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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 8.
July 1937
Working Stiff(ly)
Willow:
Nosey showed up at the curb in time to take Reggie to work, but was almost late anyway.
My beloved mate was acting like a fawn on his first day of school, first acting as if he were sick, then being all solicitous of me. Very sweet, but beside the point.
I thought that part of his reluctance was fear. I don’t think he’s ever had to actually work for a living, and the thought of it (not to mention working in the family firm, under his father’s jaundiced eye) was very daunting to the poor dear.
But I was firm, and saw him off with a smooch and a sack lunch.
Plus an apple for teacher.
Nosey roared off like the Crossley had rockets in the trunk, and I started back into the house, pausing to wave at one of the neighbors. Said neighbor was a rabbit doe, dressed in a slightly dowdy housecoat and slippers. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” she said. “Have you just moved in?”
“Yesterday. I’m Willow Buckhorn.” Ah, the thrill of actually saying it aloud!
“I’m Petunia Greenleaf-Hay,” the lepine replied. “Pleased to meet you. American, are you?”
I smiled in what I hoped was a self-effacing manner. “Afraid so.”
She smiled back. “Well, do come in and have some tea. Cook will have the kettle on by now, I hope.”
“Thank you.”
Petunia, it turned out, was the wife of a big wheel in the City, the financial heart of the Empire. A paw-tinted photo of him stood on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, looking strained and severe in scarlet regimentals. “Don’t let the picture scare you, my dear,” Petunia said as she poured for both of us, “Louis only puts that face on when he feels like it. Most times he’s a complete lamb.”
“He looks a bit like my father-in-law,” I said, suppressing a giggle.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” and the conversation turned to family.
She seemed a bit taken aback by the fact that I, an (supposed) American, had managed to get married to an English buck. I swiftly allayed her misgivings. “Actually, I had no intention at the time of falling in love with him,” I explained.
“Oh?” She did that a lot, almost enough times to make me start doing it in imitation.
“God’s truth,” I said. “But Reggie’s very much a force of nature when he chooses to be, and I just got swept along in it.” I then related a few anecdotes to support my argument.
Petunia smiled. “Ah, true romance. One never really encounters it much these days – everyone’s in such an awful hurry. Of course, it could be worse. He could be French.” She said this last with an arched brow that told me she was joking.
Which got me telling her about me and Leslie’s visit to Monaco (a rather bowdlerized version), and we both got a very hearty laugh out of the story.
I still have to wonder if that guy ever did heal up.
It was almost ten when we finally parted company, with Petunia the recipient of a firm invitation to tea that afternoon. We were going to be neighbors, so I was determined to be on good terms.
I walked back into the house to find Lodge waiting for me in the front parlor. “Sorry, Lodge, I was talking to one of our neighbors. They seem rather nice.”
“I am pleased, Ma’am. The mail has arrived, and is waiting for you.” He gestured toward the dining room table.
“Thanks.” I walked in and sat down in front of a rather impressive pile of mail. I sighed, put my metaphorical secretarial hat on, and started sifting.
There were several letters from Rosie with postmarked Spontoon stamps, and I set them aside to be read and savored later. A few letters from Gwladys, several catalogs and, finally, bills.
Electric company, gas company, phone company, radio license fee . . . hmm, here’s a letter from the Finance Minister of Albania . . .
And a letter from the firm of Neatsfoot, Grubber and Pilchard, Estate Agents.
I chose to taken them in order, and slit open the letter from the agents.
“We would like to welcome you to your new home . . . “
How nice.
“ . . . unfortunately, the conditions of the contract . . .”
Uh oh.
“ . . . your first payment in the amount of . . . “
WHAT?!
They wanted that much for this place?
Calm down, Willow. Deep breaths.
I had no idea what Reggie’s father would be paying him, but I doubted that there’d be enough for sandwiches after making the house payment.
“Lodge? Could you come in here, please?” I somehow managed to keep my voice from breaking.
The beaver walked in and I held out the letter. “I thought you said these guys were reputable, Lodge.”
He gravely read the letter, then his whiskers quivered and his broad, flat tail tapped the backs of his legs. “It would appear, Ma’am, that the firm may believe that you and Mr. Buckhorn are, as they say, ‘easy marks.’”
“Well, we shall disabuse them of that notion, Lodge.”
“Indeed, Ma’am.”
***
Reggie:
It was very thoughtful of Willow to give me an apple with my lunch.
Eating it helped settle my stomachs, and gave me something to do other than be terrified as Nosey plunged this way and that through the heavy London traffic.
Try as I might, I still couldn’t get him to admit he’d driven through the streets of Paris. My own memories of driving (well, careening, actually) down the Champs Elysees were largely an alcohol-soaked blur.
At least until I crashed my car through a store window.
Nosey pulled to a stop at the curb. It still beats me how he can go from breakneck speed to zero without squealing the tires, and I told him so when I got out.
“Oh, that’s orright, Gov’nor, me bruvver t’ot me that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s those wut sez ‘e unnerstands wot th’ pigeons at Trafalgar Squyare’re sayin,’ an' they say, if he 'olds 'is ‘ead a certain way, it looks exactly like an engine block. But I calls ‘im m’bruvver Stig.”
With that, he slouched off to the driver’s side, and roared off. It had been agreed that he would pick me up at five o’clock. He was lost to view, leaving me alone.
I took stock.
Best suit, check.
Briefcase (currently holding a lunch and the most recent briefing papers the Sire had sent me), check.
As City stockbrokers and other members of the bowler and striped pants set milled around me, I looked up at the building.
F.R. Buckhorn and Sons was an imposing building dating back to about the turn of the century, located in Moorgate. I recalled going there a few times as a fawn, and if the Sire hadn’t had it pulled out by now there was a garden on the roof. I tried to think of the last time I was there.
Oh yes.
Mummy had pressured the Sire into bringing me into the family business, and I had arrived at his office bright and early.
Riding a horse, I recall.
I glanced down at my freshly-polished hooves, then stood up straight, squared my shoulders and walked in.
The doorman, stiff in a uniform that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Palace, took my overcoat. “Good morning, Mr. Buckhorn.”
“Good Lord. How did you know who - "
“Simple, sir. You look like your father." He smiled graciously. "And you are expected. You're two minutes early."
I pondered whether that opinion was actionable in court, considering the sire was shorter than I was and a great deal wider. He also had a monocle. “Oh, um, rather. Um, where – where do I – “
“Of course, sir. The lifts are there, on the left. Tenth floor.” He smiled again and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, sir.”
I rather doubted that. Optimist.
I thanked him anyway and he resumed his post as I headed for the lifts, and went upstairs. The lift had probably felt the Sire’s girth over the years, as it groaned and creaked as it rose.
***
Josslyn:
“What the blazes is THIS?!”
The ferret jumped two feet straight in the air. Good, I like a nimble staff.
“What is that you have in your paws, Carstairs?”
The ferret starts looking scared. It’s been said around the office that if I know a fur’s name it won’t be good for their career.
Good. Keeps ‘em on their toes.
“Um, well, that is, Sir – “
“For the last time, CARSTAIRS, what is that in your paws?”
Another jump. “It’s, uh, um, er, a broom and a dustpan, Sir.”
“I CAN SEE THAT!” Everyone on the floor jumps. “WHAT IS IT FOR!?”
“Um, well, that is, Sir, in case – well, you know, your son is coming – “
“I. KNOW. That, Carstairs. That hardly explains why you are loitering about the office with a broom and a dustpan. One could almost surmise that you desire a change in job from mid-management to the janitorial staff.”
The ferret gulps. Confound it. Luckily he’s young, and I won’t have to call an ambulance for him like I did for old Thorndyke five years ago. Good man, Thorndyke, but no staying power.
“W-w-well, m'lud, it's just in case your son . . . “
Yes, my son.
My fawn, that benighted blot.
Fortunately, he never repeats a practical joke, but that makes calculating what his next moronic jape might be a nerve-wracking experience.
I snort and growl, “Get that bloody rot out of my sight. Then get back to your office, Carstairs – BEFORE I decide to move that venue to the janitor’s closet.”
As the little indefinite scampered off in a clatter of cleaning utensils, I heard the lift bell ring.
I decided the most defensible place would be behind my desk, so I headed for my office.
<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 8.
July 1937
Working Stiff(ly)
Willow:
Nosey showed up at the curb in time to take Reggie to work, but was almost late anyway.
My beloved mate was acting like a fawn on his first day of school, first acting as if he were sick, then being all solicitous of me. Very sweet, but beside the point.
I thought that part of his reluctance was fear. I don’t think he’s ever had to actually work for a living, and the thought of it (not to mention working in the family firm, under his father’s jaundiced eye) was very daunting to the poor dear.
But I was firm, and saw him off with a smooch and a sack lunch.
Plus an apple for teacher.
Nosey roared off like the Crossley had rockets in the trunk, and I started back into the house, pausing to wave at one of the neighbors. Said neighbor was a rabbit doe, dressed in a slightly dowdy housecoat and slippers. “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” she said. “Have you just moved in?”
“Yesterday. I’m Willow Buckhorn.” Ah, the thrill of actually saying it aloud!
“I’m Petunia Greenleaf-Hay,” the lepine replied. “Pleased to meet you. American, are you?”
I smiled in what I hoped was a self-effacing manner. “Afraid so.”
She smiled back. “Well, do come in and have some tea. Cook will have the kettle on by now, I hope.”
“Thank you.”
Petunia, it turned out, was the wife of a big wheel in the City, the financial heart of the Empire. A paw-tinted photo of him stood on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, looking strained and severe in scarlet regimentals. “Don’t let the picture scare you, my dear,” Petunia said as she poured for both of us, “Louis only puts that face on when he feels like it. Most times he’s a complete lamb.”
“He looks a bit like my father-in-law,” I said, suppressing a giggle.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” and the conversation turned to family.
She seemed a bit taken aback by the fact that I, an (supposed) American, had managed to get married to an English buck. I swiftly allayed her misgivings. “Actually, I had no intention at the time of falling in love with him,” I explained.
“Oh?” She did that a lot, almost enough times to make me start doing it in imitation.
“God’s truth,” I said. “But Reggie’s very much a force of nature when he chooses to be, and I just got swept along in it.” I then related a few anecdotes to support my argument.
Petunia smiled. “Ah, true romance. One never really encounters it much these days – everyone’s in such an awful hurry. Of course, it could be worse. He could be French.” She said this last with an arched brow that told me she was joking.
Which got me telling her about me and Leslie’s visit to Monaco (a rather bowdlerized version), and we both got a very hearty laugh out of the story.
I still have to wonder if that guy ever did heal up.
It was almost ten when we finally parted company, with Petunia the recipient of a firm invitation to tea that afternoon. We were going to be neighbors, so I was determined to be on good terms.
I walked back into the house to find Lodge waiting for me in the front parlor. “Sorry, Lodge, I was talking to one of our neighbors. They seem rather nice.”
“I am pleased, Ma’am. The mail has arrived, and is waiting for you.” He gestured toward the dining room table.
“Thanks.” I walked in and sat down in front of a rather impressive pile of mail. I sighed, put my metaphorical secretarial hat on, and started sifting.
There were several letters from Rosie with postmarked Spontoon stamps, and I set them aside to be read and savored later. A few letters from Gwladys, several catalogs and, finally, bills.
Electric company, gas company, phone company, radio license fee . . . hmm, here’s a letter from the Finance Minister of Albania . . .
And a letter from the firm of Neatsfoot, Grubber and Pilchard, Estate Agents.
I chose to taken them in order, and slit open the letter from the agents.
“We would like to welcome you to your new home . . . “
How nice.
“ . . . unfortunately, the conditions of the contract . . .”
Uh oh.
“ . . . your first payment in the amount of . . . “
WHAT?!
They wanted that much for this place?
Calm down, Willow. Deep breaths.
I had no idea what Reggie’s father would be paying him, but I doubted that there’d be enough for sandwiches after making the house payment.
“Lodge? Could you come in here, please?” I somehow managed to keep my voice from breaking.
The beaver walked in and I held out the letter. “I thought you said these guys were reputable, Lodge.”
He gravely read the letter, then his whiskers quivered and his broad, flat tail tapped the backs of his legs. “It would appear, Ma’am, that the firm may believe that you and Mr. Buckhorn are, as they say, ‘easy marks.’”
“Well, we shall disabuse them of that notion, Lodge.”
“Indeed, Ma’am.”
***
Reggie:
It was very thoughtful of Willow to give me an apple with my lunch.
Eating it helped settle my stomachs, and gave me something to do other than be terrified as Nosey plunged this way and that through the heavy London traffic.
Try as I might, I still couldn’t get him to admit he’d driven through the streets of Paris. My own memories of driving (well, careening, actually) down the Champs Elysees were largely an alcohol-soaked blur.
At least until I crashed my car through a store window.
Nosey pulled to a stop at the curb. It still beats me how he can go from breakneck speed to zero without squealing the tires, and I told him so when I got out.
“Oh, that’s orright, Gov’nor, me bruvver t’ot me that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s those wut sez ‘e unnerstands wot th’ pigeons at Trafalgar Squyare’re sayin,’ an' they say, if he 'olds 'is ‘ead a certain way, it looks exactly like an engine block. But I calls ‘im m’bruvver Stig.”
With that, he slouched off to the driver’s side, and roared off. It had been agreed that he would pick me up at five o’clock. He was lost to view, leaving me alone.
I took stock.
Best suit, check.
Briefcase (currently holding a lunch and the most recent briefing papers the Sire had sent me), check.
As City stockbrokers and other members of the bowler and striped pants set milled around me, I looked up at the building.
F.R. Buckhorn and Sons was an imposing building dating back to about the turn of the century, located in Moorgate. I recalled going there a few times as a fawn, and if the Sire hadn’t had it pulled out by now there was a garden on the roof. I tried to think of the last time I was there.
Oh yes.
Mummy had pressured the Sire into bringing me into the family business, and I had arrived at his office bright and early.
Riding a horse, I recall.
I glanced down at my freshly-polished hooves, then stood up straight, squared my shoulders and walked in.
The doorman, stiff in a uniform that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Palace, took my overcoat. “Good morning, Mr. Buckhorn.”
“Good Lord. How did you know who - "
“Simple, sir. You look like your father." He smiled graciously. "And you are expected. You're two minutes early."
I pondered whether that opinion was actionable in court, considering the sire was shorter than I was and a great deal wider. He also had a monocle. “Oh, um, rather. Um, where – where do I – “
“Of course, sir. The lifts are there, on the left. Tenth floor.” He smiled again and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, sir.”
I rather doubted that. Optimist.
I thanked him anyway and he resumed his post as I headed for the lifts, and went upstairs. The lift had probably felt the Sire’s girth over the years, as it groaned and creaked as it rose.
***
Josslyn:
“What the blazes is THIS?!”
The ferret jumped two feet straight in the air. Good, I like a nimble staff.
“What is that you have in your paws, Carstairs?”
The ferret starts looking scared. It’s been said around the office that if I know a fur’s name it won’t be good for their career.
Good. Keeps ‘em on their toes.
“Um, well, that is, Sir – “
“For the last time, CARSTAIRS, what is that in your paws?”
Another jump. “It’s, uh, um, er, a broom and a dustpan, Sir.”
“I CAN SEE THAT!” Everyone on the floor jumps. “WHAT IS IT FOR!?”
“Um, well, that is, Sir, in case – well, you know, your son is coming – “
“I. KNOW. That, Carstairs. That hardly explains why you are loitering about the office with a broom and a dustpan. One could almost surmise that you desire a change in job from mid-management to the janitorial staff.”
The ferret gulps. Confound it. Luckily he’s young, and I won’t have to call an ambulance for him like I did for old Thorndyke five years ago. Good man, Thorndyke, but no staying power.
“W-w-well, m'lud, it's just in case your son . . . “
Yes, my son.
My fawn, that benighted blot.
Fortunately, he never repeats a practical joke, but that makes calculating what his next moronic jape might be a nerve-wracking experience.
I snort and growl, “Get that bloody rot out of my sight. Then get back to your office, Carstairs – BEFORE I decide to move that venue to the janitor’s closet.”
As the little indefinite scampered off in a clatter of cleaning utensils, I heard the lift bell ring.
I decided the most defensible place would be behind my desk, so I headed for my office.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments