“Max! You rascal, you cheeky little blighter! Get over here right now!”
Granny Annie swept up the pieces of a broken cup, all the while scolding Max, knowing full well she wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow morning. Back when Max was younger and more naive, he’d come running at her shouts. But after getting a few clout with a cloth and broom, he got wiser. Now he could accurately gauge the danger level through the tone and volume of her voice. He knew when it was safe to return in the evening and when it was best to wait a couple of days.
This time, while chasing a mouse, he’d accidentally knocked a forgotten cup off the table. The time before, he spilled a bag of rice, and there had been other mishaps before that. All thanks to pesky mice. Yet, Granny Annie continued to scold Max despite knowing it wasn’t really his fault. He was simply doing his job and regularly brought her dead mice, moles, and rats as proof of his work.
In the morning, upon waking and seeing another “report,” Granny Annie would cross herself and start her usual rant: “Max! You cheeky devil! Why do you keep bringing this into my bed? I’ll throw you out, you little devil!”
Seeing the broken cup only set her off more. But, to be fair, she would praise her cat to others, claiming he was an excellent mouser, very tidy, and affectionate. Max did his best not to disappoint, safeguarding Granny’s small harvest diligently. Otherwise, the mice in the cellar would have devoured all the potatoes and carrots, not to mention the rice.
Max accepted the broken dishes and other accidents as inevitable collateral damage.
That evening, Granny Annie poured milk into a saucer and called Max several times, but he stubbornly refused to show up: “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, Max, you rascal. Where have you disappeared to? The milk’s going to spoil. Well, to heck with you…”
Granny decided to fry up some potatoes for dinner. She opened the cellar door and slowly made her way down the steps. Bent over and squinting in the dim light, she reached the potato section. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw Max.
He was breathing heavily, his right front paw swollen to twice the size of his left. Next to him lay a massive dead snake on the potatoes.
“Oh my goodness!” gasped Granny Annie, picturing its venomous fangs sinking into her hand. Just the thought alone made her blood pressure shoot up, her heart skipping erratic beats. “Max, my savior. Are you planning to pass on me? Hold on, I’ll be right back. You poor thing, without you, what would I do?”
Scooping up the cat, Granny Annie scrambled out of the cellar, grabbed a bag with her wallet, and dashed over to the neighbor’s in her slippers.
“Paul! Paul! Help! I need to get to the vet pronto.”
“What’s going on, Granny Annie? What’s the rush at this time of night?”
“I need to get to the vet. Max got bitten by a snake. Please, drive me there, I beg you. I’ll pay you back for petrol and the trouble.”
“Alright, Granny Annie. I’ll just tell the wife, and then we’re off.”
At the veterinary clinic, Granny Annie got out of the car, moaning and fretting every minute, holding the limp, groggy Max, and hurried into the reception.
“Dear, please help. Save Max, he’s all I’ve got,” she pleaded with a nurse.
A quick glance at the poor cat was all it took for a clear diagnosis.
“A snake bite? When did it happen?”
“Today, I think. I found him in the cellar and brought him straight here.”
“He needs an urgent IV.”
Max was taken away.
About twenty minutes later, the vet came back to the waiting room and spoke to Granny Annie: “Let’s fill in the paperwork. You’re the owner, right? What’s your name?”
“Annie Smith.”
“And the cat’s name? How old is he?”
“Max, he’s about six, I think. Please do save him. Max and I chat and watch movies together, and he keeps me warm in winter. Plus, where would I find such a good mouser again? He even saved me from a snake.”
Granny Annie started to cry.
“Please, calm down. We’ll do everything we can. He’ll need to stay overnight. Come by tomorrow, and we’ll know more.”
“Dear, how much will it cost?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll only need to pay for the medication. I’m sure he’ll be fine. You’ve got a strong boy on your hands! He’ll pull through.”
“And what’s your name, dear?”
“Veronica Adams.”
“Bless you, Veronica.”
Back in the car, Granny Annie asked Paul: “Paul, could you bring me back here tomorrow morning?”
“Granny Annie, I’m heading to work at seven…”
“Then, I’ll go with you.”
“But the clinic doesn’t open until nine.”
“That’s alright, I’ll wait.”
“Okay, I’ll come by tomorrow.”
The next day, Veronica Adams, while heading to work, spotted yesterday’s client waiting on the bench outside the clinic. The old lady eagerly stood up when she saw her.
“How’s my rascal doing?”
“Let’s have a look.”
Half an hour later, Granny Annie, clutching Max to her chest, headed to the bus stop, stroking his head and murmuring: “Veronica said you’ll be back to your old self in three days. I’ll get you some cream. Not the store kind, but homemade, and some sausage. You’ve earned it. Just stick around a while longer, you rascal!”
