CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Heathcliff, I can see you."
Wren could not, in fact, see the cat. But she knew the hiding spots: under the poetry shelf, behind the radiator in the back, and—his most recent innovation—wedged between the two art book stacks.
He was in the art books. She could tell by the suspicious lack of sound.
"Dr. Hartley is going to give you a treat," she tried, in the voice she reserved for difficult customers and very small children. "He has those little fish ones you like."
Silence. The disdainful silence of a twelve-pound cat who had heard the sound of the carrier being lifted from the shelf and made his position on the matter abundantly clear.
Bea, from behind the till, did not look up from the display she was rearranging. "You could try the salmon."
"This is not a hostage negotiation."
"Isn't it?"
Wren crouched beside the art books. Sure enough, two gray paws were visible in the gap, tucked with dignity. She reached in. The paws disappeared. From somewhere deep in the stack came a sound like a very small, very offended foghorn.
"Right." She sat back on her heels. "We're doing this the practical way."
The practical way involved Bea holding the carrier open while Wren dislodged Heathcliff from his fortress using a combination of patient coaxing, a feather toy she found behind the poetry shelf, and eventually the salmon treat. Heathcliff expressed his views through every stage of the process. He was not a cat who suffered indignity quietly.
By the time the carrier was latched, both Wren and Bea were out of breath, and Heathcliff had achieved the acoustical output of a much larger animal.
"He sounds like he's being murdered," Bea said.
"He's being dramatic."
From inside the carrier; "MERROWWW!"
The walk to Oliver's practice took eight minutes on a normal day. Today it took twenty, owing to the fact that Wren had to stop twice to smile apologetically at people who turned to look. The first was Mrs. Finch from the bakery, who pressed a hand to her chest. The second was a cluster of tourists with a map who all looked at the carrier simultaneously, then at Wren, then back at the carrier, as though deciding whether this was an emergency.
"He's fine," Wren told them pleasantly. "He just…objects. To travel."
"MERROWWW!"
Wren kept her spine very straight and her chin at a sensible angle and did not allow herself to think about what she must look like, striding down the cobblestones of the main street in her rust-orange cardigan and her good boots while a gray tabby provided running commentary on her competence as a cat owner.
"Oh, is that Heathcliff?" the girl at the desk in Oliver's waiting room crooned.
Wren set the carrier on the counter and straightened her blouse. "It is."
"He's very vocal today."
"He has opinions."
Oliver appeared in the doorway to the examination room, his coat very white and his expression entirely serene. He was the kind of tall that took up space without demanding attention. "Wren." He held the door open. "And Heathcliff. I could hear you from the hall."
"He feels strongly about the carrier."
Oliver tilted the carrier gently and made a small clicking sound with his tongue. The effect was immediate and, frankly, unfair: Heathcliff's yowling dropped two registers and became a contemplative murmur. Oliver smiled at the mesh front. "Hello, old man."
From inside the carrier came a sound that was almost—almost—civil.
The examination table was cool and stainless. Heathcliff bore the indignity of it with his usual theatrical resignation, draped as though posing for a Dutch master. Oliver worked with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this many thousands of times—ears, eyes, the slight pressure along his jaw—and Heathcliff submitted with an expression that suggested he was doing Oliver a favor.
"New stock in this week?" Oliver asked, lifting Heathcliff's lip to check his gums. The cat did not even flinch .
