Before It’s Too Late

Twelve oclockher operation. Simple, scheduled. An hour under anaesthetic, routine steps, discharge that afternoon. Shed never pressed for him to be there, knowing he was swamped. The launch of the new Manchester office was just around the corner.
Everything will be fine, she whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek, slipping a few sachets of cat food for the basement felines into his bag, and darting out the door.

He smoothed his tie, gave himself one last scrutinising look in the mirror, grabbed the project dossier from the desk and drove off to work. As chief executive of Whitaker & Co., a firm hed steered into the markets top tier, he gave his allevery spare minute, without remorse. He told himself it was for them, for her, even for the stray cats she fed night after night.

He didnt dislike cats; it was simply her obsession, which seemed to him pointless, a frivolous hobby he tolerated like the quirks of a loved one. So every time she tried to bring home a litter of fleabitten strays, he shut the door in their faces. No point, hed say. They wont change anything. He could at least compromise with a sleek, pedigree Persiansomething with a bit of status. The basement cats? He never understood why she cared so much, and she was tired of explaining.

Operation simple scheduled nothing special I should have gone with her! he muttered to himself a thousand times over the week. He replayed the frantic dash to the hospital, the white coats sleeves flapping as the surgeons eyes flicked his way, the gutted feeling as the project hed poured his soul into tore him away from her side. He fell to his knees beside her bed, forehead pressed to her hand, begging her not to give up, to open her eyes, to say one word.

She stayed silent. Neither of them imagined that a routine hour of anaesthesia could spiral into a coma.

Youre doing everything you can, the consultant tried to reassure him.

Youre doing nothing! he roared, frustration choking him as he paid for her transfer to a private ward.

Theres a chance; we have to wait, the nurse said, trying to steady his nerves.

Wheres that chance?! he shouted down the corridor when a week passed and she still lay unmoving.

He tried everythingconsultations with leading specialists, soothing music, endless conversation. He flooded her room with flowers, stopped showing up at the office, and spent every free minute at her bedside. He pleaded, promised, even blackmailed. In moments of reckless desperation he kissed her, recalling the absurd fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty, and each passing day sank him deeper into despair, his anger turning animal, tearing chairs, shattering vases. In a blind rage he hurled his bag across the room, its colourful sachets of cat food scattering across the floorshe hadnt even managed to feed the cats yet, the very cats he pretended not to care about.

Dreadful! Good grief, what a dreadful night! he muttered to himself.

If only he could turn back time, erase it all, crawl on his knees and drag those cats home, love them, just to

The rush of adrenaline finally ebbed, leaving him exhausted as he gathered the scattered sachets, his hands trembling, and headed for the basement door, ready to deliver the food ten minutes later.

Its called cattherapy, though there are no recorded cases like ours, the doctor said, watching him lug the sixth carrier into the ward with a hint of curiosity.

So well be the first, Thomas whispered, his voice cracking as he opened the cages.

Theyre her cats. Yours, really. Id give anything to tell her that, he stammered.

Ill warn the staff.

Thanks I shouldve done this earlier you understand?

Never lose hope. We all learn from our mistakes, remember that.

I wont forget I wont ever forget.

Again, twelve oclockher operation. Simple, scheduled, an hours anaesthetic, discharge that day. She still didnt press for his presence, but a smile slipped onto her face as she watched him, tie loosened, wrestle with the sixth harness for the reluctant, fleeing cats.

Her catsthose basement, flearidden survivors that had nearly broken her a year ago, breathless and bewildered.

Seven pairs of eyes drilled into her, six relieved sighs barely audible, one triumphant cry shed never forget.

Perhaps thats why, now that she was about to face the same ordeal again, she felt no fear. Seeing her husband, his shirt speckled with stray fur, looking at her with a reproachful glance, she widened her grin.

Then she laughed, genuinely, at the onlookers. A man in an expensive suit, surrounded by six immaculate, mixedbreed cats, each tugging a thin leash in a different direction, the street filled with the indignant sound of Miaow?!a spectacle for the fainthearted.

Operation. Simple. Scheduled. An hour under anaesthetic, routine steps, discharge the same day. And if you keep chewing everything in sight, youll be home next time! a weary gentleman muttered from the hospitals courtyard, cradling a slightly chewed but still lovely bouquet of roses on his knee.

He glanced at his watch, readjusted the six colourful leashes, checked that none had slackened, then looked toward the windows of the ward where his wife was waking from surgery. Soon theyd be allowed in, and hed finally be able to complain about the six tailwagging loafers who refused to listen to him without her.

And tell herhow much he loved her, how he would love her forever, even if she vanished for days in a cat sanctuary his company had funded months ago.

He thought she was a bit of a fool, but remembering the day her eyes first opened made him realise that nothing mattered more than her presence. As long as shes near, all his whimsabsurd, reckless, yet somehow making her happywill keep driving him forward.

Always, while its still not too late.