The Fox Inspector's Excuse

My job is to take in bond registration documents and bring my stamp down on them. A beastfolk couple comes in, hands over their paper, and I stamp it. That's all. It's a world that has nothing to do with me, a human — but my stamp is quick, and straight, and it never streaks. That much, at least, is my pride. And then, three days running, those documents were shoved back at me. The white fox Inspector, the one who comes down from the second floor. In this whole office, there isn't a single person whose papers he has never rejected. The first day, a dot was too faint. The second day, the horizontal stroke in the character for "three" was too short. The third day, the seal sat half a millimeter outside its box. The fourth day, the red ink was too dark. ...Um. What, exactly, is this supposed to mean? The line at the counter began to murmur, my coworkers' eyes changed, the section chief started edging toward the door, and somewhere I couldn't see, my stamp was being put to use. Before I knew it, something was moving all around me. And I still don't even know that man's name.