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Very Fawnedly Yours
© 2013 by Walter Reimer
(All characters courtesy of
EOCostello, 
MercMarten and 
Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)
The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).
Art by
turnbolt
__________________________________________________
Part 7.
Reggie:
The Great Southern Railway?
Great nuisance, if you ask me.
Lodge was keeping a weather eye on our luggage and after a moment Willow touched my elbow and pointed. “I think that’s our ride.”
There was a bloodhound standing there in the traditional gray chauffeur’s uniform, holding a sign that read BUCKHORN. He had the proverbial hang-dog expression on his face, one that scarcely moved when I waved. “Jolly good,” I said as we walked over to him. “Hullo!” I said. “Are you looking for us?”
“Onny iffn yer th’ Buckhorns,” the canine said in a broad Cockney accent. He remained almost as stone-faced and morose as Buster Fleaton.
“That we are. And you are?”
“Gerry Barker, Gov’nor, although ev’ryone calls me Nosey,” and a glimmer of a shifty look crossed his muzzle. “I got hired on as yer driver.”
“Pleased to meet you, er, Nosey. I’m Reggie, and this is my wife Willow.”
“Pleased t’meetcher, Gov’nor. This way, an’ I’ll bring th’ car ‘round.” He set off through the crowd on the platform, and Willow beckoned to Lodge to follow with our bags.
The car was a Crossley, a Regis I think, which I thought was just spiffing. A Crossley’s just two doors down from a Rolls, for those who like their cars to be quality, but not Quality if you know what I mean. The bags secured in the boot, Lodge sat beside Nosey while I helped Willow into the back seat.
“Roight,” Nosey said. “’Ang on.”
I expected a leisurely departure from the station, followed by a sedate trip through the London traffic.
I didn’t expect being thrown violently backward against the soft leather upholstery of the Crossley’s rear seat.
And I just barely caught Willow as she was thrown hard into me by the force of his right turn as Nosey:
1. Executed a beautiful chicane turn into traffic;
2. Slipped into a roundabout at full speed with barely a hair’s-breadth of clearance on three sides;
3. Nearly catapulted the car into the Thames, and instead almost drove a lorry off the bridge; and
4. Finally came to a sudden halt at the front of our new home in Mayfair.
And all without any squealing of brakes. In fact, I don’t think he touched the brakes at all until we stopped.
When Willow and I got off the train, we were tired.
The trip to the house woke us up.
Sheer terror will do that, I suppose.
Willow had had her headfur done up by the furdresser aboard the Queen, which was fortunate.
Otherwise her headfur would be standing straight up, just like mine.
We emerged from the Crossley, white and shaking, and Nosey said, “Cor. Got a bit o' dust, there. Sorry 'bout that, Gov."
I stared. There wasn’t a single dent or scrape anywhere to be seen.
“Good Lord, Nosey! Where did you learn to drive like that? Paris?”
“Ah, naw, Gov’nor. Oy wuz a London cabbie, I wuz.”
"What on earth do you drive on two tires for?"
"Me bruvver sez it spreads th' wear, Gov'nor."
I blinked, pausing in the act of trying to smooth down my headfur. “Who’s your bruvver – er, brother, then?”
“Aw, well . . . there’s some wot say his ears bend in serprisin’ ways, an’ some wot sez he ‘ad all his teeth when he wuz bornded. All I knows is, ‘e’s me bruvver Stig.”
With that cryptic comment, my wife and I walked up the steps to our new home.
I guessed someone had called ahead, since the staff was drawn up in the front hall, and I suspected the Sire. Not counting Lodge and Nosey, the staff consisted of a cook and two maids. They looked apprehensive, so first order of business was to set them at ease.
Willow and I walked along, shaking paws and saying hello. The two maids looked like sisters, a pair of matched martens who looked to be full of energy. They gave their names as Paczki and Zenobia Galor. They spoke English, but had a really interesting accent.
Hungarian, I think.
From their figures, I think they would cut quite a dash in the Spontoons, wearing grass skirts. Martens are like minks, very limber, so watching them rotate their crops would be an instant tourist-pleaser.
The cook was a rather hefty rabbit named Winthrop Coney, formerly of Harrods (herbivore division). They all relaxed after we made introductions.
***
Lodge:
The service that directed me to Mr. Buckhorn’s employ is quite professional and, if I may say, known for a certain level of diversity. The cook appeared competent, and as the luggage was brought in I made his acquaintance.
“I’m glad you arrived, Mr. Lodge,” he said as soon as the kitchen doors closed behind us. “I heard a lot about you from the service.”
“I fear they haven’t acquainted me with you or the young ladies, Mr. Coney,” I said as we shook paws.
Coney snorted, quite derisively. “Ladies is it? I’m not sure what you’ve seen in foreign parts, Mr. Lodge, but ladies those two are not.”
I must have looked worried, and he hastily added, “Now don’t get me wrong, Mr. Lodge. They’re good workers, both of them. Why, you should have seen this place when the movers were finished. It was a right dump, I can tell you.”
“So they cleaned it thoroughly?”
“Indeed they did. You could eat off the kitchen floor if you liked,” although Mr. Coney’s wink assured me that he did not expect me to try. “They’re just – well, it’s hard to say, really,” and he tugged at one of his ears. “They’re immigrants, as I’m sure you could guess. To my mind, they’re here to find themselves rich husbands.”
I nodded. “That will bear watching for any indiscretions on their part. What had you planned for lunch?”
Coney looked a bit surprised at the sudden shift in the conversation, but readily discussed a small menu with me. What he mentioned seemed acceptable, so we set upon twelve sharp for lunch, and I went to see the rest of the house.
To my surprise, the two Galor sisters were standing in the front parlor, arguing in what I believe to be Hungarian. From their tone, I gathered that a fight was impending. I cleared my throat and they jumped. “Is anything wrong, ladies?”
Zenobia gave a toss of her blonde headfur (I noted dark roots) and sniffed, “Zis one, she vants to be ze upstairs maid! I, I am ze eldest!”
“Ringyo!”
“Szemetlada!”
While I had a fair idea of the meaning of these choice epithets, given their context I felt that the peace must be preserved.
Before they started pulling out each other’s headfur.
“I am the head of the household staff,” I said sternly. “That decision is up to me.”
I got the feeling I had said the exactly wrong thing, as their demeanor instantly changed and they started batting their eyelashes at me, tails swishing coquettishly. “We will alternate duties. Zenobia – “
“Please,” she said with a rather startlingly husky voice, “call me Zsu Zsu, Mister Lodge.”
“Zenobia, you will be the upstairs maid for the first month. Paczki will become the upstairs maid on the first of August. Perform your duties well.” I walked out of the room just then, my nostrils catching a distinct and most unladylike whiff of marten musk.
Most unsettling.
***
Willow:
The house . . .
Well, it wasn’t bad, really.
Three floors, with ample space for a nursery (which I hoped to fill in good order, but not too fast). Hyde Park within walking distance, so there’d be plenty of space for growing fawns to play.
I commended Lodge for acquiring it, sight unseen.
Of course, it did have a few problems. For starters, it was about as old as me, Reggie and Lodge combined, and you can’t get that old without a few things creeping in.
The floors were beautiful varnished hardwood, but the higher you got the, well, springier they felt. The master bedroom floor felt almost as springy under my hooves as the mattress.
The bed was brand new, though, and part of me was looking forward to trying it in Reggie’s company.
The view from the windows wasn’t the tropic vista I’d come to expect in the Spontoons, but you could see over the rooftops to the skyline of London. If I craned out of the window I could look down the street toward the park. Window boxes, I decided, would give a bit of show to the place.
For some reason, the door leading to the attic had been painted over. No telling what was in there, but I wanted to have a look soon. For all I knew, one of the Galor twins’ relatives might be holed up in there.
Speaking of which, I might have a word with the service Lodge contacted. As I was heading upstairs to get ready for lunch I heard one of the marten maids (Paczki, I think) storm through the parlor, almost knocking over a decorative vase that was so far sadly bereft of flowers.
I suspected Lodge was sorting things out, so I headed upstairs.
Lunch was delicious, consisting of a light salad, a delicious broccoli quiche and ice cream for dessert. Despite the occasional glares the maid directed at Lodge, things went extremely well, and I took pains to thank the cook.
I poked my nose through the kitchen door. “Mr. Coney?”
The rabbit was busily putting pots away. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“Thank you. Lunch was delicious.”
He grinned. “Thank you very much.”
He looked me up and down as I left the kitchen, and the look was a bit disquieting.
Reggie and I were still worn out from our trip, so naps were in order for the afternoon. We would test the mattress that night.
***
Reggie:
After dinner, I suggested a walk. Hyde Park was an easy walk away, and we strolled a bit before returning to the house.
Lodge had laid some tea on, and we relaxed a bit in the upstairs parlor before turning in. The BBC was playing some dance music on the radio.
Willow, of course, was looking radiant, but tired.
Which clarified something that had been niggling at me.
“Willow?”
“Yes, darling?”
I love it when she calls me that, and I felt myself flagging.
“My love, I have to report in to the Sire.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“And I’ve been thinking of calling him and asking to wait a couple days.”
Willow sat up straight and stared at me, ears flicking. “What?”
“Well, dash it . . . fine! I don’t WANT to go to work! What if something happens to you while I’m gone?”
My wife smiled at me, then stood up and leaned over me. We shared a kiss that left my hooves scorched, but not smoking. “Reggie,” she said, “I’ll be fine. I swear if anything happens I’ll call you. And you know Lodge – he’ll call you before anything happens.”
“Before?” It took me a few minutes for that to sink in, and we shared a laugh before she gently took me by the paw and led me to the bedroom.
Returning after a moment to switch off the radio.
The carousel, it seemed, had followed us from the liner.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
© 2013 by Walter Reimer
(All characters courtesy of
EOCostello, 
MercMarten and 
Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).
Art by
turnbolt__________________________________________________
Part 7.
Reggie:
The Great Southern Railway?
Great nuisance, if you ask me.
Lodge was keeping a weather eye on our luggage and after a moment Willow touched my elbow and pointed. “I think that’s our ride.”
There was a bloodhound standing there in the traditional gray chauffeur’s uniform, holding a sign that read BUCKHORN. He had the proverbial hang-dog expression on his face, one that scarcely moved when I waved. “Jolly good,” I said as we walked over to him. “Hullo!” I said. “Are you looking for us?”
“Onny iffn yer th’ Buckhorns,” the canine said in a broad Cockney accent. He remained almost as stone-faced and morose as Buster Fleaton.
“That we are. And you are?”
“Gerry Barker, Gov’nor, although ev’ryone calls me Nosey,” and a glimmer of a shifty look crossed his muzzle. “I got hired on as yer driver.”
“Pleased to meet you, er, Nosey. I’m Reggie, and this is my wife Willow.”
“Pleased t’meetcher, Gov’nor. This way, an’ I’ll bring th’ car ‘round.” He set off through the crowd on the platform, and Willow beckoned to Lodge to follow with our bags.
The car was a Crossley, a Regis I think, which I thought was just spiffing. A Crossley’s just two doors down from a Rolls, for those who like their cars to be quality, but not Quality if you know what I mean. The bags secured in the boot, Lodge sat beside Nosey while I helped Willow into the back seat.
“Roight,” Nosey said. “’Ang on.”
I expected a leisurely departure from the station, followed by a sedate trip through the London traffic.
I didn’t expect being thrown violently backward against the soft leather upholstery of the Crossley’s rear seat.
And I just barely caught Willow as she was thrown hard into me by the force of his right turn as Nosey:
1. Executed a beautiful chicane turn into traffic;
2. Slipped into a roundabout at full speed with barely a hair’s-breadth of clearance on three sides;
3. Nearly catapulted the car into the Thames, and instead almost drove a lorry off the bridge; and
4. Finally came to a sudden halt at the front of our new home in Mayfair.
And all without any squealing of brakes. In fact, I don’t think he touched the brakes at all until we stopped.
When Willow and I got off the train, we were tired.
The trip to the house woke us up.
Sheer terror will do that, I suppose.
Willow had had her headfur done up by the furdresser aboard the Queen, which was fortunate.
Otherwise her headfur would be standing straight up, just like mine.
We emerged from the Crossley, white and shaking, and Nosey said, “Cor. Got a bit o' dust, there. Sorry 'bout that, Gov."
I stared. There wasn’t a single dent or scrape anywhere to be seen.
“Good Lord, Nosey! Where did you learn to drive like that? Paris?”
“Ah, naw, Gov’nor. Oy wuz a London cabbie, I wuz.”
"What on earth do you drive on two tires for?"
"Me bruvver sez it spreads th' wear, Gov'nor."
I blinked, pausing in the act of trying to smooth down my headfur. “Who’s your bruvver – er, brother, then?”
“Aw, well . . . there’s some wot say his ears bend in serprisin’ ways, an’ some wot sez he ‘ad all his teeth when he wuz bornded. All I knows is, ‘e’s me bruvver Stig.”
With that cryptic comment, my wife and I walked up the steps to our new home.
I guessed someone had called ahead, since the staff was drawn up in the front hall, and I suspected the Sire. Not counting Lodge and Nosey, the staff consisted of a cook and two maids. They looked apprehensive, so first order of business was to set them at ease.
Willow and I walked along, shaking paws and saying hello. The two maids looked like sisters, a pair of matched martens who looked to be full of energy. They gave their names as Paczki and Zenobia Galor. They spoke English, but had a really interesting accent.
Hungarian, I think.
From their figures, I think they would cut quite a dash in the Spontoons, wearing grass skirts. Martens are like minks, very limber, so watching them rotate their crops would be an instant tourist-pleaser.
The cook was a rather hefty rabbit named Winthrop Coney, formerly of Harrods (herbivore division). They all relaxed after we made introductions.
***
Lodge:
The service that directed me to Mr. Buckhorn’s employ is quite professional and, if I may say, known for a certain level of diversity. The cook appeared competent, and as the luggage was brought in I made his acquaintance.
“I’m glad you arrived, Mr. Lodge,” he said as soon as the kitchen doors closed behind us. “I heard a lot about you from the service.”
“I fear they haven’t acquainted me with you or the young ladies, Mr. Coney,” I said as we shook paws.
Coney snorted, quite derisively. “Ladies is it? I’m not sure what you’ve seen in foreign parts, Mr. Lodge, but ladies those two are not.”
I must have looked worried, and he hastily added, “Now don’t get me wrong, Mr. Lodge. They’re good workers, both of them. Why, you should have seen this place when the movers were finished. It was a right dump, I can tell you.”
“So they cleaned it thoroughly?”
“Indeed they did. You could eat off the kitchen floor if you liked,” although Mr. Coney’s wink assured me that he did not expect me to try. “They’re just – well, it’s hard to say, really,” and he tugged at one of his ears. “They’re immigrants, as I’m sure you could guess. To my mind, they’re here to find themselves rich husbands.”
I nodded. “That will bear watching for any indiscretions on their part. What had you planned for lunch?”
Coney looked a bit surprised at the sudden shift in the conversation, but readily discussed a small menu with me. What he mentioned seemed acceptable, so we set upon twelve sharp for lunch, and I went to see the rest of the house.
To my surprise, the two Galor sisters were standing in the front parlor, arguing in what I believe to be Hungarian. From their tone, I gathered that a fight was impending. I cleared my throat and they jumped. “Is anything wrong, ladies?”
Zenobia gave a toss of her blonde headfur (I noted dark roots) and sniffed, “Zis one, she vants to be ze upstairs maid! I, I am ze eldest!”
“Ringyo!”
“Szemetlada!”
While I had a fair idea of the meaning of these choice epithets, given their context I felt that the peace must be preserved.
Before they started pulling out each other’s headfur.
“I am the head of the household staff,” I said sternly. “That decision is up to me.”
I got the feeling I had said the exactly wrong thing, as their demeanor instantly changed and they started batting their eyelashes at me, tails swishing coquettishly. “We will alternate duties. Zenobia – “
“Please,” she said with a rather startlingly husky voice, “call me Zsu Zsu, Mister Lodge.”
“Zenobia, you will be the upstairs maid for the first month. Paczki will become the upstairs maid on the first of August. Perform your duties well.” I walked out of the room just then, my nostrils catching a distinct and most unladylike whiff of marten musk.
Most unsettling.
***
Willow:
The house . . .
Well, it wasn’t bad, really.
Three floors, with ample space for a nursery (which I hoped to fill in good order, but not too fast). Hyde Park within walking distance, so there’d be plenty of space for growing fawns to play.
I commended Lodge for acquiring it, sight unseen.
Of course, it did have a few problems. For starters, it was about as old as me, Reggie and Lodge combined, and you can’t get that old without a few things creeping in.
The floors were beautiful varnished hardwood, but the higher you got the, well, springier they felt. The master bedroom floor felt almost as springy under my hooves as the mattress.
The bed was brand new, though, and part of me was looking forward to trying it in Reggie’s company.
The view from the windows wasn’t the tropic vista I’d come to expect in the Spontoons, but you could see over the rooftops to the skyline of London. If I craned out of the window I could look down the street toward the park. Window boxes, I decided, would give a bit of show to the place.
For some reason, the door leading to the attic had been painted over. No telling what was in there, but I wanted to have a look soon. For all I knew, one of the Galor twins’ relatives might be holed up in there.
Speaking of which, I might have a word with the service Lodge contacted. As I was heading upstairs to get ready for lunch I heard one of the marten maids (Paczki, I think) storm through the parlor, almost knocking over a decorative vase that was so far sadly bereft of flowers.
I suspected Lodge was sorting things out, so I headed upstairs.
Lunch was delicious, consisting of a light salad, a delicious broccoli quiche and ice cream for dessert. Despite the occasional glares the maid directed at Lodge, things went extremely well, and I took pains to thank the cook.
I poked my nose through the kitchen door. “Mr. Coney?”
The rabbit was busily putting pots away. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“Thank you. Lunch was delicious.”
He grinned. “Thank you very much.”
He looked me up and down as I left the kitchen, and the look was a bit disquieting.
Reggie and I were still worn out from our trip, so naps were in order for the afternoon. We would test the mattress that night.
***
Reggie:
After dinner, I suggested a walk. Hyde Park was an easy walk away, and we strolled a bit before returning to the house.
Lodge had laid some tea on, and we relaxed a bit in the upstairs parlor before turning in. The BBC was playing some dance music on the radio.
Willow, of course, was looking radiant, but tired.
Which clarified something that had been niggling at me.
“Willow?”
“Yes, darling?”
I love it when she calls me that, and I felt myself flagging.
“My love, I have to report in to the Sire.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“And I’ve been thinking of calling him and asking to wait a couple days.”
Willow sat up straight and stared at me, ears flicking. “What?”
“Well, dash it . . . fine! I don’t WANT to go to work! What if something happens to you while I’m gone?”
My wife smiled at me, then stood up and leaned over me. We shared a kiss that left my hooves scorched, but not smoking. “Reggie,” she said, “I’ll be fine. I swear if anything happens I’ll call you. And you know Lodge – he’ll call you before anything happens.”
“Before?” It took me a few minutes for that to sink in, and we shared a laugh before she gently took me by the paw and led me to the bedroom.
Returning after a moment to switch off the radio.
The carousel, it seemed, had followed us from the liner.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments