pressure cooker threatening to blow. Standish's Clima-Pod shook, skidding an inch on the wooden floor.

The Grand Dame closed her laptop. "Standish!" she cried. "What in the world?"

Standish stared at Bean, eyes wide. "Did I do that?"

Bean nodded. "You sure did," he said. "Now that was a hiss. My old man couldn't have done it better."

Standish still couldn't fathom it. "My stars."

"I gotta take you to Prospect Park," said Bean. "That hiss would clear a whole block. All the cats would respect you. You'd run the dumpsters, pal."

Slowly, Standish settled back against the cushion of his Clima-Pod. Sanitation commandant, he thought. Yes. That has a certain gravitas.

Standish closed his eyes and, for the first time since Bean had arrived, he felt content.

---

V.

When Bean returned the following year, the Happy Paws vet staff informed The Artist she could remove his muzzle. Improved temperament, read the handwritten note from Dr. Ramirez on Bean's file. No muzzle required.

The rehabilitated, muzzle-less Bean was crouched low in his carrier, newly unencumbered, eyes sharp, jaw loose, savoring the return of full facial autonomy.

Standish, nose-to-nose with Bean through the grate of his "spaceship," was practically levitating with excitement.

"Oh, Beansie," he said, chest puffed, tail curled just so. "It was positively exhilarating."

Bean leaned in. "Tell me. Everything."

"It was mid-afternoon," Standish began. "The Grand Dame opened the door to take out the recycling, and Mitzy and Theo came stampeding in like a pair of panting maniacs."

"But you didn't hide," Bean said. "Did you."

"I certainly did not," Standish affirmed. "I stepped directly in front of them and said, 'Stop right there, you mongrels!' Then I told the slobbering fools, 'You two have dined on your last tuna pâté. You have imbibed your last bowl of mineral water. And you have most certainly defiled your last strand of fine Merino wool.'"

Bean's eyes widened. "Whoa."

"In short," Standish boomed, "Mitzy and Theo, you are hereby banished from Château Standish, effective immediately. Back to the dog park with you both!"

Reverent, Bean whispered, "So did they go?"

Standish's whiskers twitched. "They did not. It became instantly clear that neither Mitzy nor Theo speak the nuanced language of diplomacy. A show of force was required."

Bean's eyes glinted in the shadows of his carrier. "You hissed at 'em, didn't you?"

Standish closed his eyes.

"Yes. Just like this -"

The hiss detonated. It burst from his expensive carrier like a ruptured steam pipe, loud enough to rattle the pamphlets by the reception desk. A dog across the room barked hysterically. The vet techs traded stunned looks.

"Standish!" The Grand Dame blurted out. "Behave yourself, darling!"

The Artist, seated nearby, stifled laughter. "That's the loudest hiss I've ever heard."

The Grand Dame looked over, pleading. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately."

"I hope it's not my Beansie's bad influence," The Artist said, looking down at his carrier. "He's a hisser." She raised her bandaged hand. "A biter, too. The little jerk did this to me last night. For no good reason. Didn't you, sweetie?"

She blew Bean a kiss.

But Bean did not notice. He was too enthralled.

"I bet those dogs ran," he said.

"Oh, yes. They blew out of there like the Santa Ana winds," Standish said. "And it is a good thing they did. Because had the hiss failed, I would have had to unleash -" He flexed his claws. "The B-35."

Bean tried not to laugh. "Not that," he said.

"Fortunately," Standish said, settling back into his memory foam mattress, "Mitzy and Theo escaped their cruel fate. This time."

"Lucky for them."

"You're telling me." Quietly, Standish asked, "Did you really bite your Girl?"

Bean shrugged. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Bean thought about it. "Sometimes I bite her. Instinct, I guess."

Standish said solemnly, "Big ears hear big lies."

Bean softened. "I like it when she pets me. I always have. But she used to do it before. Then she'd forget about me. Leave for days. Forget to feed me." He looked away. "I'm not letting that happen again."

"I believe she's changed," said Standish.

"Maybe. But one change I don't like," Bean said, "is this guy she's been bringing over. A lot. They know each other from the 'meetings' she goes to all the time."

Standish thought this over. "I'd wager it's a meeting for human cat companions," he said. "They probably gather to discuss improved methods of service. I applaud such gatherings."

"No," Bean said. "That's not what they're meeting about. This guy's definitely never been around cats, and it shows. He's constantly trying to pet me. Once he even tried to pick me up. I nearly sent him to the E.R. for that. But he keeps trying - trying to play with me, trying to pet me, giving me treats." Bean paused. "That part's actually not so bad."

"My counsel," said Standish, "is to accept the treats, and, in due course, permit the occasional chin rub. You may find you enjoy it."

"Are you kidding?" asked Bean. "I barely let her pet me."

Standish considered this. "Affection is not something one earns," he said. "It is something one permits. When you're ready."

"When I'm ready," Bean repeated.

"I am reminded of when The Grand Dame was first being courted by the Majordomo," said Standish. "I was quite prickly with him at first, but he grew on me. The Majordomo was not enamored of cat-show trophies or ribbons. He did not care about my overbite. He even admired my ears. I believe he was most content when he was simply petting me." Quietly, he added, "As was I."

An orderly approached. "Dr. Ramirez is ready for Standish," he told The Grand Dame. "But he needs to wear this."

The orderly produced a muzzle.

The Grand Dame accepted the restraint, closing her eyes. "Oh, Standish! This is quite humiliating."

The muzzle was applied. Snug. Efficient. Undeniable. Standish considered hissing, but thought better of it. The Artist cracked up. As The Grand Dame put muzzled Standish back inside the Clima-Pod, she, too, began to laugh.

Bean studied Standish in his muzzle. His hazel eyes flashed with intensity. A tiger stalking his prey.

"Whoa," Bean said. "You look really cool."

"I know," said Standish.

As The Grand Dame lifted his carrier, an unfamiliar energy surged through Standish's chest and into his paws. He stared straight ahead, a masked gladiator entering the coliseum. The muzzle was not humiliation. No, it was a warning to all: Beware of Standish.

---

VI.

The clinic had changed without changing. Chairs were spaced apart, angled away from one another. A clear plastic barrier divided the reception desk from the waiting room.

Everyone wore masks this time. Voices were softer, as if language itself had learned to keep its distance. The television in the corner was off; perhaps it had been for weeks.

Nothing felt certain. Days no longer announced themselves. They simply arrived, repeated.

Standish observed all of this from inside his Clima-Pod. He did not mind the changes. He found them rather orderly.

The Grand Dame sat nearby, masked, hands folded in her lap, phone dark in her bag. The Artist sat several chairs away, Bean's carrier at her feet. She told The Grand Dame she had started running. The gym was closed. She figured: why not? She laughed softly and said that not long ago she couldn't climb a flight of stairs without collapsing.

On the floor, Bean leaned toward Standish's Pod and asked if he noticed how quiet it was.

Standish said he found it restful.

The cats were placed farther apart than usual, too far to touch noses through the grates of their carriers, but close enough to see and smell one another. To feel the other's presence.

Standish had grown used to waiting. Used to quiet.

Bean sat calmly in his carrier. When The Artist reached in, he permitted a brief chin rub, then leaned away when she tried for more.

Standish and Bean stayed this way for a while, apart but together, as time unspooled toward some distant harbor.

---

VII.

When they returned to Happy Paws the next year, Bean had become famous. Not TV famous, like Edmund. Internet famous.

In the waiting room, amid the familiar wood floors and sun-faded animal prints, The Grand Dame sat in her usual chair, the mask now stuffed in her bag like a forgotten accessory. The Artist sat beside her, Bean's carrier at her feet, nudged close to Standish in his Clima-Pod. The Artist angled her tablet computer toward The Grand Dame.

"Do you want a sneak peek at the new one?" she asked quietly.

"Of course I do." The Grand Dame leaned in.

A title appeared first - PERSISTENCE - and then Bean, on a bed. The Artist lifted him off the mattress, placing him gently on the floor. As soon as she began changing the linens, Bean sprang right back on the bed, undeterred. Laughing, The Artist removed him. Bean jumped back up. Off the bed. On the bed. Again and again. Finally, Bean burrowed beneath the clean top sheet, disappearing completely.

The Artist was laughing as she turned to the camera. "Today's lesson from my feral teacher," she said. "Persistence."

The screen went dark. The Grand Dame squeezed The Artist's arm. "Remarkable, darling," she said. "Bean's an overnight sensation."

"It's wild," The Artist said. "My boyfriend started shooting these just for fun last year. I posted a couple because they made my friends laugh. And then..." She shrugged. "People kept watching."

On the floor, Standish leaned closer to Bean's carrier.

"I am quite proud of you, young knave," he said quietly. "But do not, like Icarus, get too close to the sun. For fame is a fickle temptress. I remember it well from the cat shows of yesteryear. The spotlights. Applause. But the curtain always falls, my friend."

Bean blinked. "I'm hungry," he said.

Standish nodded. "You need a manager," he said. "Have you engaged one?"

"Do managers give you treats?" Bean asked.

"Occasionally," Standish said.

"Then, yes," Bean replied.

Standish motioned to The Artist. "Her boyfriend. You've warmed up to him, I gather?"

"I still bite him," Bean said. "Just not as much."

A bald, muscular man in a sleeveless white undershirt sat a few chairs down from The Artist. He bore an uncanny resemblance to his pet, a bulldog named Brando, whose tongue lolled like a slab of sirloin and whose drool formed a gelatinous pool on the floorboards. The bald man leaned over toward The Artist.

"Excuse me, miss," he said. "I don't mean to interrupt, but... is that Bean? From the Internet?"

The Artist nodded, a little awkwardly. "Yes. That's him."

The man was on his feet. "Yo!" he said, beaming. "My kids love My Feral Teacher."

"Thank you," The Artist said. "That's very kind."

"The one you did about boundaries," he continued. "Where Bean hisses at your boyfriend. I sent that one to my sister. She had an asshole boss. It helped."

The Artist touched her chest. "Thank you," she said. "Really."

The bald man crouched near the carrier, peering in. Bean's yellow eyes fixed on him, unblinking.

"Would it be okay if I held him?" the man asked. "Just for a second, maybe?"

"Well," The Artist said, "do you bleed easily?"

The bald man laughed as he stood. "Fair enough," he said. "Boundaries. I remember."

The Artist reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of buttons. MY FERAL TEACHER, they read, stamped in bold letters over Bean's face mid-hiss.

"For your kids," she said.

On the floor, Bean leaned toward Standish's Pod. "What does feral mean?"

Standish considered the question. "It's another way of saying you're fearless," he said.

Almost as an aside, The Artist told The Grand Dame that she and The Boyfriend were going away for a few days. A gallery in Lake Placid was showing some of her work. An opening reception. Some skiing. Their pet sitter had fallen through, and maybe The Grand Dame could recommend a pet hotel. But The Grand Dame had a better idea. Bean could stay with her and Standish. They lived in a brownstone on nearby Union Avenue. Standish, she said, would be thrilled. He had no friends, the poor creature. The cocker spaniels upstairs no longer visited, ever since Standish had scared them off.

It was settled.

---

VIII.

Bean arrived with little luggage. His carrier, his blanket, and a crinkling bag of Friskies that The Artist set down like contraband. "Only thing he'll eat," she told The Grand Dame.

Standish stared at the bag, transfixed. Friskies. He had tried them during the shortages. When things returned to normal, it was back to tuna pâté. But now, poured into a shallow bowl and nudged toward him by Bean, it seemed transformed.

Standish took a bite. Then another.

"Well?" Bean asked.

"It is," Standish said, choosing his words, "delightfully decadent."

Bean sampled Standish's tuna pâté in return. His eyes widened.

"Oh," Bean said. "Yeah. This is good."

"Dumpster grade?" Standish asked.

"Better," Bean said, eating with gusto.

They ate like that for a while, swapping bowls, neither admitting they preferred the other's food.

The ground-floor apartment was quiet and high-ceilinged, arranged with deliberate calm. Fresh-cut irises stood in a narrow vase on the sideboard. A Steinway upright rested against the wall. Framed photographs lined the hallway - concert halls, awards ceremonies, weddings. In one, Standish appeared as a kitten, ears too large for his head, posing on a velvet cushion.

The afternoon morphed into motion. Bean darted. Standish pretended he was a Siberian tiger. They chased dust motes. They chased shadows. They chased each other.

After some goading by Bean, Standish jumped onto the kitchen counter.

"Standish!" The Grand Dame said sharply. "Is this any way to behave for your guest?"

Then, after a brief, indignant pause, Standish padded into the bedroom. Bean followed.

With a mighty leap, Standish jumped on the bed. Bean joined him. Standish jumped off. Bean followed. It continued this way until The Grand Dame appeared in the doorway with the horrified expression of a woman watching her house burn down.

"Standish!" Hand to her chest, The Grand Dame shooed him off the bed. "What has gotten into you?"

Bean sat on the floor, calm and still as a statue in a Buddhist garden.

They played throughout the day. By early evening, Standish was exhilarated - and tired. He lay on his side, breathing a little faster than usual.

Later, when the windows were cracked for air, Bean showed Standish how one of them opened just wide enough, though Standish initially refused to go near it. This was anarchy, Standish whispered. Windows were for light and observation, not exit, he tried to explain. The Grand Dame should approve such excursions.

"Would a Siberian tiger ask permission?" Bean asked.

Standish scoffed, then bristled, then straightened. One paw tested the sill. Then the other. With a final wriggle and a breath held too long, Standish slipped through.

The doorbell rang ten minutes later. A man from the neighboring brownstone stood there. He was holding Standish.

"I found him across the street," the neighbor explained.

The Grand Dame took him back with both hands. "Oh, my goodness. Thank you, Walter." She closed the door and scanned Standish's face as if looking for an explanation. "Do I need to summon a priest, you wicked creature? You could have been struck by a bus!" Her eyes sparked with tears as she tightened her hold. "Oh, Standish. I am too old for this."

When The Grand Dame finally returned Standish to the floor, Bean raced over.

"So?"

Standish, still dazed, lifted a paw and showed it to him. Mud streaked the fur. He spoke in a rush, recounting everything: the grass under his paws, damp and alive; the bark of the cherry tree rough against his flank; the cold air expanding in his lungs. He had seen a bird - up close. Close enough to count its feathers. He had even considered leaping into the rubbish bin, but the killjoy neighbor intervened.

Bean listened, transfixed.

That night, The Grand Dame put Marcy Avenue on. In the final scene, Sergeant Danner confronted a man in the baseball stadium parking lot, floodlights glaring on the pavement. Standish's brother, portraying Ears the police cat, sat atop Danner's unmarked car, his giant ears angled toward the suspect as he swore he was in Yonkers on the night of the murder. Ears hissed. The suspect tried to make a break for it, but Danner was too quick, tripping him to the asphalt. "Big ears hear big lies," he said, cuffing the perp as Ears watched from the Crown Vic's roof.

"My brother, the thespian," Standish said with quiet pride. "Bravo, Edmund."

They played more. They ate more. They napped. At three in the morning, convinced he could play Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, Standish leapt onto the Steinway and ran the length of the keyboard. Awakened by the cacophony, The Grand Dame stomped into the living room, clad in silk pajamas, and shut the piano lid with authority.

"Boys," she said.

Later, in a round cat bed, Bean curled himself around Standish's head. When a low, rumbling sound rose from Bean's chest - soft and steady - he tensed.

"What is that sound I'm making?" Bean asked. "I've never heard it before. I think something might be wrong with me."

Standish laughed. Then, gently, he purred, too.

"That," he said, "means we are content."

"Content." Bean listened. The sound deepened, like the low, steady hum of a motor.

And the cats slept like that in Standish's bed until dawn. Entwined. Breathing together. Loved.

---

IX.

When they returned to Happy Paws, the clinic was the same - and not.

Bean did not recognize Standish at first. He recognized the spaceship, of course, with its transparent casing and faint hum. But inside, the cat who had once sat with the stillness of a museum piece had withered. Standish was too weak to stand. His sides rose and fell with effort. Standish's eyes were barely open, dulled by medication, and when he turned his head toward Bean, it was the slow, deliberate turn of someone waking from deep slumber.

Still, there it was. The smile. Faint, but unmistakable.

Bean pressed his face to the grate of his carrier as if he could force the distance to collapse through willpower alone.

Standish's mouth opened. His voice came out rasped, airy. "Did she finally bring you in," he managed, "to get those ridiculously small ears enlarged?"

Bean wanted to laugh. He almost did. "What's wrong, Standy?" he asked.

"Perhaps it's my spring water."

Bean's eyes narrowed with mock severity. "That's not funny."

"The old girl's been giving me all the Friskies I can eat," Standish said weakly. "They do remind me of you."

"Come to my place," Bean pleaded, pacing inside his carrier. "We can eat Friskies and sit on the fire escape. My Girl keeps her supplies in a cabinet now, but there's plenty of stuff we can knock over. I don't care if I'm a bad cat."

With effort, Standish opened his eyes. "You are a very good cat," he said to Bean. "And you always have been."

Standish's eyelids fluttered. He took a shallow breath, then another.

Bean's ears twitched. "And you," he said. "You're the most feral cat I have ever met."

Standish managed a weak laugh. "That," he said, "is perhaps the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me."

Standish closed his eyes.

"But you have nine lives," said Bean. "Remember?"

Standish's eyes drifted again, half-smiling. "True. I must have at least one left." He swallowed. "I shall inquire."

"Please."

"I only wish," Standish said, "I had all nine again. I would spend them all with you."

Bean went still. Standish's eyes stayed on him, heavy-lidded but intent.

"I don't know quite how to say this," Standish continued, "but - well, I've grown quite fond of you - which is to say -"

"I love you," Bean said. It came out blunt and plain. No preamble. Just truth.

Standish's eyes closed for a second, as if from relief. "You always did have a way with words," he said. "I love you, too, Beansie."

A vet tech stood in the doorway. In a gentle tone, he looked at The Grand Dame and said, "Dr. Ramirez is ready for you."

The Grand Dame squeezed The Artist's hand, stood, and gathered her composure the best she could. She looked at Bean, eyes blurred with tears. She had the calm, controlled expression of a woman in court, arguing for something she would not win but must fight for anyway. She lifted the Clima-Pod with both hands as if it contained a living jewel.

"Standy," Bean called out.

The Artist knelt beside his carrier, pressed her knuckles to the door.

The door closed.

Bean stayed perfectly still for several moments, as if stillness were a trick that could keep the world from changing. Then he began to pace. He circled his carrier. He pressed his nose to the floor. He looked toward the hallway. He looked toward the door. He waited.

When The Grand Dame finally returned, she was carrying the Clima-Pod.

But it was empty.

No pale sleek body inside. No oversized ears. No porcelain calm. Just the memory foam mattress, bearing the faint indentation of a cat who had once believed the world could be controlled through posture.

At home later, The Grand Dame stopped by with something for Bean. The Clima-Pod. "Standish would have wanted him to have it," she said, brushing away a tear.

Standish's scent lingered there for months, and even when it faded from the physical realm, Bean could recall it.

The Artist and The Boyfriend called the Pod his "condo," but Bean knew better.

It was a spaceship.

The Artist removed the Pod's door so Bean could enter easily. Once inside, Bean would turn in a tight circle and lay down on the mattress with a precision born of ritual. The foam gave beneath his weight. Its shape had once been Standish's shape, and Bean tucked himself into the contoured mattress like a second body.

From then on, Bean spent much of his life in the spaceship. Sometimes, on special nights, The Artist placed a small dish of tuna pâté near the Pod.

He studied the sunbeams in the apartment the way Standish had taught him, noticing how they warmed the body on cold afternoons, how days could be measured not by clocks, but by the light we saw. On spring evenings, Bean sat on the fire escape, listening to the low ambience of the streets he had once roamed. He did not feel the same longing for them.

Over time, Bean accepted chin rubs more often. Occasionally, when the mood struck him, Bean even sought The Boyfriend out, curling up in his lap to watch reruns of Marcy Avenue.

At night, when The Artist said "family bed time," Bean would climb onto the bed and lie at the foot, a warm, watchful presence. Guarding them. But when the apartment went quiet, when the lights dimmed, Bean returned to the spaceship to escape in dreams.

In the spaceship, Standish was with him, and they had many adventures. They saw faraway galaxies and comets trailing quicksilver. They crossed fields of snow under the moon, tiger prints forming bold patterns on white surfaces. They stalked birds made of light.

Sometimes the dreams were simpler: Standish and Bean, curled together in the circular bed, breathing in unison, the world finally quiet enough to hear the smallest sounds.

And when he woke in the mornings, tiger prints still etched in his mind, Bean would rise, stretch, and eat his Friskies before finding the nearest sunbeam.