The village of Rotusk had a rat problem, but the baker didn’t see it that way.
Every year, the rats had been getting bigger. First the size of cats, then the size labradors. Now, you might be forgiven for thinking the large furry thing raiding your bin was a bear.
No cat would fight them, no terrier chase them. The piper came and went, looking a little green.
But every morning, the baker took the previous day’s bread to the back alley, where the rats were lined up. They would reach out with their ratty hands and excitedly accept their baguettes or cheese rolls, or if they were lucky, pastries.
They would dip their ratty heads in thanks and walk away chortling. Sometimes they left gifts: dried flowers, shiny rocks, even the odd bit of coin.
Rats, it turned out, were very polite customers.