For all his self-conceit, Benjamin BadKitten knows how to be a loyal friend

I had a chat with Benjamin BadKitten last Sunday, after a friend at church told me an endearing story about her cat, Gabriella. The day before, my friend wore wool slacks and a fleece top to cut back overgrown brush on her property. When she finished, she found an entire brigade of burrs had attached themselves to the wool and fleece. She changed clothes and began the tedious task of removing the burrs by hand. Soon Gabriella jumped onto the burr-surgery table and volunteered to help. My friend worried that her cat would either shred the clothes or eat the burrs, but, instead, the loyal and intelligent Gabriella carefully used the tips of her claws to dislodge the clinging burrs from the fabric. (She might had had a less noble motive, too: One-upping the black puppy that recently joined the household.) I thought this story – minus the puppy motive – might be an inspiration to my own intelligent BadKitten, who seldom uses his powers for good around our house or garden.

“What's your point?” Benjamin flattened his ears and yawned, because I had awakened him from his post-lunch nap. My point, I said patiently, is that some cats actually think about their people's needs and feelings, instead of practically drowning in the pond of their own narcissism. My ten-year-old BadKitten stretched and lifted his chin so I could pet him. “I think about your needs and feelings. I am a very sensitive kitten. Many times a day I think that you need to feed me and freshen the water in my bowl, and you need to put my favorite fleece blanket at the foot of your bed so I can be warm when I meditate there. And I think about how you must be feeling lonely without a small, fluffy Maine coon cat to pet and praise, so I leap gracefully onto your lap.” Benjamin is decidedly fluffy, but he passed “small” several dozen depot stops ago. I have to admit he's right about leaping gracefully, though. He's still athletic, quick, and light on his paws, even if he's carrying much more of a tummy than he used to.

I sighed. Remember Lizzy? I asked. The best adult cat I've ever had was a long-haired “pure-bred, championship silver Persian,” as she preferred to think of herself. Actually, she had more than a bit of white and butterscotch fur mingling with the silver, and, unlike a true Persian cat's squashed-looking face, Lizzy had a classic profile. Smart and vocal, that cat was on my wavelength for all the years that she lived. Even though she had much of the self-centeredness for which cats are stereotyped, she could also be remarkably intuitive. On the day, many years ago, when my mail included not one but two rejection letters from New York publishers, I sat, sobbing, on the floor of my writing room. Lizzy padded up to me, climbed onto my lap, and gently patted my cheek with her paw. She stayed with me while my tears gradually stopped and I told her about all my insecurities as a writer.

You, I reminded Benjamin, never pat my cheek when I cry. You use my jeans as a climbing post – while I'm wearing them – and shinny up my leg so I'll pick you up and pet you. But then I paused and considered him, the Peter Pan of cats, who will always remain a BadKitten. When Lizzy was dying, I held her in my arms, because I couldn't bear to think of her being alone as her life ebbed away. Benjamin and Tessa the Vague kept vigil with Lizzy and me. The two cats sat close together, a few feet from where I knelt on the floor with Lizzy, silently – and, I thought, respectfully – waiting through the long night until only the spirit of my beloved cat remained. (Even Tessa, who normally seems to lack candlepower, behaved with dignity and innate animal wisdom during Lizzy's last hours.)

Now, here in Moscow, Benjamin keeps a different vigil with his best buddy, our Old English sheepdog, Rags, who lives in twilight. Our good dog, elderly, blind and frail, is always the one Benjamin greets first when he enters the living room. My husband and I don't know how many more weeks Rags will be with us. He seems to grow a little more feeble and confused each day. We are certain that Benjamin is a comforting presence to Rags. For Ben's blend of compassion and his “What? He's my buddy” naturalness, I can forgive my cat his many (many, many) transgressions. Lizzy was the queen of adult cats. But Benjamin, who would try to remove a burr only if it attached itself to his ample backside, will always be the best little BadKitten that ever there was.