Mail Run

Reuben had barely finished placing the last label when Fish—who had returned from his cheese break berry refreshed—announced:

“OKAY! Final step ob Internashunal Bizness Operations: mailrun. And Reuben, you’re da fastest, so… good luck!”

Before Reuben could protest, Fish handed him a tiny Radio Flyer wagon piled high wiff outgoing calemdars and gabe a very unhelpful thumbs-up.

So off Reuben went, pulling the wagon down the long city street like the most determined little business rat eber. The enbelopes shifted and wobbled, but he kept one paw on the wagon’s side, making sure not a single order escaped.

Ebery few steps he muttered to himself, “Fish could hab halped. Fish should have halped. Fish is probably taking another cheese break right now…”

A gust ob wind blew a leaf past him dramatically. Reuben ignored it—he was a professional.

When he finally arribed at the big blue mailbox, he took a deep breaff, stood up tall, and started mailing the packages one by one. Each enbelope made a satisfying fwip as it slid inside—proof that the Internashunal Bizness had been conducted wiff excellence.

When the last one dropped in, Reuben dusted off his paws proudly. Task complete. Shipments sent. Customers happy.

Reuben sighed wiff contentment… and started pulling the wagon home again.

Get your calemdars here:  https://martymousehouse.bigcartel.com/