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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 12.
Lodge:
I have become familiar with Mrs. Buckhorn’s ability to create plans that feature truly monumental levels of mayhem without the associated ribaldry one finds in one of Mr. Buckhorn’s schemes. Her interactions with M. d’Arbres immediately leap to mind.
It was with some trepidation, then, I was summoned by her the next day after breakfast and told to ask Mr. Barker to accompany me.
“Cor,” the canine grunted as he followed me in. He’d obviously never seen the inside of the house yet. He had an apartment at the rear of the house, shared with Mr. Coney, the cook.
“You wanted t’see me, Missus?” he asked as we stepped into the dining room. He rather self-consciously wiped his paws on his coveralls.
“Yes, I did, Nosey,” and Mrs. Buckhorn smiled.
I kept my tail sternly in order at the sight of her expression.
“Is there anything wrong with the car?”
“Oh, not at all, Missus. Just keepin’ her in trim.”
“Good. That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”
“Then wot, Missus?”
Mrs. Buckhorn was wearing her glasses, and flipped open a beige file folder. “Jeremy Richard James Barker, a/k/a Gerry, a/k/a Nosey. Inmate number 7845.” She looked up expectantly. “What were you sent up for?”
Mr. Barker looked a bit more hang-dog than his features usually allowed. “Two years, Missus. Car theft.”
I was watching his expression for any signs of violence.
Instead his shoulders sagged. “I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ me t’turn in my notice, Missus,” he said stiffly, and as he turned away he muttered, “Bleedin’ toffs . . . won’t give a bloke fair play . . .”
“Wait a moment!”
I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Buckhorn could imitate the ex-Guards sergeant who manned the front desk at Shepherd’s.
Mr. Barker turned around. “Wot?”
“I don’t morally judge anyone, Mr. Barker, and I’m definitely not going to ask for - or accept - your notice.”
That brought Mr. Barker up short. His eyes widened and he asked, “You don’t mind I – that I wuz – “
“Polishing the King’s iron with your eyebrows?” Mrs. Buckhorn said. “Not at all. You’re dependable, punctual – and the way you drive is phenomenal.”
Mr. Barker refused to be flattered. “So why bring it up then, Missus?”
“Because I think that you can help me with a little job I need to have done.”
He looked offended. “I don’t do no murders, Missus.”
Mrs. Buckhorn raised a single brow. “What makes you think I’m asking you to commit murder, Mr. Barker? Rest assured of one thing: if there’s a murder to be done, I’ll do that myself.”
Mr. Barker appeared a bit taken aback by this statement, and was momentarily speechless.
I must confess that I was equally surprised, considering what I know of Mrs. Buckhorn’s past.
“Ordinarily, Mr. Barker, I would not ask for assistance,” Mrs. Buckhorn was saying, “but due to my condition there are certain parts of Whitechapel I can’t go.”
Mr. Barker’s eyes narrowed. “Oi c’n see ye’re a bit Keith Cheggers, Missus. And wot might yer be wantin’ with that lot up in Whitechapel?”
Mrs. Buckhorn’s smile broadened. “Just information, Nosey. Simple as that. I need to find out a few things about these people,” and she offered the driver a piece of paper.
“An’ wot’s innit fer me?”
“You earn ten pounds a week. Shall I make it fifteen?”
The paper was folded and whisked into a pocket almost faster than I could perceive as Mr. Barker said, “Twenty quid a month more? ‘Ow fast ye be wantin’ it, Missus?”
“Hmm. Ten pounds more if you have it by next Friday.”
“Done!” The two shook paws on the deal.
***
Josslyn:
It’s been three days.
And still no sign of my blasted son turning to drink, or perpetuating yet another senseless jape.
This morning I briefly thought that that doe of his might a good influence after all.
Stupid of me to think so. I must be getting senile.
I had to admit, however, that his work so far seems to be satisfactory. More of a tribute to the secretary assigned to him. Haversham may be a rodent, but she’s as thorough as a bovine when it comes to her work. She’ll gnaw through any problem, no matter how thick.
Still not looking forward to the weekend. Gwladys has managed to browbeat me into inviting them up to the house for Saturday and Sunday.
Chances are she’s already called them, so there’s no way I can simply tell her that I asked and they refused.
Blast it.
I see he’s talking to that insufferable curly-horned nuisance Nigel. That damned sheep’s part wolf, the way he grins like a complete idiot. He’ll start licking his chops in a minute, wait and see.
“Reginald!”
Hmm. Doesn’t even flinch, although everyone else does.
Steady nerves.
He’s coming over here. “Yes, Father?”
“Your mother’s asked me to invite you and your wife up to the house this weekend.”
He only nods, the little clot. “Thank you, Father. We’ll be there Saturday morning. Do you mind if I bring the Jackson account with me?”
I frown. Sir Avery Jackson’s a supplier of ours, from Canada. He drives hard bargains, but fair ones, and the contract’s up for renewal. I gave Reginald the Jackson account because it’s a knotty problem and I think I can use it to see just how he’s thinking.
If you can call what he does thinking.
“I gave you the account, what I want, and a deadline. Apart from that you can fold it into paper aeroplanes for all I care,” and I go back to my office.
Taking great care to slam the door.
Keeps up appearances with the staff.
***
Reggie:
I’m glad I’m taking the Jackson account with me. At one hundred pages of almost impenetrable lawyer gab, it gives me the perfect excuse to stay as far away from the Sire as possible. Still, I am an English major, I suppose, so I can fight my way through.
With the equivalent of a machete. I wonder if I can impress Lodge into service as a native bearer.
And even given her delicate condition, I can count on Willow to protect my flanks. She can deal with any adversary from the Sire to the Coldstream Guards.
I didn’t really expect Willow to expect any trouble from either quarter. After all, I’m sure the Guards have enough on their plate. And the Sire’s met Willow’s bad side.
(And I don’t mean Grace, thank you very much.)
Being a Vice-Chairman has certain perks, it seems, and one of those was the ability to leave early on Friday so that Willow and I could drive out into the country to see Mummy. Of course, a few of the other directors took immediate advantage of the Sire leaving after lunch to also make themselves scarce.
“Taking an early weekend, Nigel?” I asked as I saw the ram walking past my office.
“Well, yes, rather,” he said. He gave me the eye. “Is there anything you need, sir?”
“Just asking. Have a pleasant weekend.”
I guess he’s still a bit peeved after my outburst earlier in the week. I’ll have to find a way to square accounts.
But for now, with all work done and my briefcase bulging, it’s off to Bucks!
***
Willow:
Nosey didn’t have the info I wanted, but I gave him a few pounds anyway for his trouble. He insisted that he’d keep trying, which tells me a lot about his work ethic and loyalty.
Reggie’s parents lived in Monongahela House (named after the river near Aliquippa where the founder of the company was born) up in Buckinghamshire. The parish was Saint Peter Churchford – I knew that from the banns read before our wedding – but I knew very little about the place.
Nosey, for his part, decided that since we were heading out into the country he didn’t need to drive like he was running from the law. That suited me just fine, because I wanted to see the sights a bit.
I didn’t have the opportunity when Les and I came through England, apart from running afoul of Certain People in Whitechapel.
It was a nice afternoon, with Nosey keeping up a commentary of some of the places we passed in his Cockney drawl, and soon we were on the London-to-Fishguard Trunk Road headed out of the city.
The scenery changed to woods and rolling hills. “Very pretty, Reggie.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” My darling sighed. “How long has it been, Lodge? Five years?”
“Six years, four months, eighteen days, Sir.” Lodge was riding up front beside Nosey.
Reggie looked crestfallen. “Amazing how much time gets lost when you’re blotto half the time.”
“Seventy-two-point eight percent of the time, Sir.”
“Thank you, Lodge.”
If it had been anyone but Lodge, I would swear he’d made the numbers up.
We were just west of Chipping Buncombe when we saw a sign for St. Peter Churchford pointing to the left. At Lodge’s direction, Nosey turned down the lane.
The town’s more like a small village, really; something you might find in an old lithograph plate or a Constable painting. Two pubs, a small store, a butcher’s shop (I bet he lives in terror of Josslyn), and a number of houses.
A small church loomed on a hill to the south, the steeple almost obscured by trees. “Did you go to church there, Reggie?”
“Oh yes, rather. Mummy rather insisted on it. I still think she goes there every Sunday when they’re at home.” He took my paw in his and we smiled at each other. A smooch was shared as we turned and went past an open iron gate and up a long, straight drive. Appropriately, the wrought iron bore a steel likeness of the FRB leaf logo.
The lane was bordered on both sides by a variety of trees, shading the paved road with their branches. The sun shone through the leaves and I almost started to tear up at the beauty of it all.
Keep it together, Willow.
I think Reggie sensed it, as he was looking a bit misty-eyed himself. I gave his paw a squeeze. “Happy to be home, Reggie?”
He started to speak, then just shrugged, and I understood immediately.
The long straight drive curved to the right, and there stood Monongahela House framed by trees.
Wow.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Yes,” Reggie said. “Bigger than I remember it. Grandfather bought it, Father demolished it.”
“Demolished it?”
“Yes, so Mummy tells me. Just after the Great War Father got tired of the amenities, so he had it torn down and rebuilt as stout as the Empire State Building. All the latest conveniences, like indoor plumbing and electric lights. Even has its own generator.” He chuckled. “I expect Father’s thinking the Roundheads might come dropping by for tea again.”
Lodge had apparently called ahead just before we left, or there had been lookouts posted. At any rate, as we pulled into the sweeping circular driveway in front of the house the staff came out.
Three butlers, six maids, a cook and a team of gardeners. The head butler was a tall rabbit, distinguished from the others by his height, military bearing and the fact that his left ear was two inches shorter than his right.
Obviously not an accident of birth, either.
Nosey brought the car to a gentle stop, got out and opened the door on my side. The rabbit offered me a paw. “Welcome to Monongahela House, Mrs. Buckhorn. I am Travis, the head butler.”
Nosey closed the door as I stood up and walked across the driveway, Lodge letting Reggie out on his side. “Thank you, er, Travis,” I said, looking up at the house’s Palladian façade. “Are Lord and Lady Buckhorn here?”
“His Lordship is . . . indisposed, Ma’am, and Her Ladyship will be out shortly. Her Ladyship desired that you should meet the staff.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I decided after going through the line of furs I didn’t like the idea. It made me feel like a queen at a royal garden party.
As I shook paws with Travis, Gwladys appeared at the front steps. “Willow! How wonderful to see you!”
<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 12.
Lodge:
I have become familiar with Mrs. Buckhorn’s ability to create plans that feature truly monumental levels of mayhem without the associated ribaldry one finds in one of Mr. Buckhorn’s schemes. Her interactions with M. d’Arbres immediately leap to mind.
It was with some trepidation, then, I was summoned by her the next day after breakfast and told to ask Mr. Barker to accompany me.
“Cor,” the canine grunted as he followed me in. He’d obviously never seen the inside of the house yet. He had an apartment at the rear of the house, shared with Mr. Coney, the cook.
“You wanted t’see me, Missus?” he asked as we stepped into the dining room. He rather self-consciously wiped his paws on his coveralls.
“Yes, I did, Nosey,” and Mrs. Buckhorn smiled.
I kept my tail sternly in order at the sight of her expression.
“Is there anything wrong with the car?”
“Oh, not at all, Missus. Just keepin’ her in trim.”
“Good. That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”
“Then wot, Missus?”
Mrs. Buckhorn was wearing her glasses, and flipped open a beige file folder. “Jeremy Richard James Barker, a/k/a Gerry, a/k/a Nosey. Inmate number 7845.” She looked up expectantly. “What were you sent up for?”
Mr. Barker looked a bit more hang-dog than his features usually allowed. “Two years, Missus. Car theft.”
I was watching his expression for any signs of violence.
Instead his shoulders sagged. “I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ me t’turn in my notice, Missus,” he said stiffly, and as he turned away he muttered, “Bleedin’ toffs . . . won’t give a bloke fair play . . .”
“Wait a moment!”
I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Buckhorn could imitate the ex-Guards sergeant who manned the front desk at Shepherd’s.
Mr. Barker turned around. “Wot?”
“I don’t morally judge anyone, Mr. Barker, and I’m definitely not going to ask for - or accept - your notice.”
That brought Mr. Barker up short. His eyes widened and he asked, “You don’t mind I – that I wuz – “
“Polishing the King’s iron with your eyebrows?” Mrs. Buckhorn said. “Not at all. You’re dependable, punctual – and the way you drive is phenomenal.”
Mr. Barker refused to be flattered. “So why bring it up then, Missus?”
“Because I think that you can help me with a little job I need to have done.”
He looked offended. “I don’t do no murders, Missus.”
Mrs. Buckhorn raised a single brow. “What makes you think I’m asking you to commit murder, Mr. Barker? Rest assured of one thing: if there’s a murder to be done, I’ll do that myself.”
Mr. Barker appeared a bit taken aback by this statement, and was momentarily speechless.
I must confess that I was equally surprised, considering what I know of Mrs. Buckhorn’s past.
“Ordinarily, Mr. Barker, I would not ask for assistance,” Mrs. Buckhorn was saying, “but due to my condition there are certain parts of Whitechapel I can’t go.”
Mr. Barker’s eyes narrowed. “Oi c’n see ye’re a bit Keith Cheggers, Missus. And wot might yer be wantin’ with that lot up in Whitechapel?”
Mrs. Buckhorn’s smile broadened. “Just information, Nosey. Simple as that. I need to find out a few things about these people,” and she offered the driver a piece of paper.
“An’ wot’s innit fer me?”
“You earn ten pounds a week. Shall I make it fifteen?”
The paper was folded and whisked into a pocket almost faster than I could perceive as Mr. Barker said, “Twenty quid a month more? ‘Ow fast ye be wantin’ it, Missus?”
“Hmm. Ten pounds more if you have it by next Friday.”
“Done!” The two shook paws on the deal.
***
Josslyn:
It’s been three days.
And still no sign of my blasted son turning to drink, or perpetuating yet another senseless jape.
This morning I briefly thought that that doe of his might a good influence after all.
Stupid of me to think so. I must be getting senile.
I had to admit, however, that his work so far seems to be satisfactory. More of a tribute to the secretary assigned to him. Haversham may be a rodent, but she’s as thorough as a bovine when it comes to her work. She’ll gnaw through any problem, no matter how thick.
Still not looking forward to the weekend. Gwladys has managed to browbeat me into inviting them up to the house for Saturday and Sunday.
Chances are she’s already called them, so there’s no way I can simply tell her that I asked and they refused.
Blast it.
I see he’s talking to that insufferable curly-horned nuisance Nigel. That damned sheep’s part wolf, the way he grins like a complete idiot. He’ll start licking his chops in a minute, wait and see.
“Reginald!”
Hmm. Doesn’t even flinch, although everyone else does.
Steady nerves.
He’s coming over here. “Yes, Father?”
“Your mother’s asked me to invite you and your wife up to the house this weekend.”
He only nods, the little clot. “Thank you, Father. We’ll be there Saturday morning. Do you mind if I bring the Jackson account with me?”
I frown. Sir Avery Jackson’s a supplier of ours, from Canada. He drives hard bargains, but fair ones, and the contract’s up for renewal. I gave Reginald the Jackson account because it’s a knotty problem and I think I can use it to see just how he’s thinking.
If you can call what he does thinking.
“I gave you the account, what I want, and a deadline. Apart from that you can fold it into paper aeroplanes for all I care,” and I go back to my office.
Taking great care to slam the door.
Keeps up appearances with the staff.
***
Reggie:
I’m glad I’m taking the Jackson account with me. At one hundred pages of almost impenetrable lawyer gab, it gives me the perfect excuse to stay as far away from the Sire as possible. Still, I am an English major, I suppose, so I can fight my way through.
With the equivalent of a machete. I wonder if I can impress Lodge into service as a native bearer.
And even given her delicate condition, I can count on Willow to protect my flanks. She can deal with any adversary from the Sire to the Coldstream Guards.
I didn’t really expect Willow to expect any trouble from either quarter. After all, I’m sure the Guards have enough on their plate. And the Sire’s met Willow’s bad side.
(And I don’t mean Grace, thank you very much.)
Being a Vice-Chairman has certain perks, it seems, and one of those was the ability to leave early on Friday so that Willow and I could drive out into the country to see Mummy. Of course, a few of the other directors took immediate advantage of the Sire leaving after lunch to also make themselves scarce.
“Taking an early weekend, Nigel?” I asked as I saw the ram walking past my office.
“Well, yes, rather,” he said. He gave me the eye. “Is there anything you need, sir?”
“Just asking. Have a pleasant weekend.”
I guess he’s still a bit peeved after my outburst earlier in the week. I’ll have to find a way to square accounts.
But for now, with all work done and my briefcase bulging, it’s off to Bucks!
***
Willow:
Nosey didn’t have the info I wanted, but I gave him a few pounds anyway for his trouble. He insisted that he’d keep trying, which tells me a lot about his work ethic and loyalty.
Reggie’s parents lived in Monongahela House (named after the river near Aliquippa where the founder of the company was born) up in Buckinghamshire. The parish was Saint Peter Churchford – I knew that from the banns read before our wedding – but I knew very little about the place.
Nosey, for his part, decided that since we were heading out into the country he didn’t need to drive like he was running from the law. That suited me just fine, because I wanted to see the sights a bit.
I didn’t have the opportunity when Les and I came through England, apart from running afoul of Certain People in Whitechapel.
It was a nice afternoon, with Nosey keeping up a commentary of some of the places we passed in his Cockney drawl, and soon we were on the London-to-Fishguard Trunk Road headed out of the city.
The scenery changed to woods and rolling hills. “Very pretty, Reggie.”
“Yes it is, isn’t it?” My darling sighed. “How long has it been, Lodge? Five years?”
“Six years, four months, eighteen days, Sir.” Lodge was riding up front beside Nosey.
Reggie looked crestfallen. “Amazing how much time gets lost when you’re blotto half the time.”
“Seventy-two-point eight percent of the time, Sir.”
“Thank you, Lodge.”
If it had been anyone but Lodge, I would swear he’d made the numbers up.
We were just west of Chipping Buncombe when we saw a sign for St. Peter Churchford pointing to the left. At Lodge’s direction, Nosey turned down the lane.
The town’s more like a small village, really; something you might find in an old lithograph plate or a Constable painting. Two pubs, a small store, a butcher’s shop (I bet he lives in terror of Josslyn), and a number of houses.
A small church loomed on a hill to the south, the steeple almost obscured by trees. “Did you go to church there, Reggie?”
“Oh yes, rather. Mummy rather insisted on it. I still think she goes there every Sunday when they’re at home.” He took my paw in his and we smiled at each other. A smooch was shared as we turned and went past an open iron gate and up a long, straight drive. Appropriately, the wrought iron bore a steel likeness of the FRB leaf logo.
The lane was bordered on both sides by a variety of trees, shading the paved road with their branches. The sun shone through the leaves and I almost started to tear up at the beauty of it all.
Keep it together, Willow.
I think Reggie sensed it, as he was looking a bit misty-eyed himself. I gave his paw a squeeze. “Happy to be home, Reggie?”
He started to speak, then just shrugged, and I understood immediately.
The long straight drive curved to the right, and there stood Monongahela House framed by trees.
Wow.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Yes,” Reggie said. “Bigger than I remember it. Grandfather bought it, Father demolished it.”
“Demolished it?”
“Yes, so Mummy tells me. Just after the Great War Father got tired of the amenities, so he had it torn down and rebuilt as stout as the Empire State Building. All the latest conveniences, like indoor plumbing and electric lights. Even has its own generator.” He chuckled. “I expect Father’s thinking the Roundheads might come dropping by for tea again.”
Lodge had apparently called ahead just before we left, or there had been lookouts posted. At any rate, as we pulled into the sweeping circular driveway in front of the house the staff came out.
Three butlers, six maids, a cook and a team of gardeners. The head butler was a tall rabbit, distinguished from the others by his height, military bearing and the fact that his left ear was two inches shorter than his right.
Obviously not an accident of birth, either.
Nosey brought the car to a gentle stop, got out and opened the door on my side. The rabbit offered me a paw. “Welcome to Monongahela House, Mrs. Buckhorn. I am Travis, the head butler.”
Nosey closed the door as I stood up and walked across the driveway, Lodge letting Reggie out on his side. “Thank you, er, Travis,” I said, looking up at the house’s Palladian façade. “Are Lord and Lady Buckhorn here?”
“His Lordship is . . . indisposed, Ma’am, and Her Ladyship will be out shortly. Her Ladyship desired that you should meet the staff.”
“Did she?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I decided after going through the line of furs I didn’t like the idea. It made me feel like a queen at a royal garden party.
As I shook paws with Travis, Gwladys appeared at the front steps. “Willow! How wonderful to see you!”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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