UNTIL ITS TOO LATE
At twelve oclock shes due for an operation. Simple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, a few tidy stitches and shell be home that same afternoon. He should have gone with her, but she waved him off, knowing he was swamped. The new London office was about to open.
Everything will be fine, she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek, slipping a handful of catkibble packets for the cellar cats into her tote, and stepping out into the rain.
He adjusted his tie, gave himself one last scrutinising glance in the mirror, grabbed the project dossier from the desk and drove off to the office. As chief executive of a firm hed steered to the top of the market, his whole life demanded his constant attention. He gave it, minute after minute, convincing himself it was for them, for her, even for the stray cats she fed every night.
He didnt dislike cats, merely found her obsession pointless, a frivolous hobby that added no weight to his world. He treated it like a quirk he tolerated the way one tolerates the idiosyncrasies of a partner. So when she tried to bring home unnamed, fleacovered kittens, he balked. Theres no point, hed mutter. No benefit. A pedigree cat, perhaps, would add a touch of status, but cellar cats? What could they possibly give us? Hed grown weary of explaining.
***
Simple, scheduled operation an hour under the knife I should have been with her!!! He replayed the line again and again through the weekthousands of times, perhapswhile sprinting to the hospital, clutching the white coat of a doctor, shaking as the surgeons eyes darted between monitors. He tore the dreaded project apart, knelt by her bedside, forehead pressed to her hand, begging her not to give up, to open her eyes, to utter a single word.
She stayed silent. Neither of them imagined that a routine hour of anaesthesia might turn into a coma.
Were doing everything we can, the surgeon tried to assure him.
Youre doing nothing! he snapped, paying for her transfer to a private ward.
Theres a chance, the nurse whispered, we just have to wait.
Where is that chance? he shouted down the corridor a week later when she still lay unmoving.
He tried everything: toptier specialists, soothing music, endless conversation. He flooded her room with flowers, missed work to sit by her side whenever a spare moment appeared, pleaded, promised, even threatened. Surrendering to a fleeting impulse, he kissed her, recalling the absurd fairy tale of the sleeping beauty, and each day sank him deeper into despair, into a feral rage that wanted to smash everything in its path.
A chair toppled, a vase shattered, his bag flew open in a fit of fury, scattering the colourful kibble packets across the floor. The cats never got fed. Those useless, flealaden felines that had always earned his thinlyveiled contempt.
Scoundrel! Good heavens, what a scoundrel! He cursed, wishing he could rewind, erase the mess with a swipe of his hand, crawl on his knees and fetch every stray cat for her, love them, just to
The surge of adrenaline drained suddenly, leaving him trembling as he scooped the scattered kibble packets from the floor, intending to be at the cellar door in ten minutes.
***
Its called feline therapy, though there are no recorded cases like ours, the doctor said, eyes halfserious, watching him haul in the sixth carrier for his patient.
So well be the first, he managed, releasing the animals from their cages.
Theyre her cats. Understand? Hers! Id give anything to tell her that, just to
Ill inform the staff.
Thank you, I should have done this earlier, you see?
Never lose hope. We all learn from our mistakes, remember that.
I wont forget I wont ever forget.
***
At twelve shes again due for the operation. Simple, scheduled, an hour under the knife, discharge the same day. She doesnt press him to stay. Yet a bright smile spreads across her face as she watches him, the tie now a loose knot, fumble with the sixth harness on a gaggle of resistant, fleeing cats.
Her cats. The cellar, fleacovered cats whose weight had once brought her back from the brink a year ago, forcing a gasp of breath she could barely understand.
Seven pairs of eyes drill into her, six relieved sighs hover at the edge of hearing, and one triumphant, endlessjoy cry shell never forget.
Perhaps thats why now, as she faces the same ordeal again, fear does not touch her. Seeing her husband, his shirt dusted with stray cat hair, glance at her with a reproachful look, she widens her grin.
Then she laughs, outright, at the onlookers turning away. A man in an expensive suit, surrounded by six impeccably groomed mixedbreed cats, each tugging a thin leash in a different direction, fills the street with a chorus of indignant Meow?!a sight for the fainthearted.
Operation. Simple. Scheduled. An hour under the knife, tidy work and discharge the same day. And if you keep nibbling everything in sight, youll stay home next time! mutters a solemn gentleman in the hospital courtyard, a faintly gnawed bouquet of roses resting on his knee.
He glances at his watch, steadies six colourful leashes, checks that none of the harnesses have slackened, then looks toward the window of the ward where his wife is waking from surgery. Soon theyll be allowed in. Soon he can finally complain about the six tailwagging loafers who refuse to listen without her.
Hell tell her how much he loves her, and will love her forever, even when she disappears for days into the cat sanctuary his company funded a few months ago.
A fool, perhaps Yet every time he recalls the day she opened her eyes, he is convinced that nothing in his life matters more than her quirky, infuriating ways. And so he will keep chasing those fleeting, absurd whims that somehow make her extraordinarily happy.
Always, while its still not too late.
