Farewell to Beauregard: A Tribute to 21 Years of Love, Fur, and Claws

Twenty-one years ago, the girls picked you out of a litter in an old tin shed. You were tiny, scrappy, and covered in more fleas than fur. After a much-needed bath (for both you and the car), we named you Beauregard—Beau for short. It didn’t take long to realize we had brought home a cat with more attitude than affection.

You were mean, stubborn, and unapologetically yourself. You bit and scratched anyone who dared to pet you, and when your food bowl was empty, you didn’t meow—you attacked ankles like a tiny, furry assassin. Even the dogs kept their distance. But for all your rough edges, you were the best hunter we ever had. Mice, snakes, shrews—you caught them all. I just wish you hadn’t felt the need to drag them into the living room to finish the job, glaring at me as if to say, “Are you not entertained?”

Lately, though, you’d grown tired. You stopped eating, stumbled when you walked, and that spark that once fueled your chaos began to fade. When I told the girls it was time, we all knew what that meant.

For the first time in two decades, you let me pick you up without a fight. You dug your claws into my sweatshirt—not out of anger, but something softer. It felt like a thank-you, or maybe a goodbye. I held you as you rested, your fur sticking to my face as I cried. Then came the hardest part—letting you go.

Now, the house feels emptier. The furniture still bears your marks, the couch still dips where you used to perch and watch the birds, and I swear I’ll be finding your fur for the next decade. When a mouse eventually scurries across the floor, I’ll curse you for not teaching Ophelia how to do your job—but I’ll miss you all the same.

Thank you, Beauregard, for twenty-one years of attitude, companionship, and chaos. I hope wherever you are now, there’s a nice soft couch to ruin, plenty of birds to glare at—and someone new who’ll hate you just as much as I did, in the best way possible.

Rest easy, old friend.