— Max! You little rascal! Get over here this instant!
Granny Annie was busy sweeping up the pieces of a broken cup from the floor, all the while scolding Max, knowing full well he wouldn’t show his face until at least the next morning. Back when Max was younger and more naive, he’d come running at Granny’s calls. But after being swatted with a rag and a broom a couple of times, he learned to be cautious. Now, he could gauge the level of danger by her tone and volume, discerning when it was safe to appear—maybe later in the evening, or better yet, in a few days.
This time, in his chase after a mouse, Max accidentally knocked a forgotten cup off the table. The last time, he spilled a bag of rice, and before that, there were plenty of other small mishaps. All because of those pesky mice. But for some reason, Granny Annie continued to scold Max, even though he was just doing his job, diligently bringing her successful “reports” in the form of mice, moles, and rats he’d caught.
Each morning, waking up to find another of Max’s “reports,” Granny Annie would cross herself and start her usual refrain:
— Max! You little pest! Why do you keep dragging this into my bed? I’ll throw you out, you little devil!
And when she saw the broken cup, she grew even more irate. But, to be fair, in front of others, she’d praise her cat. Talking about what a fantastic mouser he was, how clean and affectionate. Max tried not to disappoint, vigilantly guarding Granny’s small harvest. Otherwise, the mice would surely consume all the potatoes and carrots in the root cellar, not sparing even the grains of rice.
The broken dishes and other inconveniences, Max philosophically wrote off as necessary collateral damage.
That evening, Granny Annie poured some milk into a saucer and called out for the cat, but he was nowhere to be found:
— Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, Max, you pest. Where have you gone? The milk will spoil. Oh well, suit yourself…
Granny Annie decided to fry some potatoes for dinner. She opened the root cellar and, with a groan, descended the steps. Bending over and squinting into the dim light, she reached the potato bin. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she spotted Max.
He was breathing heavily. His right front paw was swollen, twice the size of his left. And next to him was a huge, dead adder lying on the potatoes.
“Oh Lord!” gasped Granny Annie, vividly imagining those venomous fangs sinking into her hand. Just the thought made her heart race. “Max, my little hero. Did you really think you were going to die on me? Hold on, hold on. Oh, you silly thing, what a mess. How will I get by without you?”
Scooping up the cat, Granny Annie emerged from the cellar, grabbed her purse, and dashed over to the neighbor’s while still in her slippers.
— Paul! Paul! Help me out! I need urgent transport to the town center.
— What happened, Granny Annie? What’s the rush this late?
— I need to get to the vet. The cat got bitten by an adder. Please, take me. I’ll make it up to you for the petrol and the trouble.
— Wait a moment, Granny Annie. I’ll tell the wife, then we’re off.
At the veterinary clinic, Granny Annie climbed out of the car, constantly exclaiming and worrying, holding her heavy-breathing cat like a limp cloth, and quickly made her way to the reception desk.
— Miss, — she addressed the nurse. — Please help us. Save Max; I’ve got no one else.
A quick glance at the unfortunate cat was enough for an immediate diagnosis.
— Snake bite? When did it happen?
— Today. I can’t say exactly when. I found him in the cellar and came straight here.
— Let’s get him on an IV drip right away.
They took Max away.
Roughly twenty minutes later, the vet returned to the waiting room and spoke to Granny Annie:
— Let’s fill out some paperwork. Are you the owner? What’s your name?
— Anne Smith.
— And the cat’s name? How old is he?
— Max, he’s about six, I think. Please, save him. With Max, I chat, watch movies, and he keeps me warm in winter. Plus, where would I find a better mouser? He even saved me from a snake.
Granny Annie burst into tears.
— Take it easy. We’ll do our best. He’ll need to stay overnight in the clinic. Come back tomorrow to see how he is.
— Miss, will it be expensive?
— Don’t worry about that. Just pay for the medications. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Your cat is a real trooper! He’ll pull through.
— And what’s your name?
— Veronica.
— God bless you, Veronica.
In the car, Granny Annie asked Paul:
— Paul, can you drive me back here tomorrow morning?
— Granny Annie, I leave for work at seven…
— I’ll go with you then.
— But the clinic opens at nine.
— That’s okay, I’ll wait.
— Alright. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.
The next day, Veronica, arriving at work, saw her client from yesterday sitting on a bench outside the clinic. The elderly lady rose to meet her with hope in her eyes:
— How’s my little pest?
— Let’s find out.
Half an hour later, Granny Annie, clutching the cat to her chest, walked to the bus stop, stroking Max’s head and murmuring:
— Now, Max, Veronica said you’ll be as good as new in three days. I’ll buy you some cream. Not the store-bought kind, but homemade, and some sausage. You’ve earned it. Just you live a long while, you rascal.
