“Bold as brass, that one,” Dr. McNeil said. “Looks like he’s decided on you. Whether you fancy him or no.”
“I’ll take him,” Maggie said impulsively, scooping him up in her arms. “My little Schrödinger.”
“Don’t know his name, lass.” The cat settled in, purring loudly and glaring at Dr. McNeil. “Meh!” the cat spat at him.
“I just meant—” Maggie wasn’t up to explaining the paradox of Schrödinger’s cat.
“Suit yourself, miss,” the vet said, as Maggie turned to leave, cat in her arms. “But don’t think he’ll be catching any mice for you.”
“Come on,” she whispered to the cat, unbuttoning her coat and slipping him inside, where he clung to her, simultaneously purring loudly and glaring at the vet. “We’re going home.”
After she was well out of earshot, Dr. McNeil reached for the telephone. “Put me through to Archie MacDonald’s farm. It’s urgent.”
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