If you’ve spent any time in a school library, a local bookstore’s middle-grade graphic novel section, or within 10 feet of a 7- to 12-year-old in the last few years, you’ve almost certainly seen a Max Meow book staring back at you. The bright, neon-splashed covers, the goofy yellow cat in a tiny makeshift superhero mask, and the tagline about “cat crime” and “space meatballs” are impossible to miss. I picked up the first volume on a rainy Saturday, fully expecting a silly, throwaway comic to pass the time — and ended up tearing through all five existing installments in a single weekend, laughing so loud my roommate banged on the wall to ask if I was okay. What I didn’t expect was that this story about a regular tabby who accidentally gains superpowers from an extraterrestrial meatball would end up being one of the most refreshing, relatable superhero stories I’ve read in years.

Let’s start with the basics: Max Meow isn’t a billionaire playboy with a fancy cave, nor an alien sent to Earth with a destiny to save the world. He’s just a regular, slightly chonky orange cat who lives in Cat City, and his biggest life goal before the superpowers was to get more than 12 listeners on his tiny, niche cat podcast. That’s the magic of John Gallagher’s writing right there: he grounds every single wild, absurd plot beat in something totally ordinary that any kid (or kid at heart) can see themselves in. Max isn’t perfect. He’s a little too obsessed with snack time. He panics mid-fight when he realizes he forgot to record his weekly episode. He gets cocky after his first few wins, tries to take down a whole crew of villainous space dogs all by himself, and immediately faceplants into a giant vat of sprinkles. These aren’t the flaws of a “perfect hero” — they’re the flaws of a regular kid who’s still figuring out how to be brave, even when everything feels overwhelming.

The heart of the whole series, though, isn’t Max’s super strength or his ability to fly. It’s his best friend and partner, Mindy, the tiny, brilliant mad scientist who builds all the gadgets Max can never remember how to use. So many superhero stories fall into the trap of framing the hero as a solo genius who doesn’t need anyone else’s help — but Max Meow blows that trope up completely. When Max tries to go rogue and take on the villainous Dark Kitten all by himself in the second book, he doesn’t pull off a last-minute miracle win. He messes up. Badly. He accidentally lets the bad guys steal the entire city’s supply of donuts, and he ends up hiding in a trash can, tail drooping, too embarrassed to face Mindy. That moment hit me harder than any big action scene ever could. It’s such a quiet, honest lesson: being a hero doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone. The best wins don’t happen when you’re showing off — they happen when you stop, admit you messed up, and let your friends step in to help.

Gallagher’s art style only makes that warmth hit harder. The pages are packed with tiny, silly little details that reward re-reading: a background cat walking by with a tiny coffee mug that says “World’s Okayest Napper”, a throwaway panel where Max’s cape gets caught in a ceiling fan, little sticky notes on Mindy’s lab wall that say “DO NOT FEED THE TIME TRAVEL TACO AFTER MIDNIGHT”. There’s no overly gritty, dark, “mature” edge to the art, no gratuitous action or scary imagery that makes parents nervous to hand it to their kids. It’s bright, it’s goofy, and it feels like the kind of comic a kid would draw in the margins of their math notebook — in the absolute best way. Even the villains aren’t one-note, scary bad guys. The evil space corgis that invade Cat City in book three aren’t here to blow up the planet. They’re just tired of being cast as “cute sidekicks” in every movie, and they want to steal all the superpower meatballs so they can finally be taken seriously. By the end of the book, Max and Mindy don’t even defeat them with a big fight. They invite them to join the city’s hero team, and give them their own official badges. That’s the kind of gentle, hopeful message that’s so rare in modern superhero media: people don’t have to be your enemies just because they started off on the wrong side.

What surprised me most, though, is how much this series sticks with you long after you close the last page. I thought it was just a silly comic for kids — but I’ve found myself thinking about Max’s little podcast episodes on my commute, about how he still records every week even after he’s the most famous hero in Cat City. He never forgets the tiny, dumb, ordinary thing that made him happy before he had superpowers. In a world where so many kids’ media pushes the idea that you have to be the best, the strongest, the most famous to matter, Max Meow says the opposite. It says it’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to love your weird little hobby even if no one is watching at first. It’s okay to lean on your friends when you can’t do it all alone.

Last week, I handed my tattered copy of the first Max Meow book to my 8-year-old cousin, who’s been nervous to join his school’s art club because he thinks his drawings “aren’t good enough”. He finished it in one night, and the next day he showed up to the art club meeting with a little doodle of Max Meow taped to his sketchbook. That’s the magic of this series, right? It doesn’t talk down to kids. It doesn’t lecture them about “being brave”. It just gives them a silly, chonky orange cat who messes up, laughs at his own mistakes, and saves the day with his best friend — and lets them see themselves in him. If you haven’t picked up a Max Meow book yet, do yourself a favor. Grab one, make a bowl of popcorn, and spend an afternoon in Cat City. You’ll leave with a smile on your face, and probably a sudden, very specific craving for a donut.

Let’s start with the basics: Max Meow isn’t a billionaire playboy with a fancy cave, nor an alien sent to Earth with a destiny to save the world. He’s just a regular, slightly chonky orange cat who lives in Cat City, and his biggest life goal before the superpowers was to get more than 12 listeners on his tiny, niche cat podcast. That’s the magic of John Gallagher’s writing right there: he grounds every single wild, absurd plot beat in something totally ordinary that any kid (or kid at heart) can see themselves in. Max isn’t perfect. He’s a little too obsessed with snack time. He panics mid-fight when he realizes he forgot to record his weekly episode. He gets cocky after his first few wins, tries to take down a whole crew of villainous space dogs all by himself, and immediately faceplants into a giant vat of sprinkles. These aren’t the flaws of a “perfect hero” — they’re the flaws of a regular kid who’s still figuring out how to be brave, even when everything feels overwhelming.

The heart of the whole series, though, isn’t Max’s super strength or his ability to fly. It’s his best friend and partner, Mindy, the tiny, brilliant mad scientist who builds all the gadgets Max can never remember how to use. So many superhero stories fall into the trap of framing the hero as a solo genius who doesn’t need anyone else’s help — but Max Meow blows that trope up completely. When Max tries to go rogue and take on the villainous Dark Kitten all by himself in the second book, he doesn’t pull off a last-minute miracle win. He messes up. Badly. He accidentally lets the bad guys steal the entire city’s supply of donuts, and he ends up hiding in a trash can, tail drooping, too embarrassed to face Mindy. That moment hit me harder than any big action scene ever could. It’s such a quiet, honest lesson: being a hero doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone. The best wins don’t happen when you’re showing off — they happen when you stop, admit you messed up, and let your friends step in to help.

Gallagher’s art style only makes that warmth hit harder. The pages are packed with tiny, silly little details that reward re-reading: a background cat walking by with a tiny coffee mug that says “World’s Okayest Napper”, a throwaway panel where Max’s cape gets caught in a ceiling fan, little sticky notes on Mindy’s lab wall that say “DO NOT FEED THE TIME TRAVEL TACO AFTER MIDNIGHT”. There’s no overly gritty, dark, “mature” edge to the art, no gratuitous action or scary imagery that makes parents nervous to hand it to their kids. It’s bright, it’s goofy, and it feels like the kind of comic a kid would draw in the margins of their math notebook — in the absolute best way. Even the villains aren’t one-note, scary bad guys. The evil space corgis that invade Cat City in book three aren’t here to blow up the planet. They’re just tired of being cast as “cute sidekicks” in every movie, and they want to steal all the superpower meatballs so they can finally be taken seriously. By the end of the book, Max and Mindy don’t even defeat them with a big fight. They invite them to join the city’s hero team, and give them their own official badges. That’s the kind of gentle, hopeful message that’s so rare in modern superhero media: people don’t have to be your enemies just because they started off on the wrong side.

What surprised me most, though, is how much this series sticks with you long after you close the last page. I thought it was just a silly comic for kids — but I’ve found myself thinking about Max’s little podcast episodes on my commute, about how he still records every week even after he’s the most famous hero in Cat City. He never forgets the tiny, dumb, ordinary thing that made him happy before he had superpowers. In a world where so many kids’ media pushes the idea that you have to be the best, the strongest, the most famous to matter, Max Meow says the opposite. It says it’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to love your weird little hobby even if no one is watching at first. It’s okay to lean on your friends when you can’t do it all alone.

Last week, I handed my tattered copy of the first Max Meow book to my 8-year-old cousin, who’s been nervous to join his school’s art club because he thinks his drawings “aren’t good enough”. He finished it in one night, and the next day he showed up to the art club meeting with a little doodle of Max Meow taped to his sketchbook. That’s the magic of this series, right? It doesn’t talk down to kids. It doesn’t lecture them about “being brave”. It just gives them a silly, chonky orange cat who messes up, laughs at his own mistakes, and saves the day with his best friend — and lets them see themselves in him. If you haven’t picked up a Max Meow book yet, do yourself a favor. Grab one, make a bowl of popcorn, and spend an afternoon in Cat City. You’ll leave with a smile on your face, and probably a sudden, very specific craving for a donut.