Zola had a cat named Bean.
Bean loved Zola. Bean loved Zola SO much that he wanted to help with everything.
Every. Single. Thing.
On Monday morning, Zola built a tower. She stacked one block, two blocks, three blocks, four, five, six, seven blocks high. It was the tallest tower she had ever made.
“Look, Bean!” said Zola.
Bean looked. Bean loved it. Bean loved it so much that he rubbed against it with his whole soft side.
Crash.
Blocks everywhere. Under the couch. Behind the bookshelf. One landed in Dad’s coffee.
Bean sat in the middle of the mess, purring.
“Bean,” said Zola. “That was not helping.”
Bean slow-blinked at her. That meant I love you in cat.
On Tuesday, Zola painted a picture. A big, beautiful rainbow with every color in the pot. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple, all in perfect stripes across the paper.
It was still wet.
Bean walked across it.
Little purple paw prints went across the rainbow, off the paper, over the table, and all the way down the hall.
“BEAN!” said Zola.
She chased the purple paw prints past the bathroom, past the kitchen, and into her bedroom, where Bean was sitting on her pillow.
Her white pillow.
Her used-to-be-white pillow.
Bean was purring again.
“Bean,” said Zola. “You are the WORST helper.”
Bean slow-blinked. I love you.
On Wednesday, Zola’s grandmother came for dinner. Gram brought her famous noodle soup in a big blue pot. The whole kitchen smelled like warm, salty, wonderful things.
“Don’t touch,” said Mom. “It’s hot.”
“I won’t,” said Zola.
Bean jumped on the counter.
“No, Bean!” said Zola.
Bean looked at the pot. Bean sniffed the pot. Bean put one paw on the edge of the pot.
“No, no, NO, Bean!”
Bean tipped the lid right off. It clattered and spun on the counter like a giant noisy coin. Steam whooshed up in a big cloudy puff. Bean’s eyes went WIDE and he leaped straight into the air, twisted like a furry pretzel, and landed in the dish rack.
He sat there between the cups, looking very surprised.
Gram laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Mom laughed so hard she snorted.
Zola tried to be mad. She really, really tried.
But Bean was sitting in the dish rack with a spoon on his head.
She laughed too.
That night, Zola lay in bed. It had been a long week. Her tower was broken. Her painting had paw prints. Her pillow had a purple smudge that Mom said might never come out.
Bean jumped up onto the bed.
“No helping,” Zola whispered. “Please. No more helping.”
Bean didn’t knock anything over. He didn’t step on anything wet. He didn’t tip a single lid.
He walked right up to Zola, turned around three times, and curled into a warm ball against her belly. His purr was low and rumbly, like a little motor running just for her.
Zola put her hand on his soft side. He was so warm.
“Okay,” she whispered. “This is good helping.”
Bean slow-blinked.
I love you.
Zola closed her eyes.
Outside, the house was quiet. The purple paw prints had dried in the hall. The blocks were still under the couch. The soup was still warm on the stove.
And Bean purred and purred and purred.
