Hazel-colored eyes, prominent cheeks, tiny nose –beautiful…elegant. Elegant taste, too –she loved the Bistro. –The original one on Melrose, where studio heads, agents, gourmets, world’s greatest actors sat in a garage at cheap patio tables and ate dishes which started a food ‘revolution’ –cooked by a new chef in town named Puck –when they could get in. She had no trouble getting in, I learned. Lover of good food, she lunched with the rich and the powerful every day.
Though self-aware, she wasn’t snobbish or aloof. We met five days after Christmas one year, when I was planting tulip bulbs in front of the cottage where I lived, not far from the restaurant. She came up to see what I was doing. It was wicked cold, she was shivering. I offered her my coat, she readily accepted. Then I invited her in, which she also accepted. We began living together.
Funny, intelligent –and opinionated. Once, after a long day, I came home from work and found a 10-gallon crock on the floor next to wrought iron stand on its side, surrounded by all the flowers that had been in it. She had ‘editorialized’ about the length of time apart…lol.
In a hurry one afternoon, I grabbed my tennis shoes from the sunken closet but discovered they were wet. The closet was in a Charlie Chaplin-built cottage, built before Los Angeles had any housing codes. –Then I noticed water was seeping into the main room, also sunken below the garden. –ACK, we had to get out –fast.
Called around until finally found a hotel that would take us –earthy-elegant, famous for being special, homey and famous. Staying in that hotel turned into a very lucky thing: I had an ad agency, I wanted their account –every agency wanted it –I got it –partly because, though many had pitched the owners, I was the only one who had actually stayed in the hotel. The rest of that story isn’t relevant, here, but if it were not for her, I would not have called that hotel. They were the only ones that would give us a room, on no notice. We had to stay more than a week. Loaded with personality, sense of humor, she handled it well.
One morning I noticed her walking strangely…eventually found out it meant: she had diabetes. She got very ill…. After a month in the hospital: I was able to bring her home, carefully.
I prepared something for her to eat, got out a small antique silver spoon.
At night –but only when I was very nearly asleep, there would be a tap on the hand. Covers lifted: swift entrance into bed, U-turn, nudge –poke, shifting until properly ‘assembled’ into place –spooning to sleep, every night.
Though we were going slowly, she choked.
Though we were going slowly, she choked. Frantic: tried to clear her throat….
About three months of age, when we met, she fit in the palm of one hand. We lived together for 13 1/2 fun, sad, quirky, quiet, stressful, busy, hilarious, delicious years. I found out it was possible to recover from diabetes –too late. She died…the day I brought her home from the hospital, August 1, several summers ago….
I despise the anniversary. No human was a better friend, more loving, more loved. I was lucky she chose me…. Great fun, great company, utterly charming…I still adore her…. She was daVine….
tag: kitten, feline diabetes