After the incident with the steam roller Kenneth the ginger and white cat was reincarnated as a red post box. It appeared overnight at the bottom of the Rise, his favoured haunt from his previous life.
No humans commented on its sudden appearance assuming that the post office had at last delivered on their promise to provide one for the convenience of the many commuters who used the railway station. The cats on the other-hand were incensed that a symbol of respectable utility should be derived from the soul of such a vagabond. They formed a protest group to campaign for its replacement with one sprung from the soul of a solid sort of cat but it didn’t fly.
Kenneth’s mouth that had hitherto been used for biting and eating was now a gaping invitation for anyone to insert their pennings. Had they been aware of the post boxes provenance that may have thought twice before so committing. You see Kenneth’s physical form may have changed but his personality hadn’t.
Kenneth had led the life of an adventurer. His adventures were largely of the amorous variety but he took in some skirmishing, vandalism, and petty larceny as well. Accordingly he received the offerings thrust between his red open lips as opportunities to exercise his previous passions and extract some payback. A letter to a lover he would lick until the ink ran purple, the stamps fell off and it smelt of stale lamb gravy. A letter to the bank, perhaps enclosing a cheque or even cash he would shred with his claws in an effort to extract the good capital and find away to spend it on fish. A letter complaining to the parish council about stray cats digging up the freshly raked soil in somebody’s allotment would be drowned in the most noxious acidic spray he could muster until it was reduced back to the pulp that formed it and thus made a perfect a spring mulch for the aforesaid allotment should the complainer be so inclined as to be granted it back thorough solicitous negotiation with the postman whose job it was to disembowel Kenneth at 4:15 on weekdays and 10:15 on Saturdays.
So the post box soon acquired a reputation as a malevolent force intent on ruining the orderly rhythm of the neighbourhood and providing little value in terms of its intent as somewhere to send letters from. The commuters avoided it for anything but the most thoughtless birthday card or ill intended thank you letter . The residents of the rise crossed the road rather than pass too close to avoid the noise and smell. Even those intent in debasing themselves by utilising its inviting orifice did so with exceptional care. Life had come full circle but Kenneth had evolved from cat to container, thus he was content.