— George! You little rascal! Get over here right now!
Granny Nora habitually swept up the broken mug from the floor while continuing to scold George, knowing full well that she wouldn’t see him until the next morning. Years ago, when George was still young and naive, he’d come scampering at her shouts. But after getting swatted a few times with a towel and broom, he had wised up. He could now accurately judge the danger just by the tone and volume of her voice. He knew when it was safe to show up later that evening and when it was best to wait two or three days.
This time, chasing a mouse, he had accidentally knocked a forgotten mug off the table. The last time, he had scattered a bag of cereal, and before that, there had been numerous little mishaps. It was all due to those pesky mice. Still, Granny Nora continued to scold George, even though, truth be told, it wasn’t his fault. He was just doing his job, dutifully delivering dead mice, moles, and rats to her pillow.
In the morning, waking up to another ‘report,’ Granny Nora would make the sign of the cross and start her usual refrain:
— George! You rascal! Why do you keep bringing these things to my bed? I’ll throw you out, you little devil!
And seeing the broken mug, she got even more worked up. But to be fair, around other people, she praised her cat, saying he was an excellent mouser, very tidy, and affectionate. George made sure not to disappoint and guarded her modest harvest with utmost diligence. Otherwise, the mice would have destroyed all the potatoes and carrots in the cellar, and they wouldn’t have turned their noses up at the grains either.
George took a philosophical approach to broken crockery and other mishaps, seeing them as inevitable losses in his line of work.
That evening, Granny Nora poured some milk into a saucer and called for the cat at length, but he had disappeared and was adamantly refusing to appear:
— Puss-puss-puss, George, you rascal. Where did you vanish to? The milk’s going to spoil. Well, suit yourself…
Granny decided to fry herself some potatoes for dinner. She opened the cellar door and, with a groan, began to descend the stairs. Bent over and squinting, she reached the potato section. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw George.
He was breathing heavily. His right front paw was swollen to twice the size of the left. And lying next to the potato tubers was a huge dead viper.
“Oh dear!” Granny Nora gasped, vividly imagining the venomous fangs sinking into her own hand. This thought alone shot her blood pressure up and made her heart skip beats. “George, my savior. Were you thinking of dying on me? Hold on, hold on. Oh, you rascal, what bad luck. What will I do without you?”
Scooping up the cat, Granny Nora scrambled up out of the cellar, grabbed her handbag and wallet, and ran in her slippers to her neighbor’s house.
— Paul! Paul! Help me! I need you to drive me to the market town urgently.
— What’s the matter, Granny Nora? Why the rush at this hour?
— I need the vet. George got bitten by a viper. Please, take me, for heaven’s sake. I’ll pay you for the gas and the trouble later.
— Alright, Granny Nora. Let me tell the wife, and we’ll be off.
At the veterinary clinic, Granny Nora got out of the car. Constantly sighing and fussing, she pulled out the heavily breathing, limp cat and briskly headed into the waiting room.
— Dear, she addressed the receptionist. — Please help us. Save George; he’s all I’ve got.
A quick glance at the unfortunate cat was enough to make a diagnosis straight away.
— A snake bite? When did it happen?
— Today. I can’t say exactly when. I found him in the cellar and came straight here.
— He needs an IV urgently.
George was taken away.
About twenty minutes later, the vet returned to the waiting room and spoke to Granny Nora:
— Let’s get some paperwork done. Are you the owner? What’s your name?
— Nora Smith.
— Okay, and the cat’s name? How old is he?
— George, he’s about six, I think. Please save him. With him, I have someone to talk to, watch films with, and he’s great company in winter. Besides, where would I find another mouser like him? He just saved me from a snake.
Granny Nora began to cry.
— Calm down. We’ll do our best. You’ll need to leave him here overnight. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll know more.
— Dear, how much will this cost?
— Don’t worry. Just pay for the medicines. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Your cat is quite the trooper! He’ll pull through.
— What’s your name, love?
— Veronica Wells.
— Thank you, Veronica. Bless you.
In the car, Granny Nora asked Paul:
— Paul, can you bring me back here tomorrow morning?
— Granny Nora, I head out to work at seven…
— I’ll come with you then.
— But the clinic opens at nine.
— It’s alright, I’ll wait.
— Alright. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.
The next day, on her way to work, Veronica saw yesterday’s client sitting on a bench near the clinic. The elderly granny rose hopefully to meet her:
— How’s my rascal?
— Let’s find out.
Half an hour later, Granny Nora, clutching the cat to her chest, headed to the bus stop, stroking George’s head and murmuring:
— Look, George, Veronica said you’ll be as good as new in three days. I’ll get you some cream. Not the store-bought kind, but homemade, and some sausage too. You’ve earned it. Just live long, you little rascal!
