Post Catster General

I’m not sure where the idea for this story came from- Reginald just dropped into my head on the school run this morning!

Post Catster General

Reginald sighed, he was never going to finish work at this rate. All he really wanted was a nap and a bacon butty. Instead he was still sorting letters to the elves. The magic mice were all out on delivery, and there were tonnes of letters left to deliver.

It was the fault of that TV show, thought Reginald. He’d heard the humans talking about it, ‘Help Your Elf’. All the kids loved it and this was the result. The game show always ended with the words ‘How will you help your elf?’ (Dave, the head postman, loved mimicking the phrase). The letters from all the viewers telling the elves their answers had snowed into the post office sorting centre ever since the show had started.

Reginald sighed again, he’d only got himself to blame. He had thought it was a good solution to the problem at first. He’d been employed to get rid of the mice from the office. The humans were cross with them eating the letters. Reginald had been horrified when they had told him his duties. Chase mice, OK. But, eat them? Yuck! Some cats ate mice he knew but the very idea made him shudder. Give him a bacon sandwich and he was purring like a chainsaw but the thought of eating mice made him feel ill.

So Reginald had a great idea. Well it had seemed a great idea at the time. He would keep the mice busy and away from the human letters by sorting the magical letters and getting the mice to deliver them. They would be paid by the fairies, elves and Father Christmas with peanut butter and the occasional envelope to chew. Reginald himself would be fed bacon butties in the canteen by the grateful posties and all would be well.

It was all well until this blasted TV show, thought Reginald. But now he had to work so many hours he had hardly any time for naps. If only his Grandma hadn’t got a job training kittens to unwind balls of wool, she’d been helping him at the busiest times of the year. Goodness knows what he’d do at Christmas, but for now he was worried he’d run out of time for bacon butties. He sighed for the third time.

‘I say, could you stop doing that, old thing? You’re giving me chills,’ said a voice. Reginald looked round to see a scruffy looking terrier under the shelf. He started and leapt to the top of his conveyor belt, his fur porcupining all over. He hissed and spat at the dog.

‘Good lord my dear cat, there’s no need for that!’ said the dog wiggling out to stare at Reginald.

‘B…b…but you’ll eat me!’ stuttered the cat.

‘Eat you, old thing? I should say not!’ the dog said in horror.

‘But you’re a dog, that’s what they do.’

‘Oh yes, in the same way that you eat mice I suppose?’ The dog looked hard at Reginald.

‘Hmm, OK, you’ve got me there.’ Reginald said and jumped down, still keeping a fair distance from the little dog.

After a good chat it turned out that the dog, Jemima Killer III, had been made homeless when her owner died and had taken shelter in the sorting office. She loved cats and would only eat sausages and eggs. ‘Preferably with brown sauce,’ she’d told Reginald.

‘You’ll like it here then, most of the non-bacon-buttie-eating posties eat their sausage and eggs with brown sauce,’ Reginald told her.

‘Mmmm, but I’m not sure they’ll let me in the canteen. What have you been sighing about anyhow my dear cat?’

‘All this post,’ Reginald groaned waving a paw at all the magic-related post. He explained his position as mice employer and magical letters Post Catster General.

‘What you need is an assistant. I would be delighted to fill the post,’ the dog said, ‘maybe I could be an official ratter as far as the humans are concerned?’

Now that was a good idea thought Reginald. Not that they had any rats, but that wasn’t a problem, the humans didn’t need to know that. He made his way into the Postmaster’s office and turned the computer on with a paw. Jemima watched with interest as he hacked into the Postmaster General’s account and typed a letter on the proper headed paper.

‘The mice are excellent at using computers, they taught me everything I know,’ he explained as the letter printed.

The Postmaster opened the letter on her desk with a groan the next morning. What did the Postmaster General want now? She bent to stroke Reginald at her feet then read the letter out to her chief postman.

‘Mrs Bertrand has appointed a terrier as ratter, she’s had complaints that we’re overrun with rats,’ she told him.

‘Really? I’ve never seen one,’ Dave the posty said.

‘Well that’s what she says, and we’re to pay the dog with sausage and eggs,’ read the Postmaster.

‘Ah with that and the bacon butties for Reginald we’ll be left with hardly any brekkie,’ Dave said sadly.

‘Come on, man, there’s plenty for you all!’ the Postmaster said, and looked up to see Jemima walking through the door. ‘Ah here she is now, let’s hope she gets on with the cat.’

‘Yes, the last thing we need is cat and dog fights, and mice and rats running all over,’ the posty said. But to their relief the animals seemed quite happy together. Reginald winked at Jemima, things were looking good once more and he was dying for a bacon butty.