— Max! You rascal, you little scamp! Get over here right now!
Granny Nora routinely swept up the broken cup from the floor while continuing to scold Max, knowing full well he wouldn’t show his face until tomorrow morning. In his younger, more naive days, Max would rush over at her calls. But after getting a few swipes with the broom, he’d learned to assess the situation more wisely. Now, he could accurately gauge the level of danger based on her tone and volume, deciding whether it was safe to return that evening or better to wait a few days.
This time, in pursuit of a mouse, he accidentally knocked a forgotten cup off the table. Previously, he spilled a bag of rice, among countless other minor mishaps. And it was all thanks to those pesky mice. Yet, Granny Nora kept scolding Max, despite him just doing his job, faithfully bringing her trophies of caught mice, moles, and rats.
In the mornings, upon waking up to see yet another “report,” Granny Nora would make the sign of the cross and repeat her old refrain:
— Max! You little pest! Why do you keep bringing this into my bed? I’m warning you, I’ll boot you out!
Seeing the smashed cup only wound her up further. However, to be fair, she praised him when talking to others. She’d say he was a fantastic mouser, very clean, and affectionate. Max took his role seriously and guarded her small crop with dedication. Without him, the mice would have devoured all the potatoes and carrots in the cellar. They wouldn’t have turned their noses up at her pantry either.
As for the broken crockery and other mishaps, Max philosophically chalked them up as inevitable losses.
That evening, Granny Nora filled a dish with milk and called him for ages, but Max was nowhere to be found and stubbornly refused to show himself:
— Here, kitty, kitty, Max, my rascal, where have you disappeared? The milk will spoil. Oh well, suit yourself…
She decided to fry some potatoes for dinner. She opened the cellar door, groaning as she descended the steps. Hunched over and squinting, she made her way to the potato section. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted Max.
He was breathing heavily. His right front paw was swollen, twice the size of the left. Beside him lay a large dead snake.
“Oh my goodness!” gasped Granny Nora, vividly picturing the snake’s venomous fangs sinking into her hand. Her blood pressure skyrocketed just at the thought, and her heart started skipping beats. “Max, my hero, you’re not going to die on me, are you? Hold on, hold on. You silly boy, how did this happen? What will I do without you?”
Scooping up the cat, Granny Nora clambered out of the cellar, hastily grabbed her purse, and dashed to the neighbor’s house in her slippers.
— Paul! Paul! Help out! I need a lift to the town center urgently.
— What’s the matter, Granny Nora? Why the rush at this hour?
— I’ve got to get to the vet. Max was bitten by a snake. Please, take me. I promise I’ll pay you back for petrol and the bother.
— Alright, Granny Nora. Let me tell my wife, and we’ll be off.
At the veterinary clinic, Granny Nora stepped out of the car. Sighing and fretting, she retrieved the cat, who was limp and wheezing, and hurried into the reception.
— Sweetheart, please, help. Save Max for me, he’s all I’ve got.
A quick look at the poor cat was enough for a diagnosis.
— Snake bite? When did it happen?
— Today. I found him in the cellar and came straight here.
— We need to get him on a drip immediately.
Max was whisked away.
About twenty minutes later, the vet returned to speak with Granny Nora:
— Let’s sort out the paperwork. Are you the owner? What’s your name?
— Anna Smith.
— And what’s the cat’s name? How old is he?
— Max, he’s about six, I think. Please, do everything you can. Max is my companion for everything, and he keeps me warm in winter. Besides, where would I find another mouser like him? He even saved me from a snake.
Granny Nora burst into tears.
— Don’t worry. We’ll do our best. You’ll need to leave him here overnight. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll see where we stand.
— Darling, will this cost a lot?
— Don’t worry about it. Just pay for the medicine. I’m sure everything will be alright. Your cat is a trooper! He’ll pull through.
— What’s your name, dear?
— Vera Johnson.
— God bless you, Vera.
In the car, Granny Nora asked Paul:
— Paul, can you bring me here tomorrow morning?
— Granny Nora, I’m leaving for work at seven…
— I’ll come along then.
— The clinic opens at nine, though.
— I’ll wait.
— Alright, I’ll pick you up tomorrow.
The next day, on her way to work, Vera met Granny Nora outside the clinic. The old lady stood up expectantly:
— How’s my little rascal doing?
— Let’s find out.
Half an hour later, Granny Nora, clutching her cat to her chest, headed to the bus stop, stroking Max’s head and murmuring:
— Vera said you’ll be as good as new in three days, Max. I’ll get you some cream, not the store stuff, the homemade kind, and some sausage. You’ve earned it. Just live a good, long life, you rascal!
