Seven is in her suitcase, her preferred bed for many years now. She is sleeping – and dying. She is 19 years old. My son brought her home from school when she was a kitten, and the whole family fell in love with this little black and white fireball. She’s dreaming cat dreams now, all the mice chased and caught, the sleuthing in the grass and the meowing in the kitchen. She’s very peaceful and has been so these past few days as her body fails. Constantly surprising me though, as she rises on unsteady feet to go to her litter box and then back to the suitcase.
Or she wanders to the open backdoor, falls into a lying position on the porch, and takes in the sights and sounds and scents. This morning, she watched my rainbow flag flapping in the wind. Fairies danced – little rainbow bits of light cast from crystals hanging from the porch chandelier. When she’d had enough, she rose but couldn’t quite manage the step up to come inside. I got down on her level and told her she could do it. And she did.
In the past three years she’s made some astounding comebacks from illnesses; this time I suspected she wouldn’t, yet I didn’t give up hope: if she has it in her to live I am here to help, likewise if she is going to die. The vet made her as comfortable as possible by fixing a few diagnosed problems. Now cuddled up sleeping, her tail flicks or her paws twitch, catching that mouse all over again perhaps.
As if she knows I’m writing this, she just wakened and raised her head to watch me – she’s always watched me, and others, as we go about our business, just keeping an eye on the busy humans, wondering if they have some good food or a scratch behind the ears to offer. I have both for her of late (and always) but now all she’ll eat is milk and eggs.
Through all this, she purrs. At night when all is quiet, her purr is so loud I get up to see if some motor has been left running. I fall back to sleep then wake towards dawn to find her asleep on the floor next to my bed. This is something she often likes to do, but now I am amazed at her tenacity to get here, a testament to the power of our connections with animals and their connection to us.
Our dog Nixie likes to groom her, especially her ears, and Seven welcomes the attention. Tonight she needed more help though, so I gave her a bath. She had egg under her chin and all down her beautiful white front. She was frail and lovely and compliant, floating in the warm water. How she used to fight and howl in the tub! And how she loved to howl in the wee hours too, often soothed by my youngest daughter and her partner as I slept, until she figured out to come right up to my bed and wake me with her persistence.
After her bath I wrapped her in a towel and blow-dried her fur. I made her a bed by the rad. She usually likes to keep her head up, alert, her jewel-green eyes following my movements, but she slept soundly. When she woke I placed her in her suitcase with a clean blanket and there she slept. My partner is the son of a doctor and his knowledge of how the body works (and stops working) was an invaluable comfort through this time, plus he loved her as much as the rest of us. This morning, my patting didn’t rouse her. She was breathing but she was on her way out.
Our pets teach us so much about loyalty and unconditional love. They teach us how to live. And how to die.
Seven, dubbed Sevy by my eldest daughter, was a most unusual and extraordinary cat.
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photos by Aaron Schwartz and Marie Wilson
Marie Wilson’s writing has appeared in the Globe and Mail, NOW magazine, Fireweed and She Does the City. Harper Collins published her novel “The Gorgeous Girls”, calling it “the thinking woman’s erotica” and it is now being adapted for the screen. 
Also on my last day, I visited legendary Leo’s Taco Truck.
I stayed in the heart of Hollywood. The glamour of its early days barely glimmers through all the modern raz-ma-taz but if you keep your eyes on the ground, you can find Jean Harlow’s shoe prints or Eleanor Powell’s shiny taps imbedded in the cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Most tourists in this area walk with their heads down, not just for the foot-and-hand prints but also as they follow the Walk of Fame along Hollywood Blvd. Started in ‘58, the Walk runs 1.3 miles. As you can see, I found one of my favourite movie stars. (photo above by Aaron Schwartz)
Just a block up the street from Hollywood & Vine, you can venture into the hills & escape the circus. There, California’s desert heart emerges: golden soil covers hiking trails that wind among sage scrub, oak trees, succulents & more. Atop Mount Hollywood, I visited the iconic Griffith Observatory, a Beaux-Arts architectural wonder. From its rooftop, I could see just how extensive the city & its wilderness is. In 1896 Griffith donated 3,000 acres of land for the building & a park, which has now grown to more than 4,000 acres. While pondering a bronze bust of Jimmy Dean commemorating scenes shot there for “Rebel Without a Cause” (‘55), I espied a handsome coyote trotting down one of the trails.
We’ve all seen scads of photos of the iconic Hollywood sign but I knew I could only truly appreciate the triumphs & tragedies it represents if I saw in person. I’ve been outlining a screenplay about a young woman trying to make it in the movies in the 20s, & since it’s a true story, seeing the sign was essential. Her name was Peg Entwistle, and she met her end when she jumped off the “H”.
