Au revoir Heathcliff

What became of Heathcliff?

I am asked over and over, “What became of Heathcliff?”
Did I bring him to Antibes with me?
Ah, gentle reader, read on but be warned that the passage below may not be suitable to be read aloud to young children (gratuitous violence PG13).

Something weird happened the day before we left the house in Valbonne village. I was, as usual, working on my as yet unborn but soon to be immortal novel, seated at the kitchen table when I heard Heathcliff’s meeouw. I opened the window and in he jumped, and hid himself between a chair and a cushion. He had the air of a cat who was frightened, perhaps chased and needing to escape from enemies. I couldn’t imagine that Heathcliff would have enemies, but one never knows. Really, one doesn’t, so I shut the window, keeping Heathcliff safer. I wrote a little on my computer (MacBook Air), read what I’d written and hit the delete key. It’s often better that way.

I made myself another pot of tea (Nilgiri orange pekoe), black, no sugar, poured myself a cup and contemplated Ved Vyas and how easily story-telling came to him. Yes, he had a scribe, but still, the Mahabharata was written two thousand years ago without spell-check. I wrote another paragraph and decided to keep it.

I heard a soft “Hello.” I jumped out of my skin. Nobody in sight. Was I hearing voices? Hadn’t I taken my medicine? I got out of my uncomfortable chair and walked around the house, checking. My cell phone was long out of juice. The phone was in its place. TV off. No radio. Computer muted. I must have imagined it. I returned to work.

“Hello.” An English accent, not ox-bridge, less refined, perhaps Leeds, Yorkshire, with the lo stretched out and the he half-swallowed and soft. It’s hard to write a classic with all these interruptions no matter how friendly. I looked around, no one. Did I say no one? There was Heathcliff. But it couldn’t be. 

I saw Heathcliff looking at me. Cats don’t smile, but Heathcliff was clearly smiling. He rubbed his back against my jeans (Levi’s, denim, size 4) and stood at the front door, commanding me to open it and let him out.

I sat back down. No words. It was impossible to contemplate leaving Heathcliff to the perils of Valbonne. Every cat, even one who sometimes bites and scratches, deserves an owner. So before we left the house, I had to kit-nap him. 

Next morning, I had a cardboard box lined with a towel, and an empty laundry basket to serve as a ventilated lid. I wore a strong pair of long garden gloves to capture, hold and transfer the cat into the container. I put out warm milk in a saucer. Suspicions were aroused instantly or did he smell a rat? We were always too lazy to warm up the milk. Heathcliff sniffed at the milk but would not taste it. He looked around to see if a human would volunteer to taste the milk and make sure it was safe for a cat. He surveyed the kitchen and left through the kitchen door.

I played cat-and-mouse with him, except of course I was the cat and he the mouse. If I could wait, he would return. He did, with a rough looking army of other street cats. They mewed collectively, loudly, as if aspiring to roar, stretching out claws. I grabbed Heathcliff. Was that stupid! The other cats jumped on me, shredding my garden gloves to, well, shreds. A black cat with yellow eyes bit me on my right forearm, just below the elbow. I released Heathcliff who ran away, an orange blur of stripe and claw. The army of cats walked out stealthily, ready to pounce if needed.

I washed my arms in the kitchen sink (see how I included it) with antiseptic soap and dabbed some Neosporin and put on a couple of band-aids. No need for stitches.
A black cat turned slowly in my direction and spat before leaving. Not very nice but before I feel the need to criticize someone, I think of what my father said about not rushing to judge because everybody did not have the privileges I’d known growing up.

If Heathcliff has taught me anything, it is that stray cats are like stray humans. One can love a stray creature, but strays will never be tamed, may never learn to trust or accept love. That doesn’t mean I can’t love Heathcliff or miss him, I just can’t take his behavior personally.

Suffice it so say that Heathcliff roams the rues of Valbonne. I will return there, often, to see him. I have an abstract art class on Friday mornings (more on that subject later, I promise), and will stop by rue St. Bernardin, perhaps with a can of tuna fish from Frederica’s grocery store.

My husband and children are doing well on Claritin. Cat allergy. If you believe that such an illness could exist, you’d believe anything.