Before It’s Too Late

It was twelve oclock when Blythe was due for her operation. Simple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, then straight home that afternoon. She hadnt begged him to come alongshe knew he was swamped. The new regional office was about to open.

Everythingll be fine, she said, planting a kiss on his cheek and slipping a few sachets of cat food for the stray toms that lived under the council flats into her bag. She darted out the door.

Edward tugged at his tie, gave himself one last scrutinising look in the mirror, grabbed the project dossier from the desk and headed for the car. As chief executive of Hart Industries, a firm hed taken from a modest start to the top of the UK market, he gave himself wholly to workevery spare minute, without hesitation. He soothed himself with the thought that it was all for them, for her, even for the basement cats she never stopped feeding.

He didnt dislike cats; it was just Blythes hobby, which to him seemed pointless, frivolous, a quirk he tolerated as one does a partners oddities. So when she tried to bring home a litter of flearidden strays, he flatout refused. Theres no point, no benefit, hed say. If you want a compromise, a pedigree Oriental cat would at least have some status. The alley cats meant nothing to him, and he was too weary to argue.

—

Simple operation scheduled nothing special I shouldve gone with her!!!

How many times did that echo in his head over the week? Thousands? He slammed the brakes and raced to the hospital, clutching the white coats hem as the surgeons eyes flicked over him. He tore the project file to shreds, fell to his knees beside her bed, forehead pressed to her hand, pleading for her to open her eyes, to say a single word.

She stayed silent. Neither of them knew that a routine hour of anaesthesia could turn into a death sentence.

Were doing everything we can, the doctor tried to assure him.

Youre doing nothing! Edward roared, paying for a private ward with a quick swipe of his credit card.

Theres a chance, we just have to wait, the nurse whispered.

Wheres that chance?! he shouted down the corridor as the days slipped by and Blythe failed to awaken.

He tried every remedy: specialist consultations, music, endless talks. He flooded her ward with flowers, abandoned the office to sit by her bedside at every free moment, begging, promising, even blackmailing. In fleeting bursts of desperation he kissed her, recalling the absurd fairy tale of the sleeping beauty, and with each passing hour the despair grew into a feral rage that drove him to smash chairs, shatter vases, fling his briefcase in a frenzy, scattering the colourful catfood packets across the floor. The stray cats never got their meals. Those useless felines had always drawn his contempt, masked by a practiced indifference.

Blasted devil! By God, what a devil! he cursed.

He wished he could rewind, erase it all, crawl back on his knees with her, bring those cats home, love themjust to make it right.

The adrenaline that had been bubbling finally drained in one breath. Surveying the chaos with trembling hands, he gathered the scattered packets, ready to haul them back to the basement cellar in ten minutes.

—

This is called felinotherapy, the consulting doctor said, watching Edward lug the sixth carrier into the ward, his tone oddly serious. There are no recorded cases like ours, though.

So well be pioneers, Edward whispered, releasing the cats from their cages.

Theyre hers, the doctor reminded him, eyes soft. Id give anything to tell her that. To simply

Ill warn the staff, Edward replied, voice breaking. I should have done this earlier I understand now.

Never lose hope, the doctor said. We all learn from our mistakesdont forget that.

I wont forget never again, Edward promised, his eyes fixed on the trembling bundle of cat food.

—

It was twelve oclock again when Blythes operation began. Simple, scheduled, an hour under anaesthetic, discharge the same day. She still didnt press him to stay, but a grin broke across her face as she watched him, tie loosened, cursing under his breath while fitting the sixth harness onto the skittish, fleeing cats.

Her catsthose basement, fleabitten survivorshad been the weight that nearly crushed her a year earlier, a breathless gasp she couldnt understand then.

Seven pairs of eyes drilled into her, six relieved sighs whispered at the edge of hearing, and one triumphant, joyous shout she would never forget.

Perhaps thats why, now, as she prepares to face the same ordeal again, fear doesnt touch her. When she sees Edward, shirt dusted with stray fur, looking at her with a reproachful stare, her smile widens.

He laughs, loud and absurd, at the onlookers who stare. A sharply dressed man, surrounded by six impeccably groomed mixedbreed cats, each tugging a thin leash in a different direction, letting out a collective Meow?a sight for the fainthearted.

Operation. Simple. Scheduled. One hour under anaesthetic, then out the same day. And if you keep gnawing at everything, youll be stuck at home next time! a weary man mutters in the hospital courtyard, a halfchewed bouquet of roses perched on his knee.

He glances at his watch, readjusts the six colourful leashes, checks the harnesses, then looks toward the window of the ward where Blythe stirs after her surgery. Soon theyll be allowed to see her, and hell finally be able to complain about the six tailwagging freeloaders who refuse to listen without her.

Hell tell her how much he loves her, and will love her forevereven if she disappears for days in a cat sanctuary his firm helped fund months ago.

He knows it sounds foolish, but every time he recalls the day she opened her eyes, he convinces himself that nothing in his life matters more than her quirky, endearing madness. Hell keep chasing those wild, reckless whims that somehow make her unbelievably happy.

Always, while its still not too late.