The Hollywood in this case is the first cat I had when I moved to California. Folks who aren't pet aficionados will no doubt find my paean to a cat from 18 years ago silly, but every cat I have had has demonstrated an individuality that makes the species ever more appealing to me. Every one had his or her special ways and I have loved every one of them.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hollywood and my apartment were a package deal. I got "Hollywood" the furry tailed tabby before I had any real furniture after my move to California from New York in 1981. A work acquaintance asked, "Do you want a cat?" I was new to Los Angeles. A cat was more essential to me than a couch. I remember nothing of the home or the people whose mother cat had had the litter. I only remember the big eared creature, hair standing on end, only slightly larger than my open hand, climbing brazenly up my jeans leg. It was love.
He became large, a solid twelve pounds. In his later years, he was noisy, particularly at night. He indulged in the older cat's need to yowl, to inform his universe, "Trouble" his tabby sister I adopted in 1989, and me, of his considerable presence when I was trying to sleep. After the yowling, he thumped onto the bed--by the time he was eighteen, it was the only place he could jump successfully--and walked on my chest until we were wet nose to dry nose. He purred with command and satisfaction, "No sleeping, please. I need to be petted, and I wouldn't mind a late night snack." If I did not give him his fill of either, he moved to the top of my head on the pillow and skilfully affixed his teeth just above my scalp and pulled my hair. I removed him to the bottom of the bed with the appropriate remonstration which I am sure my neighbors always appreciated. Unphased, and trusting of my ultimate good nature, he slowly padded, paw lightly placed on the covers, squish, paw after paw, replaying the scene. In the morning he was even less accommodating to his recumbent provider, and revved up the procedure to get me out of bed and opening the can. Trouble watched, darting into the kitchen, tail erect and triumphant, when she saw that Hollywood had achieved the objective, as always. Hollywood accepted his due. He ruled the roost. He ruled me. I loved that he ruled me. I thought in that unconcious corner of my mind that it would always be that way.
In 1994 he began to have seizures, intense and terrifying for both of us. After one, I held him for a very long time in a towel while he hyperventilated and looked for the enemy. Phenobarbital was the medicinal savior. He thrived despite the physical setback. Our new ritual was to get him to eat his food with the chopped up pill, and not Trouble's. If I wasn't looking, he was in her dish, but moved back with a protesting meow when he heard my low voiced, "Hollywood, eat your own."
He started to lose his sight, cataracts probably, but it distressed him not at all. Whiskers and scent and old knowledge of the apartment and its obstacles allowed him to adapt. I began to think he was indestructible.
One day, in June, I came home to find them both as usual at the door clamoring for food But my stomach fell when I saw that Hollywood was listing hard to the left, head and body, seeming to have difficulty in standing, and circling unsteadily as he walked. He was otherwise unaware of the change. The emergency vet was reassuring that he would make it through the night, despite the stroke. So was the couple I met there, with their poodle, Charles. Charles had also had a stroke the previous year which left him completely paralyzed. Now, he walked, though haltingly. After treatment by my own vet the next day, Hollywood came home, and not one to be outdone by a poodle, by the end of the week he was virtually back to himself. His head returned to its normal position with an ever so slight residual tilt only I could notice. The vet, Dr. Marina, said, "Watch his appetite." He continued to eat with gusto and I thought we had plenty of time. I began to take more pictures and videos of him, just in case. We both needed more of each other's company. Although he had recovered his ability to jump on my bed after the stroke, his breathless yowling increased to get me to lift him up there. He had created a new ritual between us. He slept in the crook of my arm at night, not just at the end of the bed, his formerly favorite place.
On July 12, my alarm clock, Hollywood, wasn't there. Not on my bed. Not in the room at all. Holding my breath, I looked for him. He was in the living room sitting unresponsive, eyes closed, nose warm, sensitive tot he touch, uninterested in food, the final diagnostic truth. I rushed to the vet. Probably an infection, maybe a brain tumor, but by the end of the day it was moot. I had gone to my office for the day, awaiting news, and hearing that he was in a coma, I returned to the vet. Hollywood's little paw was wrapped where an IV had been inserted. I spoke to him, "Hey H. I am here H." He heard my voice and tried to respond. He was a tough soul. My vet and I agreed to give him the night, to see if maybe he would improve, as he had from the stroke. I knew what would happen, what I would do, if he was like this in the morning, but I wouldn't think about that until tomorrow. I petted him. I told him his dish of food awaited him at home. I kissed him. I cried. The cockatoo in the next cage, with the big blue cone collar around its neck, looked at me suspiciously. I went out to the reception area to pay half the bill. Somehow doing that left things comfortably without a conclusion. Then the Dr. called to me, and waved me into the examination room that led to the special care section. "He died," I said with certainty. "He was waiting for you," she said with absolute conviction. Hollywood was still warm as I kissed him goodbye and tried to fix this last image in my mind for all time. The cockatoo respectfully stood stock still. As much as I had always loved animals, cats in particular, I don't know that I ever had before believed in a cosmic connection between a human and a pet. Until then. Until now. He heard me. He knew he was loved. And then he died.
I just developed one of the picture I took of him in his final week. Hollywood, in his last days, contentedly perched at the end of my bed, in half sleep. When I look at the 8X10 on my wall, I feel his presence. Trouble is a comfort of course. But Hollywood and me, and this apartment, we're still a package deal.
No comments:
Post a Comment