Story 1: Reza Shadey is Hungry
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a tale about a very cheeky and magnificently fluffy cat whose tummy was always rumbling for more.
His name was Reza Shadey — a handsome Persian with light brown fur streaked with black and huge emerald eyes that gleamed with mischief.
He lived in a cosy house with his doting human, Mrs Higgins, in a cheerful corner of Catford. To ordinary eyes the back garden was just a garden. To Reza? It was his Global HQ of Shadey Operations — and he was its very important Boss.
But what does a Boss love even more than ruling his kingdom? His dinner. And, if we're being completely honest, everyone else's dinner too. Reza Shadey was a deeply food-focused feline.
Every afternoon, as the sun turned golden, Reza would stretch his paws waaaay out, unleash a truly theatrical yawn, and slip through the cat flap with businesslike tip-tap tip-tap paws.
He wasn't hunting butterflies or birds. Oh no. He was on a top-priority mission: supplementary snacks.
First target: elegant Penelope, lying like a fluffy snowdrift beside her bowl of yummy fishy bits. Reza's nose twitched. His own dinner had been perfectly adequate, but this was an opportunity. He needed a distraction. A brilliant one.
He slunk closer, then froze in an attitude of pure amazement.
"Penelope!" he gasped, pointing one dramatic paw toward the shed. "Look! A jewel-encrusted butterfly! Its wings — they sparkle like a thousand microscopic rainbows! A specimen of unparalleled rarity!"
Penelope, sensible as ever, gave the shed the briefest glance. Then she looked straight at Reza's laser-focused stare... which had never once left her bowl.
"How lovely, Rezzi", she purred sweetly. And then — very deliberately — she scooped up the last three fishy bits and swallowed them in three luxurious gulps.
Gulp-gulp-gone.
Reza's magnificent whiskers drooped like wet spaghetti.
"Hmph... no appreciation for the dramatic arts", he sniffed, turning on his heel with wounded dignity.
Next victim: Ginger Tom, sprawled along a sunny wall, contentedly crunching through a proper bowl of biscuits.
"Tom, my dear fellow!" Reza hissed, eyes wide with counterfeit panic. "Did you hear that rustle? I'm almost certain it's the legendary Biscuit Badger of Catford — notorious for hoarding the crunchiest biscuits in his underground vault! We must investigate at once!"
Ginger Tom paused mid-crunch. He looked at the bushes. He looked at Reza. He looked at his own half-eaten bowl. Then he gave the longest, slowest yawn in south-east London... and carried on crunching.
"Badgers don't eat biscuits, Reza", he mumbled through crumbs. "Everyone knows that."
Defeated twice! Reza stalked away, tail lashing, tummy still rumbling with righteous indignation.
On the way home, he tried to squeeze under the garden gate for a shortcut.
Big mistake.
His magnificent, executive-level fluffy tummy became magnificently, executively stuck.
He wiggled. He waggled. He pushed with all four paws.
"Meee-owww!" he wailed, suddenly feeling very small and very silly.
Luckily Mrs Higgins appeared at that exact moment, dressing gown on, cup of tea in hand.
"Oh, Reza, you cheeky sausage!" she laughed, bending down to lift the gate latch.
The gate swung wide. Freedom!
Reza trotted through with as much dignity as a cat who has just been unstuck by human intervention can muster.
A brilliant new insight struck him like lightning.
His plans hadn't failed because they were bad plans.
They had failed because of poor timing.
"Obviously", he muttered to himself, puffing out his chest, "I must commence foraging operations earlier tomorrow — before the others have secured their rations. Far more efficient."
He slipped back through the cat flap.
And what did he find waiting on his special mat?
His very own bowl — piled high with crunchy biscuits, exactly the way he liked them.
He fell upon them with gusto. Crunch crunch crunch.
As the last biscuit disappeared, Reza licked his whiskers, arranged himself into a perfect CEO curl on his velvet cushion, and purred contentedly.
Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow he would be earlier.
Tomorrow he would win.
And with that very important executive decision made, he drifted off into dreams of endless tuna and perfectly executed schemes.
Night night. Sleep tight.