— Max! You little rascal! Get over here right now!
Grandma Nancy was sweeping up the broken cup from the floor, muttering about Max, fully aware that she wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Back in the day, when Max was young and foolish, he would come running at her shouts. But after a couple of swats with a towel or broom, he’d learned to read the tone and volume of her voice and judge the threat level. He could tell when it was safe to appear that evening, or when it was best to lay low for a few days.
This time, he had knocked a forgotten cup off the table while chasing a mouse. Before that, he had scattered a bag of oats, and there were plenty of other small mishaps too. All thanks to those pesky mice. Yet Grandma Nancy still scolded Max, even though he was only fulfilling his duties by bringing her dead mice, moles, and rats as proof of his efforts.
Each morning, upon finding yet another “report” on her pillow, Grandma Nancy would cross herself and start her routine chorus:
— Max! You pest! Why do you keep bringing these into my bed? I’ll toss you out, you devil, I swear!
This time, when she saw the broken cup, she was even more wound up. But to be fair, she often praised her cat to others, claiming he was a top-notch mouser, immaculate, and affectionate. Max strived not to let her down, fiercely protecting her modest harvest from being devoured by the hungry mice in the cellar. Without him, they’d clear out the potatoes and carrots in no time and wouldn’t shy away from the oats either.
As for the broken dishes and other mishaps, Max philosophically chalked them up to inevitable collateral damage.
That evening, Grandma Nancy poured some milk into a saucer and called for her cat, but he had vanished, refusing to show himself:
— Here, kitty, kitty! Max, you rascal, where have you gone? The milk’s going to spoil. Oh well, suit yourself…
Deciding to make herself some fried potatoes for dinner, Grandma Nancy opened the root cellar door and began her descent, groaning slightly. Bent over double and squinting in the dim light, she made her way to the section where she stored potatoes. Once her eyes adjusted, she spotted Max.
He was breathing heavily. His right front paw was swollen to twice its normal size. And nearby, on top of the potato pile, lay a large, dead adder.
“Oh my goodness!” gasped Grandma Nancy, vividly imagining the venomous fangs sinking into her own hand. Just that thought alone made her blood pressure shoot up and her heart skip a beat. “Max, my hero, are you really going to leave me now? Hold on, just hold on. Look what trouble we’ve gotten into, rascal. How could I go on without you?”
Scooping up Max, Grandma Nancy hurried out of the cellar, grabbed her purse, and dashed over to her neighbor’s house, still in her slippers.
— Paul! Paul! Please, help me! I need to get to the town center urgently.
— What’s going on, Nancy? What’s the rush so late?
— I’ve got to get to the vet. A snake bit Max. Please, I beg you, take me there. I’ll make it up to you, I promise – for the gas and all the trouble.
— Sure, Nancy. Let me tell the wife, and we’ll go.
Outside the veterinary clinic, Grandma Nancy got out of the car, barely holding back tears. She lifted Max, who was limp as a rag and breathing heavily, and made her way into the clinic.
— Miss, — she addressed the receptionist. — Please help. Save Max. He’s all I have.
A quick glance at the unfortunate cat was enough for a diagnosis.
— Snakebite? When did it happen?
— Today. I found him in the cellar and came straight here.
— We need to start an IV immediately.
Max was taken to the back.
About twenty minutes later, the veterinarian returned to the waiting area and spoke to Grandma Nancy:
— Let’s get some paperwork done. You’re the owner, right? What’s your name?
— Nancy Smith.
— Alright, and what’s the cat’s name? How old is he?
— Max, he’s about six. Please, save him. I chat with Max, we watch the telly together, and in winter, he keeps me warm. Besides, where else would I find such a great mouser? He even saved me from a snake.
Grandma Nancy started crying.
— Don’t worry. We’ll do everything we can. He’ll need to stay with us overnight. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll see how he is.
— Miss, will it cost much?
— Don’t worry. You’ll just need to pay for the medicines. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s a tough cat!
— And your name is?
— Vera Adams.
— God bless you, Vera.
Back in the car, Grandma Nancy asked Paul:
— Paul, could you drive me here tomorrow morning?
— Sure, Nancy. I’m heading out at seven for work…
— Then I’ll go with you.
— But the clinic opens at nine.
— That’s alright, I can wait.
— Okay, I’ll be by tomorrow.
The next day, as Vera arrived at work, she spotted yesterday’s client sitting hopefully on a bench outside the clinic.
— How’s my rascal doing?
— Let’s check on him.
Half an hour later, Grandma Nancy, clutching Max to her chest, headed for the bus stop, stroking his head and murmuring:
— Look, Max, Vera said you’ll be as good as new in three days. I’ll buy you some sour cream. Not the store-bought kind, the real stuff, and some sausage too. You’ve earned it. Just keep sticking around, you little rascal.
