Bee’s Early Life – a letter from Anna Kaltenbach:
Bee came to me the day I graduated college, her 2-month birthday, June 6, 1999. I remember thinking it was meant to be because you are supposed to find homes for kittens when they're 2 months old. My family drove up to Denver from New Mexico with her, and said she was very happy playing in the car on the way. We got her an adorable tiny harness so she could be outside, and I remember her bouncing around in the grass at the graduation ceremony. Being a desert kitty, she hadn't experienced a lawn before.
Bee was the great-great-great granddaughter of the first kitty I remember being mine, Mouse. Mouse was an amazing cat. She lived to be 12, which was an incredibly long lifespan for country cats on the mesa in New Mexico, where owls and coyotes commonly got to the cats within a few years. During her life, Mouse had many litters of kittens, and we always found people looking to give them a good home in exchange for companionship and mousing. She gave birth to many of those litters in my bed, which as a cat lover I thought was an amazing miracle to witness.
I was dating a musician named Joaquin when I got Bee, and we waited a while for her name to come to us. She was acrobatic and energetic: she used to climb to the top of his upright bass (when it was in its padded case, thankfully) in a matter of seconds. She would shoot straight up in the air when playing with her many cat toys. For a while we thought she might be Grasshopper. But then Joaquin suggested Bee (in true jazz musician form, he didn't want to settle on a spelling: she could be Honeybee, B, b, Aunt Bea, or just Be). I wasn't sure about the name, but within a half hour found myself saying, "Look at what Bee is doing!" and there it was: she was Bee (or B or Be or …).
The day I took Bee to be spayed, I was a nervous wreck. I could barely eat I was so worried about her. Partly because she seemed so miserable in the carrier. Our bedroom was in the converted attic of our house, and the vet said she shouldn't climb stairs, so we attempted to build a barricade at the top of the steps to keep her in. HA! After two climbing-over-the-barricade attempts, we decided the stairs would be much easier on her stitches than something she was going to climb and leap over, and took it down. She recovered just fine.
We had lots of roommates in the house where I lived when she came to me, and she was beloved by all. Because of traffic, we kept her as an indoor kitty, but there was a tiny balcony on the front of the second floor of our rented Victorian, and we would leave the door open so she could go outside. She loved the outdoors.
When Joaquin and I separated, a very difficult time for us, Bee was invaluable to me. Her companionship, her desire to snuggle, her purr, her love of sleeping in my bed were all a great comfort. I was also working a very difficult job during that time, and she helped me through that as well. Joaquin went on a cruise ship to play and then moved to New York, so Bee remained mine.
When I decided to move out of the big, post-college, lots-of-roommates house I lost a friend because we were going to live together but she was allergic to cats. When I said I wouldn't give up my cat to live with her (her suggestion was to give my always-indoor kitty to her brother who lived in the mountains and needed a barn cat), she decided I had chosen Bee over our friendship. I imagine we probably would not have made good roommates anyway.
I ended up moving in with SteeVee, and our first priority in finding a place to live was a balcony. We found a great house near Cheesman Park, living in the top half of a home with our landlords, a wonderful gay couple, underneath. Their next-door neighbors and best friends, a lesbian couple, adored Bee and when SteeVee went on the road and I would go visit him, they would catsit, including hanging out for hours so she could go outside. The house had a big back porch (built on the roof of their garage) and Bee spent lots of time out there, yelling at squirrels, sunning herself, and making me anxious by climbing over the railing and going under the deck.
When it was just Bee and me in the house, she kept me great company. I'd get home from a long day of working at the publishing house for 8 hours and then heading to rehearsal or teching a show I was lighting, and we'd watch TV together. She loved sitting on my chest when I was on the couch, or sometimes she'd sit on my shoulders while I was at my desk. And when I'd stand up, she liked to walk down my back and then jump off.
I spoiled her. When she'd meow, I'd meow back. I let her eat the occasional people food--she particularly loved yogurt. One of her favorite toys was a laser pointer--she'd do gymnastics to try to catch the little red dot as it ran up walls and around the floor. I'd sleep all night on my back with my arm bent next to my head, because she loved (especially during cold weather) to sleep with your arm wrapped around her and her fur pressed against your head, her purr going in your ear.
After SteeVee had been on the road for a few years, we decided we didn't want to do long-distance anymore. My biggest dilemma about going on the road with him was what to do with Bee. The animal shelter was out of the question. Any friends I had with cats either had enough or had cats that weren't going to welcome a new guest. We took her up to the mountains overnight and she yelled in the car carrier the whole way, and woke us up meowing at 2, 3, and 4 am. It was clear that Bee was not to be Travel Kitty.
During that time, winter of 2002-2003, I was lighting “Manson Family Values”, and attending many more rehearsals that I usually did: the director wanted me involved in the creation process. At the end of rehearsal, we'd stand in a circle and the director would present a mundane question to the group: what's your favorite candy, tell an embarrassing story from your childhood--anything to get us out of cultish killer mode and back into healthy Denverite mode. One day the question was what we were looking forward to about the holidays. People mentioned visiting family, vacation plans, a particular gift they were giving…and then we got to my friend Guy. I'll never forget his answer: "My divorce just became final and my wife moved out. She took the cat and the furniture. I'm not looking forward to anything this holiday season, because I'll be all alone in an empty house." My heart reached out to him, and at the same time I saw an opening for a wonderful life for Bee, and a way that I could bear the idea of leaving her behind and going on the road. I presented the idea to Guy a few days later.
I came and spent the night on Guy’s couch Bee's first night with you, and then left her there. It was strange going home and not having her around, but I got to visit a lot and I could see that she was in the right place. We started a 6-month trial run in March of 2003. She's been Guy’s cat ever since, although I always had full visitation rights. I loved being able to come see her, and Guy and Rufus and then Psyche, whenever I was back in Denver.
When Bee moved in with Guy, and then when I left Denver, I realized how many habits I had that centered around living with a cat. When I opened the front door, I'd automatically put my leg in the opening to keep her from escaping. When I went to the bathroom, I wouldn't fully latch the door (she used to get mad about being locked out, especially of a room where I would likely be sitting down and therefore at good petting height).
I'll never forget her sweet ways, and her stubbornness, her cuddliness, and her playfulness. I'll especially never forget her purr. I want to thank my dear friend Guy, for everything he has done for me and for everything he did for Bee.
From Anna’s mom:
My favorite memory of Bee is you telling me that SteeVee asked why she needed so many toys, and for some reason you moved the fridge and found many cat toys there, and said "THAT is why she needs lots of toys!" She was a very playful kitten and her kittenhood lasted a long time. She slept with me and purred and made me feel welcome and loved.
From Guy Williams:
In March of 2003, my friend Anna asked if I would become the temporary caretaker for her cat, Bee, while she was on tour with a Broadway show. I had just gotten divorced and my ex-wife had taken our cat Sydney with her, so the house seemed very empty. I agreed, not knowing that Anna would continue to secure positions with touring shows year after year, and Bee would become an indispensible part of my life.
The following year, another theatre friend, Jadelynn, had the opportunity to move to New York City to pursue her acting career, but the apartment she found would only allow her to have two cats, and she had three. Knowing that I had become inordinately attached to Bee, and that I was now living in constant fear of Anna reclaiming her, Jadelynn asked if I would take in her little black male kitten, then named “Bunnicula” (because he liked to bite other cats), thus having a cat of my own. Thinking Bee would love to have a companion she could boss around as the house’s “mama kitty”, I welcomed this playful little cat into our home and renamed him “Rufus” (because it rhymed with “doofus”.)
Rufus loved Bee from the start, but he always had a penchant for playing rough, and unfortunately Bee despised him instantly. To make matters worse, Bee was always a small, somewhat timid cat (she’d literally run out of the room if you sneezed), and Rufus soon turned into a boisterous monster (he weighs around 17 pounds now.) He disrupted the tranquility of Bee’s home, and she never warmed up to Rufus. Eight years later, when Bee passed away, I am seeing the proof of Rufus’s love for his “big sister” as he wanders around the house looking for her and crying.
Bee and I had many happy years together, only slightly marred (for her) by the annoyance of having a little brother. She used to love to perch on my chest if I was sitting down and purr for long periods of time while I petted her. Given the opportunity, she’d climb onto your shoulder and sit there like a furry parrot. Her gorgeous tortoise-shell markings actually looked like the stripes of a bumble-bee in a certain light, and she had the most beautiful blue-green eyes. She always smelled of spice.
Bee stopped eating on January 4, 2012 and had lost nearly a pound of body weight. After several visits to our excellent and caring vet, Dr. Ken Shiarella at Western Animal Clinic, it was determined on Friday the thirteenth that Bee had a large, fast-growing tumor that had spread throughout her abdomen, chest and lymph nodes. The biopsy tests confirmed that it was “squamous cell carcinoma”. In less than 10 days, she had developed an invasive, inoperable and untreatable form of cancer that I was told would prove to be fatal in a very short time. There is no cure or even palliative care for this disease, and Dr. Shiarella was fairly certain that in her condition, Bee would not survive even exploratory surgery. Bee still refused to eat on her own and was becoming more combative towards the force-feedings.
She slept on my pillow (fitfully) all Friday night, and Saturday morning she stayed there and purred for two hours straight while I petted her. She never purred again, and I felt like those two hours were her last gift to me. While I selfishly wanted more time with Bee, I realized by then that I really had no choice but to make arrangements to end her life before her extreme discomfort turned into unbearable suffering. (A friend later told me that letting her go was my last gift to her.)
I asked Dr. Larry Magnuson of Caring Pathways come to my house on Sunday morning, where my girlfriend Psyche (in the photo with Bee), my mother, and Bee’s “little brother” Rufus were all present. Larry is one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met (and I’ve had the honor of seeing the Dalai Lama speak!) Larry did an excellent job with the procedure, Bee was extremely brave, and she passed quite peacefully at about 10:55 a.m. on January 15, 2012. As her life slipped away, I sang her this little lullaby: “Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night. Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night. Soft the drowsy hours are creeping; hill and dale in slumber sleeping. I my loved one’s watch am keeping, all through the night.” Bee was 12 years old.
I wanted to thank all of you who have shown Bee such kindness and affection over the years. For myself, I can’t adequately express my gratitude for your love and support - especially now, in my time of grief for my little Bee.
