Beez the Wheez, as he was known in his later years, passed on this week. Counting backwards we figured he was 19 years old. I’ve looked at his kitten photos and can’t quite believe he was ever so small or we were ever so young. He lived in our household from the time he was about 8 weeks and endeared himself to Greg almost immediately by climbing up his leg. While not an auspicious start, the two were inseparable in later years.
Bezel was a small black Arizona cat. The runt of the litter. He was presented to our children by their baby-sitter one Christmas without our consultation. He was dressed like a doll, learned to live with dogs, stared at the caged birds and iguana, but only went after mouse trophies. He did, once, catch a gopher but likely deposited it in the swimming pool when he discovered how mean it was.
The Wheez moved with us from Arizona to Oregon and withstood a 21-hour car trip trapped in a cat carrier and mad enough about the situation that it did no good to talk to him nicely while driving. He didn’t escape during our overnight in a motel. On arrival at the farm he stayed close to the house until he could figure out what the chickens and peacock had in mind.
The cat was small but he never played the scaredy cat role with dogs on any other living thing. He walked under the horses and rubbed up against our dogs just to press the point. His mousing technique was tested on the farm. Maybe it was also his age. One to two mice enough was the initial quota. It soon dropped to one.
When Bubba was brought in as a kitten, Bezel gave over his mouse duties.