The Ninth Procedure

'And you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to see a psychiatrist first?’ asked Dr Wray.
‘What?’ said Jason, turning incredulously to Olive. ‘Yes she does,’ he told the doctor. ‘She definitely does. She wants to see the best psychiatrist you’ve got. Book her in for an appointment as soon as possible.’
‘It’s at the discretion of the patient, I’m afraid,’ said the doctor.
‘Jason,’ said Olive. ‘I don’t need a psychiatrist. I’m not crazy.’
‘Olive,’ said Jason. ‘Darling. Can I talk to Dr Wray alone for a second?’ Olive looked at him suspiciously.
‘You’re not going to bribe him or anything,’ she said.
‘No, of course not,’ said Jason. ‘I just want a quick word.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Dr Wray. ‘Give us, ah, five minutes.’ Olive left the room with a threatening glance in Jason’s direction, and sat down to read a magazine on the bench outside. Now that Jason was alone with Dr Wray he began to feel rather more anxious.
‘Well?’ said Dr Wray. The two men sat on opposite sides of Dr Wray’s desk, a crescent-shape dominated by a giant Apple Mac. Everything in Dr Wray’s office was clean, bright and modern, including Wray himself. The doctor’s teeth and skin gleamed as if a team of make-up artists had been prepping him backstage for the occasion; his hair was parted neatly down the centre and combed back in waves over his temples. The wall behind Dr Wray appeared to have been assembled entirely out of framed certificates.
‘Your wife has made her decision,’ said Dr Wray. ‘I’ve agreed to go ahead with surgery.’
‘Is it ethical?’ asked Jason. ‘Is it even legal?’
‘It’s a very interesting series of operations,’ said the doctor, nimbly skirting the question. ‘I’m more than happy to do it.’
‘But I don’t want you to,’ said Jason. ‘Don’t I have a say in the matter?’
‘Not really.’
‘Can I talk to your superior?’ asked Jason. Dr Wray shook his head.
‘I am the superior,’ he said. ‘You can talk to my secretary if you like.’ Jason put his head in his hands.
‘Oh God,’ he groaned. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’
‘Short of changing your wife’s mind?’ mused the doctor. ‘No, I don’t think so. Take a deep breath, Jason. Relax.’
‘But she’ll look-’
‘Different?’ Dr Wray shrugged. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Is it reversible?’ asked Jason.
‘Ah,’ said the doctor. ‘That we don’t know. Not for sure.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘We’ve never done an operation like it,’ said Dr Wray. ‘Not many people are as open-minded, shall we say, as your wife. But cross-species plastic surgery is an expanding market. Your wife will no doubt be the first in a long line of successful experiments.’
‘The guinea-pig,’ said Jason. He was furious. Dr Wray leant back in his chair and chuckled.
‘The cat, I believe,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. That was inappropriate.’

Dr Wray estimated that Olive's transformation would take a minimum of nine different procedures. He would remove 100ml of liquid fat from the insides of her thighs and insert it just above her cheekbones; the skin around her eyes would be tightened and pulled back to her hairline to give her a more feline appearance. Olive would need collagen injections underneath her chin, her nose reduced, and her ears completely re-shaped. Finally, Jason's wife would take a mild version of a growth hormone to encourage the production of downy facial hair, and Dr Wray's orthodontist would sharpen her canines. There was little the surgeon could do about the nature of her pupils, but he recommended an optician to design Olive a selection of crescent-shaped contact lenses.
The initial stages of the operation were an unexpected success. Olive took six weeks off work, and when she was allowed to finally remove the bandages, the changes had been rendered with a skill that took Jason by surprise. Despite faint bruising around her eyes and jaw line, Dr Wray had endowed Olive with a delicate little nose, high feline cheekbones and, with the clever addition of tiny pockets of fat, a perfectly heart-shaped face. There was enough that remained familiar about his wife to reassure Jason he would not be sharing his home with a stranger.
Olive had a new-found confidence that came mostly from spending afternoons in front of the mirror. She spent a fortnight’s wages on designer makeup, sharpened her nails, bought two new sets of expensive lingerie, and had a haircut which cost so much Jason worried he might have to start looking for a second job. She looks like she used to, mused Jason, but better.
Olive's transformation made Jason feel inexplicably horny. There was something about the way Olive slunk around the kitchen - the way she pressed up against him when he removed the milk from the fridge - that kept him in a constant state of arousal.
Jason no longer regretted footing the bill for his wife’s cosmetic surgery. The only downside of the process was the scrupulous way she stuck to Dr Wray’s instructions.
‘I told you,’ she said, switching on the bedside lamp and getting under the duvet. ‘Dr Wray says I’m not allowed to do anything strenuous.’
‘I’ll do all the work,’ said Jason. ‘You can just lie there.’
‘Oh, great,’ said Olive. ‘No thanks. Honestly, Jason, can’t you hang on just a little bit longer? Dr Wray says we’ve got to wait six weeks.’ Jason exhaled in exasperation and turned to face the wall, stroking his penis mechanically through the material of his boxers.
‘Don’t do that right next to me!’ snapped Olive. ‘Can’t you do it in the bathroom?’
‘I’m not doing anything!’ Jason hissed through clenched teeth, removing his hands abruptly from his crotch. This was a nightmare. Olive was rejecting him. She was having an affair with Dr Wray. Jason closed his eyes and lay next to his wife, fuming, until a sound he knew all too well broke the silence.
It was the sort of noise a cat makes when its head is so over-sized that rolls of fat around its neck threaten to block its airways.
‘Olive!’ Jason exploded. ‘Get that cat out of our bedroom!’
‘What cat?’ said Olive. Jason froze, his heartbeat gathering speed.
‘Jason,’ said Olive. ‘I’m joking. Of course it’s the cat.’ Jason opened a wary eye; the bedroom door was open, and Olive’s cat had come up from the kitchen. It lay, purring, a mass of fur on her stomach.
‘Oh thank God,’ said Jason, hands trembling with relief. ‘I don’t want the cat in here, Olive. It’s too noisy. I can’t sleep.’
‘But it’s Sunday tomorrow,’ she pleaded. ‘You don’t have to get up for work.’ Olive reached under the duvet and put a hand suggestively on Jason’s thigh.
‘OK,’ said Jason, as an uncomfortable pressure began to grow in his boxers. ‘Whatever you want.’ As Jason turned hopefully towards his wife, Olive slapped his hand away.
‘Jason!’ she snapped. ‘How many times do I have to tell you!’ Jason opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again. Balling his fists, he glared up at the ceiling.
‘This is ridiculous!’ he said, gritting his teeth in an effort to keep calm. ‘You won’t even let me come near you!’
‘I’m sorry, Jason,’ said Olive. ‘That’s just what Dr Wray said.’
‘Fuck Dr Wray!’ said Jason. Olive didn’t respond. Stroking the cat, she closed her eyes and fell asleep almost instantly. The cat licked Olive’s neck with its little pink tongue, and began to knead its claws gently into her neck, glancing up at Jason as if to check he was watching.
Jason glared at the two of them in the light of the bedside lamp, and went downstairs to sleep on the sofa.

‘Olive,’ said Jason, the next afternoon. ‘You’re spending an inappropriate amount of time with that cat. It sleeps in our bed,’ he continued, ticking each item off on his fingers. ‘You take it into the bathroom when you’re having a shower. It eats at the kitchen table. What are you going to do when you go back to work?’
‘I’m not going back to work,’ said Olive.
‘What?’ Jason made himself take a very deep breath.
‘I’m not going back to work,’ she repeated. ‘Who’s going to look after the cat?’
‘It‘s a cat,’ said Jason. ‘It can look after itself! You love your job, Olive!’
‘No, I don’t. Not any more. And I can’t go back like this anyway.’ Dr Wray had completed eight of the nine procedures, and the last was scheduled to take place in just under an hour. Olive’s ears were pointed, her teeth sharpened, and the underside of her chin and jaw coated in soft little hairs. She’d studied the cat at length, copying the way it moved, and had even begun to yawn like the cat: tipping her head back, widening her jaw, showing off her tiny restructured teeth.
‘And you’ve been inviting other cats round again,’ said Jason, pointing at the trail of muddy paw prints leading from the front door to the window.
‘Don’t shout at me, Jason,’ said Olive. ‘Just take me to the surgery. It’s time to go, and I can’t drive properly with these contact lenses in.’ Jason clenched his fists and brought them to his temples.
‘Give me strength,’ he muttered.
‘Stop being so melodramatic, Jason,’ said Olive. ‘And get your wallet. I want to pick up a box of sushi on the way.’

Nobody could tell Jason how long the operation would take. He read all the celebrity magazines in the waiting room, struck up a conversation with a woman waiting for her fourth breast augmentation, and decided to wait in the car.
Olive had been in surgery for almost three hours when it began to rain, and Jason realised he was hungry. Holding a coat over his head, he dashed back into the hospital and left a message for Olive at the reception desk. Jason drove home with the windows down, intending to cook himself the enormous steak wrapped in clingfilm on the bottom shelf of the fridge. He thought greedily about the oil he was going to cook it in, and the mustard he was going to smear all over it, and the giant serrated knife he was going to use to slice it up.
Jason switched on the TV and was pleased to see that he hadn't missed the start of the FA Cup final. As he hunted for the griddle pan he forgot all about Dr Wray and the ninth procedure, opening a bottle of wine and drinking two glasses in quick succession. I deserve it, he thought. As Jason sat down at the table and waited for his chips to cook, Olive’s cat padded into the kitchen. Olive had been feeding it far too much of late; the cat had an colossal head which spread into its shoulders with no sign of a neck, and a gut the size and shape of a beanbag. Jason had checked on the internet, and the cat was categorically obese. No wonder, thought Jason, when all it does is lie around farting tins of salmon. The stupid thing looks like a toad.
'I hate you,' Jason mouthed at the cat, crossing his eyes for good measure. He sipped a third glass of wine and burped, waving it in the cat’s direction. He thought about urinating on the cat, and decided against it on the grounds that it would get all over the floor and he’d have to clean up before Olive came home.
The cat’s presence was making Jason lose his appetite. Getting irritably to his feet, he scooped up the cat and headed to the back door, depositing it outside in the garden. As Jason drew the bolt across, he heard something move inside the house.
‘Olive?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’ Perhaps he’d imagined it. Jason stood still for a moment to listen, and thought he could hear the sound of a car pulling out of the driveway. Jason left the door and went to check. The light in the hallway was on - had he left it on? - but there was no sign of Olive‘s coat on the pegs. Strange, he thought, I’m sure I heard something.
When Jason returned to the kitchen there was a cat in his place at the table. It was a tortoiseshell cat that Jason had never seen before, curled up on his seat, cleaning its ears.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said, annoyed. ‘Not another sodding cat.’ It must have been one of the strays Olive had started letting in. Jason crossed the room and opened the window.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Shoo! Out!’ The tortoiseshell cat didn’t move. Jason shook the back of the chair, and it jumped on to the table. ‘No!’ said Jason. ‘Bad cat! Down!’ He flapped his hands at the cat, which didn’t seem to notice but sat down next to the water jug, sniffing the air expectantly.
‘Don‘t even think about it,’ Jason told the cat. ‘That’s my steak.’ He sat down in the chair that the cat had vacated, and inspected it critically. It was a much more attractive cat than the one he usually had to put up with; clean and well-proportioned, with a perfectly heart-shaped face. Perhaps Olive would consider a swap.
‘Nice kitty,’ he said, reaching out for the tortoiseshell cat. Jason tickled it under the chin, and the cat began to purr. ‘Nice kitty,’ repeated Jason, pleased. The animal’s presence no longer annoyed him, and, as Jason began to stroke it, the cat arched its back under his palm, purring with increasing vigour.
But then the cat did something strange. It winked. Though Jason removed his hand and tried not to look the cat in the eye, the cat seemed determined to get his attention. When Jason looked to the left, the cat moved to the left of the table; when Jason looked to the right, the cat looked with him. No, surely not. Perhaps it was the wine. How much had he drunk?
The cat rolled its eyes, and settled down on the table with a thump. I give up, it seemed to be thinking. This man is an idiot. As the cat began meticulously to clean its whiskers, Jason was struck by a notion he couldn’t possibly allow himself to entertain. No chance, he thought, absolutely not. Nevertheless, Jason inspected the animal closely. Its canines were sharpened into neat little points; its ears were delicate triangles. But these are a cat’s natural features, thought Jason. It looks like a cat, and therefore it must be a cat.
Jason didn’t think the situation was particularly funny; even so, he laughed out loud to persuade himself that what he was about to say was completely ridiculous.
‘Olive?’ he ventured. The cat looked up, abandoned whisker maintenance and jumped into his lap. Jason gathered the animal awkwardly into his arms, and held it up to his face. Cautiously, he sniffed its fur. Did it smell like Olive? The weight of the cat was warm and inviting; it hung compliantly in Jason’s hands.
‘Olive,’ he whispered, putting the tortoiseshell cat gently back down on the table. The cat yawned and stretched, exposing the white undersides of its stomach and throat. Sensing that Jason was staring, it paused mid-reach and gazed at him with exactly the kind of knowing look that Olive used to give him over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror.
Jason gulped, overcome by a wave of nostalgia, and blinked away a tear. It’s ironic, he thought, now that Olive looks so little like herself I’ve remembered just how much I love her. He bent over the cat, and kissed it tenderly on the stomach. The tortoiseshell cat wriggled, pressing its belly against Jason’s chest. It rested a warm hind leg on Jason's shoulder and meowed.
‘What do you want, Olive?’ asked Jason. The cat waited, looking up at him trustingly. Jason pushed his chair unsteadily back from the table, and got to his feet. The tortoiseshell cat lay on top of the table, and the top of the table was almost exactly level with Jason’s crotch. With no concrete purpose in mind, Jason unzipped his flies. It was strangely liberating, he thought, standing in the kitchen, showing your dick to a cat.
Jason swung his penis from side to side in the air, and the tortoiseshell cat sat up, immediately alert. It stared at him with crescent-shaped pupils: ears pricked, eyes narrowed, concentrating. Enjoying the cat’s attention, Jason described a slow, sensual figure of eight with his hips.
‘Nice kitty,' he cooed, smiling at the cat. 'Nice Olive.' As Jason twitched his penis in the air, the tortoiseshell cat leapt to its feet. Ignoring the smoke seeping from the cracks around the oven door, Jason feinted at the animal, and took a hurried step backwards, losing his nerve.
The cat withdrew, crouching low to the wooden surface.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ said Jason, wagging his finger. He squeezed the base of his penis to make it bigger, and - what was that? Jason froze, taken aback by what sounded unmistakeably like a key turning in the front door.
He looked down at the tortoiseshell cat.
‘Olive?’
‘Jason?’
The cat prepared to spring.