PART 6 — What Beans Brought With Him
Beans snored like a tractor with a loose bolt.
He wasn’t loud, exactly—but the sound rumbled deep in his tiny ribcage and made the whole couch vibrate, like he was trying to purr but forgot how. Clover didn’t mind. She adjusted easily, curling beside him, head resting on the slope of his bony spine.
June, sitting nearby in her armchair, smiled without quite meaning to.
“You sound like Carl after chili night,” she whispered.
The dachshund didn’t stir. His right eyelid twitched once, a soft dream flicker. His other eye—the blind one—remained clouded, still and sightless. But even without full vision, Beans had already mapped the living room by scent and feel.
On the first night, he’d bumped into Jasper’s cage.
The bird had squawked, offended, but then recovered quickly. Now, whenever Beans walked by, Jasper gave a polite chirp—like a doorman offering a nod. Not warm, but not unkind.
Beans settled into the couch quickly, as if it had always been his.
June knew better.
The hollow in the cushion still belonged to Milo. And the blanket, though laundered and freshened, held a memory no washing machine could rinse out.
Still, something about Beans was… right.
Maybe it was his age. His silence. The way he instinctively avoided the side of the couch where Milo used to lay when in pain, choosing instead the spot where Milo had once slept belly-up, safe and soft.
The house didn’t feel healed—but it no longer bled.
And that mattered.
Abby came by on the fourth day to check in.
“He looks good,” she said, watching Beans stretch out like a dog half his age. “Calmer. More grounded.”
June nodded. “The couch helps.”
Abby laughed softly. “You say that like it’s magic.”
“No,” June replied. “Like it’s memory.”
As Abby gathered supplies from the tote June had packed for donation, she paused by the side table. The pillowcase-wrapped pawprint mold still sat there, untouched since June placed it weeks ago.
“Do you want me to help you put this in the garden?” Abby asked gently.
June shook her head. “Not yet.”
She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because once it went in the ground, it would belong to the past. And for now, a small part of her wasn’t ready to let go.
That night, the weather shifted.
Cold rain swept in. Thunder rolled lazily in the distance.
June lit a fire and draped another blanket over Clover and Beans, who huddled like mismatched bookends. The couch looked comical—oversized for two animals so small. But it held them like it knew how.
June stayed up late, knitting in the armchair, thinking.
Not about grief.
But about what came after.
She hadn’t realized it until that moment, but in all her years loving animals—dogs, birds, even a piglet—she had never once considered herself useful to them beyond food and shelter.
But this couch, and this loss, had made her something else.
A keeper of comfort. A witness to endings. A steward of whatever came next.
And that… that was worth waking up for.
The next morning brought a surprise.
Beans didn’t rise.
Not at first.
He was breathing, steady and slow. But his joints seemed locked, tail unmoving, nose dry.
June crouched beside him, pressed her hand to his ribs.
“Old man?” she said quietly.
Clover stood close, ears flat, body tensed.
June waited.
Then, as if time had decided to let go, Beans gave one long snort—and sneezed.
A wet, ridiculous sneeze that sprayed the cushion.
Clover jumped.
June burst out laughing.
“Well,” she chuckled, “glad to know you’re still full of surprises.”
But something in that moment clicked for her.
Beans had come with no backstory. No collar. No known history, beyond being dropped at the shelter with a note and an expired rabies tag.
He could’ve belonged to anyone. Been loved—or not. She didn’t know.
But maybe… she could.
That afternoon, June called Abby.
“If he doesn’t have anyone looking for him,” she said, “I think he already found someone.”
There was a pause on the line. Then a smile in Abby’s voice.
“I’ll update the paperwork.”
And just like that, Beans became hers.
Not temporarily. Not for comfort. But truly.
Her second dog.
Not a replacement. A continuation.
A chance to share the couch—not just with a memory, but with a new kind of presence.
That evening, she found Jasper preening his wings with unusual energy.
The bird looked smug.
“You always know what’s coming, don’t you?” she said.
Jasper chirped. Twice.
Then, to her surprise, he began whistling again—not the medication tune.
Not even the soft mourning one.
But something almost cheerful. Notes that rose and dipped like wind chimes catching a breeze.
June tilted her head.
“Well, I guess it’s time we learned a new song.”