Nate and Eden Get a Cat

Nate

“I think we should get a cat.” Eden tells me this information from her spot in the tub, where she’s soaking with her head back and her eyes closed, completely unaware of how her boobs look floating above the bubbles.

I’m trying to shave at the sink, and I’m finding it very hard to concentrate. “What was that?”

“A cat,” she says, eyes still closed. She shifts her body, revealing more shiny, wet skin as the water sloshes. 

I tap my razor on the sink. “For this house? A cat?”

Eden sits up and smiles at me, leaning over the edge of the clawfoot tub so I can no longer see her shiny boobs. “We could get a cat at each house. Maybe a cranky cat who hates us for the workshop house…”

I brave a swipe of the razor down one cheek. I’m using a new shaving soap Eden made me with honey and some of her sister’s hops. It smells like beer. In a good way. I make eye contact with my wife in the mirror and talk as I try another swipe. “You want to get a pet that hates us?”

Eden laughs, the sound of it echoing in our bathroom, which she has repainted a bright white and decorated with bee-things she finds interesting. Like abandoned nests from trees and bits of her old extractor. “Most cats hate humans anyway, don’t they?”

I consider this and swipe the razor down my other cheek. “I have very little experience with cats.”

As if she’s energized by this revelation, Eden flicks her toe at the drain, empties the tub, and stands. She wraps a towel around her body, spoiling my morning show but restoring my concentration a bit. “Well I told Eliza I’d check in on the goats she’s got munching along the train tracks in Homewood. We can drop by the animal shelter there and meet some cats.”

There’s our day scheduled out I guess. Checking on the goats usually means repairing some of the fencing while Eden refills their water and talks to the guard donkey for an hour. I don’t actually mind. This life we have together feels simultaneously cozy and larger than anything I ever imagined. 

I used to just work all weekend if I wasn’t out getting wasted. Now I’ve got sisters-in-law and family dinners and urban agriculture. And I guess I’m going to get a cat or two.

I finish shaving and rinse my face just as Eden re-enters the bathroom to fix her hair. I like watching her tongue poke out as she puts on a pair of earrings, and I reach over to tuck her hair out of the way so she can see the tiny holes in her lobes. 

“Thank you, husband,” she says, turning in my arms to smile up at me.

“Any time, wife.” I kiss her on the nose and tug the t-shirt out of my waistband, pulling it over my head as I walk down the stairs, where Eden is waiting, keys in hand. 

* * *

It turns out the fences were fine, the donkey was not talkative, and the goats had plenty of water, so Eden and I arrive at the shelter a half hour after we left our house. I can immediately tell we are going to be here for a long time, because Eden wants to take every one of these animals home with her.

We make a few laps around the enclosures and I think maybe Eden will cling to the shiny brown kitty with bright eyes. But my wife? She heads for a scrawny, black cat with bandaged legs and a facial expression that indicates it wants to slit my throat. 

“Oh, look at this sweet thing!” Eden clasps her fingers together and squeals. 

A volunteer approaches, smiling. “I think Jean-Clawed van Damme likes you,” she says wiggling her fingers excitedly. Eden swoons. I see her swoon at the thought of this snaggletoothed cat liking her. The volunteer taps her chin and leans in conspiratorially. “You know,” she says. “Jean Clawed has a bondmate.”

Five minutes later, Eden and I are sitting on the floor in a meet n greet room with Jean-Clawed and his girlfriend, Uma Fur-mane, whom I’m told will eventually regrow the coat they shaved off on account of all the lice. 

“Nate, they love each other,” Eden says, pointing at the cats, who lie on opposite ends of the room flicking their tails and looking bored. I reach out a hand to pet Jean-Clawed, and he yowls. I pull my arm back to safety just as Uma stands and begins circling my legs. “Ooooh,” Eden coos. “She likes you, babe.”

I gradually accept that we are taking home these manky cats. Once the female one appears to tolerate me, Jean-Clawed sniffs and I can’t help but feel like we have a truce already. 

A few hundred dollars and an hour later, we’re piled in my truck, heading for our house in Bloomfield. “They probably shouldn’t be at the workshop,” Eden repeats. “I just wouldn’t want them to eat anything that might harm them. Or, you know, get stung on their little noses.”

My wife is very diplomatic in pointing out that the cats might mess up our work stuff if we leave them unattended around the beeswax and wood construction projects. So we introduce them to our home instead, where Eden has already arranged for delivery of something called a catio tent to replace the space formerly known as our deck.

I watch as she shows the cats around the house, and they follow behind her like she’s a real tour guide and this is a museum. This woman, who amazes me every day with her generosity and peaceful excellence in all things. She has won over the hearts of a pair of scraggly cats, and I think about how many people must have overlooked these little guys. 

Eden never overlooks anyone. It’s what I love most about her. 

“We need to schedule some family photos,” Eden coos, sinking to the floor and opening her arms as the cats climb into her lap and rest their heads on her stomach. This time, when I sink to the ground beside them, Jean-Clawed gives me a head nod, like he’s offering permission for me to cuddle my own wife. 

“Family photos would be fun,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had family photos taken.”

Eden grins. “Eva was saying we need new pictures for our website anyway. I’ll ask her to come once we get the catio set up.”

She’s so happy in this moment, surrounded by animals who love her because she loves us all unconditionally. I press a kiss to her cheek and reach into my pocket for my phone. I wedge myself behind my wife, legs sprawled around her legs, chin resting on her shoulder. “We can start with a selfie,” I tell her, and snap a picture. 

I text it to the entire Storm Cloud chat, admiring the way we look together—a band of misfits now thriving despite our circumstances. Life is sweet these days, living with a bee charmer. 

Even when Jean-Clawed digs his spikes into my shirt and clings to me as I try to stand. “Okay, buddy,” I tell him. “I’ll sit with you all a little longer.”

Thanks again for reading The Burgh and the Bees. Continue the Planted and Plowed series with Eliza’s book, Yule Be Sorry.