Bean: The Kitten Who Hitchhiked 50 Miles Under Our Bus

Bean did not exactly get invited onto the bus. He held on underneath it for 50 miles through rain and wind, survived two stops along the way, and apparently decided he lived here. We didn’t know that yet.

Picture it: February 2023, somewhere in North Carolina. We’d had days of rain and no sun, which wasn’t doing our solar any favors, so we pulled into an empty boat launch to run the generator. Cold, dreary, drizzling. One other vehicle in the lot, looked like it hadn’t moved in a while.

While we waited, Zach thought he saw a tiny kitten dart under the bus.

Out we went. Checked the tires, checked underneath, checked around — nothing. We figured he’d kept going straight into the woods. Felt bad about it, middle of nowhere and all, but there wasn’t much else to do. We checked once more before pulling out. Still nothing.

Lowe’s for half an hour. A truck stop for fuel. Fifty miles later, we pulled into our next stop and Zach hooked up the dogs for a walk.

Thirty seconds later, Zach popped his head back in.

The kitten was with us.

He was sitting on top of the fuel tank, having ridden the entire fifty miles underneath our moving bus, through rain and wind, with two separate chances to bail — Lowe’s, the truck stop — and hadn’t taken either one.

We decided he’d hitchhiked with us for a reason. So I did something dumb: reached in behind the fuel door and grabbed him, fully expecting a terrified kitten to realize he was being rescued and melt gratefully into my arms.

He tried to eat me.

Gloves didn’t stop him. He got through one and into my hand while I ran around yelling for Zach, who’d sprinted inside for a carrier — because somehow we’d attempted a feral kitten rescue with nothing on hand actually built for rescuing one. The second Zach set the carrier down, the kitten let go of me and launched at him instead, biting clean through his thumbnail. Lesson: carrier first, kitten second.

We left him in the carrier overnight and took him to a vet the next morning, still not knowing if we had a boy or a girl — the extent of our interaction so far was tapping his head through the mesh. Boy, about six weeks old.

I’d always called my kids “my beans,” and without really deciding to, started calling him that too. Zach shortened it. His ears perked up. Bean it was.

Getting him onto the bus didn’t make him a house cat. For a while I could only pet him through the carrier. Once we finally let him loose inside the closed-up bus, he immediately ran and found somewhere to hide. Food, water, litter box, and otherwise we just left him alone to figure us out.

Phil, about five months old at the time, became his morning zoomie buddy. Heddy was hissy about it, which is just Heddy. Scabbers was furious — hissing, growling, smacking Bean any chance he got. Funny now, considering.

Our cats potty outside, and we don’t run a litter box long-term on the bus, so eventually we had to test letting him out. We waited until we were parked at a friend’s — figured if it went badly, at least we’d know where he was. Zach opened the door. Immediately regretted it. Bean stayed gone almost 24 hours.

We’d started coming around to the idea that maybe he just wasn’t our cat — that we’d gotten him healthy and safe and he’d decided this life wasn’t for him. Then someone opened the bus door, and something orange shot inside so fast we barely registered it was him. After that, in and out like he’d always done it. He’s since figured out the back door too.

That was almost four years ago now. Bean is 18 pounds — our heaviest cat, edging out Scabbers by one. Still essentially feral. Just sweet feral.

He’ll take pets from exactly two people: me and Zach. The kids occasionally sneak one in. Everyone else, forget it. And picking him up — inside, no. Outside, absolutely not. You’ll get the slow head turn, and a look that makes you reconsider every choice that led you to that moment.

He’s not aggressive about it. He’s not a fighter, actually. After years of Phil smacking him whenever he walked past, Bean finally had enough and went after him. Phil cried in a way that made me feel bad for him, even though he’d absolutely earned the backlash. Bean ran off afterward and sat alone for days. Maybe I’m assigning human emotions to a cat, but it really seemed like he’d realized he’d hurt his buddy.

He just has terms, and pickup isn’t on the list. You can admire the merchandise. You may not remove it from the premises. Honestly? For a cat who lives on the road with outdoor access, that’s just good survival instinct.

Scabbers, the cat who hated him on sight, is his ride-or-die now — they post up together by the front window whenever we’re driving.

Phil went the other direction; what started as kitten zoomies soured into mutual dislike somewhere along the way, and these days it’s just Phil hissing and Bean not bothering to engage.

For a cat who arrived ready to take on both of us, Bean has always had a soft spot for the younger cats. He cared for LaLa before we lost her, and he’s taken Wes and Pikle under his wing too.

When he’s hungry ahead of schedule, he lets you know — marching into the Cat Kitchen and banging the bowls around until someone yells “Gingy Bean, knock it off.” He also Halloweens, regularly and dramatically — full arch, tail out, fur everywhere, for no reason anyone can identify.

Bean is actually more of a homebody than most of our cats and usually goes outside primarily to potty. At night, though, he’s normally on the back deck or under the bus, depending on how many of the other cats are around, apparently having appointed himself bus security.

And after almost four years of pets-only, no laps, ever — he’s started climbing onto laps. Mostly Zach’s, since Zach’s the one willing to sit still for fifteen minutes of uninterrupted petting. I’ve got a two-minute attention span for that kind of thing. Bean’s noticed.

Almost four years ago I reached behind the fuel door and grabbed a terrified six-week-old kitten hiding above our fuel tank, thinking he’d be grateful. Instead he tried to remove my fingerprints. These days he’s eighteen pounds of Gingy Bean, running bus security at night, tolerating exactly two humans, and occasionally kneading himself into a coma on Zach’s lap.

He never really stopped being feral. He just picked his terms, and he’s stuck to them since before we even knew we’d kept him.

Before You Hit the Road...

Get RATL's weirdest finds in your inbox — new adventures, old favorites, and the occasional dice roll. Only when there's something worth sending.

I'm In!