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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 14.
Reggie:
I decided that I shouldn’t add anything to Mummy’s sally. The reference to Teddy Bruin is quite enough. Better part of valor and all that.
Dessert was a fine rice pudding, generously stuffed with black currants and promising to be quite soothing to Willow’s tummies if she was feeling a bit whoopsy.
Father was well into his third pudding when Mr. Bumble said, “Will you be coming to the fair tomorrow, My Lord?”
Father gagged and after making spluttering sounds like a faulty outboard motor, the vicar was treated with the Basilisk Stare #4 through a monocle. “Certainly not!”
“But we’re having our Prettiest Baby contest, and we had so hoped – “
“I said NO, you stripe-nosed blithering – “
“What my father means to say,” I interjected, “is that he really wants me to do it.”
I was amazed.
Father actually shut up in mid-rant.
Or, rather, simply spluttered.
“Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat?”
(I refrained from asking the obvious question, “Only six watts? That’s rather dim, isn’t it?”)
“Well, Father, it’s quite obvious you want me to get out and get acquainted with everyone in the village. What better way than to help out at the fair? Besides,” and I give Willow a smile, “it’ll give me practice in holding babies.”
The Sire’s spoon hit the bowl with a clang.
For some reason, something had suddenly put him off his appetite.
I hastened to add, “And don’t worry, Father. I’ll make sure I have plenty of time to go over the Jackson account.”
He scowled at me, but couldn’t find anything wounding to say.
You know, sobriety really does have its advantages.
***
Willow:
St. Peter’s Church used to be Catholic.
Now it’s High Church, which is pretty much the same thing, so I felt comfortable there. Gwladys told me that she comes to services every weekend when she and Lord Josslyn are here, although Josslyn stays away.
There was a headstone in the churchyard that she wanted me and Reggie to see.
It was a fairly simple gray marker, bearing the seal of the old Grand Army of the Republic and the following inscription:
FREDERICK BUCKHORN
1816?- July 9, 1883
Sgt. 76th PENN REGT.
ARMY OF THE JAMES
His wife Alice’s marker stood beside it.
Reggie said, “And here I always thought he’d been with the Army of the Potomac.”
“I’m sure he saw plenty of action nevertheless,” Gwladys said with a grin, “when he wasn’t inflicting his cooking on his fellows.”
A shout drew our attention, and down towards the south end of the broad field we could see a group of boys choosing sides. “Oh good,” Gwladys said.
“What?”
“They’re setting up for a cricket match.”
“You understand cricket, Gwladys?”
A soft snort. “Hardly. I just accept it and cheer when everyone else does. Since Joss can’t be bothered, I’m usually called on to show up at village functions – you know, festivals and the like.
I nodded. While England had come a long way, there was still what was called noblesse oblige here and there. “Did Joss ever play cricket as a boy?”
Gwladys laughed. “No, he preferred boxing. They would have had to change the rules if he took up cricket. GBW.”
“GBW?”
“Gut Before Wicket.”
***
Reggie:
One of the spectators at the cricket match was the proprietor of one of the two pubs in the village, Mr. Crowe. Like a proper raven, his feathers were a deep and glossy black so dark they looked purple in the sun. He regaled with me a tale of the most prominent cricket player in the parish, a young man who hit a double century.
Complete gibberish to me, but I listened gravely and applauded when there was a good catch or a solid hit.
“He used to hit the ball so hard,” Mr. Crowe said with an amused click of his beak, “that the ball would go straight into that bend in the river, down that way.”
“I imagine that put a lot of weir and tear on the cricket ball.”
After a break for a bite to eat and lemonade or tea, it was my duty to judge the prettiest baby.
With Willow to help me, I went through a receiving line thingy, greeting all the happy mothers, then picking up each child to hold him or her and try to judge who was nicest.
The first was a very cute little badger kit, the youngest daughter of the village butcher. I held her, gently coached by her mother and Willow, and the little tyke smiled up at me.
Then promptly spit up all over my jacket.
There were a lot of people laughing, and the kit’s mother looked mortified.
I assured her that everything was all right, that things like this happened, and that the little girl was going to grow up to be a superb judge of character.
I shed my jacket and cleaned up a bit. It was getting hot out anyway.
“Willow?” I whispered as I washed the worst of it off my chin.
“Yes, Reggie?”
“She won’t make the final cut, I’m afraid.”
Two babies later, a breathtakingly cute little fawn and a delicate little kitten, I picked up a little beagle.
Who promptly bit my finger.
The next one was a ferret kit, who took one look up at me as I held him and started screaming and howling like – well, like an air-raid siren or fire engine’s horn.
He settled down the instant I gave him back to his mother, and stepped away for a moment. “Willow?”
“Can’t hear you, but let me guess.”
“Right.”
The last one, a little setter puppy, was nursing on a bottle of Buckhorn’s Fawnula.
He was a pretty little fellow, but I think his mother was trying to queer the pitch a bit.
The beagle with the sharp teeth won.
***
Willow:
After the baby contest we took a bit of a drive around the village. It was hard going for Nosey, as there were only a few roads and they were full of blind curves and bends.
One of the pubs was called The Jolly Friar, and judging by the sign the old fellow had about ten or so.
The sign on the other one, though . . . “Reggie?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Why is it called The Albatross and Stick?”
“Lost in the mists of time, Willow. But it’s famous for its wafers.”
From the look on Nosey’s face, the beer was top-notch as well.
After our drive we still had a few hours before dinner, so Reggie called in Lodge and between the three of us tackled the Jackson contract that Josslyn had saddled his son with.
Reggie took a lot of notes, glossing each page to hit the high points. Finally he put his pencil down and said, “It’s a hard bargain, but overall it’s fair, I think. Trust Father to make getting to the point as hard as possible.”
“Well, lawyers have to eat too, Reggie,” I pointed out.
“Do lawyers eat? I always thought they were like those vampire chappies out East somewhere.”
“Hungary,” offered Lodge.
“Why yes, Lodge, I am feeling a bit peckish,” Reggie said. “Must be getting close to dinnertime.”
Dinner was a very tasty salad of locally grown ingredients, with dandelion greens predominating. The main course was something new from the FRB test kitchens.
“Looks like a meatloaf,” Gwladys remarked.
“It’s something new. We start marketing it next month,” Joss said gruffly.
“And I suppose you’ve already tried and approved it.”
A glare at his mate through his monocle. “Of course.”
“It’s quite tasty, Father,” Reggie said, sampling his. “Mostly beans, is it?”
Joss nodded. “And what else?”
Reggie took up the challenge, took another bite and chewed judiciously. “Hmm . . . tomato, basil – not sweet, Greek perhaps? – there are two types of beans . . . “
“Nothing wrong with your sense of taste,” his father grumbled.
“Well, it’s certainly tasty. Another winner, Father.”
“It had better be. Took six months to get it right. Why can’t herbivore foods taste and look like the slop they give carnivores, I asked.”
I tried it, then tucked in with gusto. It certainly did taste good.
Gwladys asked, “Will you two be leaving tomorrow morning?”
I glanced at Reggie, who was using his napkin.
He gave me a look.
I smiled. “No. We’ll be leaving tonight to go back to London.”
“Eh? Why in blazes are you going back tonight?”
“I have work to do, Father,” Reggie explained.
Joss gave a curt nod. Apparently it was the correct answer.
***
Gwladys:
My son and his wife left shortly after dinner. Travis was busying himself supervising the maids.
Joss was still grumbling.
“I have to say that I’m looking forward to having them come back.”
Silence.
“They made a very good impression on the villagers.”
My mate grumbled, “Whole village of idiots . . . “
“Old Paul said it was like having George back again.”
I smiled when he flinched, but the smile went away when he muttered, “That little clot is up to something – I’m certain of it.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s YOUR fawn.”
“I’m glad you think so. He inherited my table manners, at least.” I looked at him over the tops of my glasses. “Joss, please do stop being so suspicious of the boy. Has he done anything to merit you taking on so?”
“He. Breathes.”
I let this pass, and decided to harry his flanks a bit. With so much flank, it’s an easy target.
“Mind you, he may look a bit like me . . . but he also looks a bit like your father, and has a lot of your father’s knack with furs.”
That made him jump a bit. With the prospect of him becoming a grandfather getting closer and closer, he’s gotten jumpier and jumpier.
<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 14.
Reggie:
I decided that I shouldn’t add anything to Mummy’s sally. The reference to Teddy Bruin is quite enough. Better part of valor and all that.
Dessert was a fine rice pudding, generously stuffed with black currants and promising to be quite soothing to Willow’s tummies if she was feeling a bit whoopsy.
Father was well into his third pudding when Mr. Bumble said, “Will you be coming to the fair tomorrow, My Lord?”
Father gagged and after making spluttering sounds like a faulty outboard motor, the vicar was treated with the Basilisk Stare #4 through a monocle. “Certainly not!”
“But we’re having our Prettiest Baby contest, and we had so hoped – “
“I said NO, you stripe-nosed blithering – “
“What my father means to say,” I interjected, “is that he really wants me to do it.”
I was amazed.
Father actually shut up in mid-rant.
Or, rather, simply spluttered.
“Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat?”
(I refrained from asking the obvious question, “Only six watts? That’s rather dim, isn’t it?”)
“Well, Father, it’s quite obvious you want me to get out and get acquainted with everyone in the village. What better way than to help out at the fair? Besides,” and I give Willow a smile, “it’ll give me practice in holding babies.”
The Sire’s spoon hit the bowl with a clang.
For some reason, something had suddenly put him off his appetite.
I hastened to add, “And don’t worry, Father. I’ll make sure I have plenty of time to go over the Jackson account.”
He scowled at me, but couldn’t find anything wounding to say.
You know, sobriety really does have its advantages.
***
Willow:
St. Peter’s Church used to be Catholic.
Now it’s High Church, which is pretty much the same thing, so I felt comfortable there. Gwladys told me that she comes to services every weekend when she and Lord Josslyn are here, although Josslyn stays away.
There was a headstone in the churchyard that she wanted me and Reggie to see.
It was a fairly simple gray marker, bearing the seal of the old Grand Army of the Republic and the following inscription:
FREDERICK BUCKHORN
1816?- July 9, 1883
Sgt. 76th PENN REGT.
ARMY OF THE JAMES
His wife Alice’s marker stood beside it.
Reggie said, “And here I always thought he’d been with the Army of the Potomac.”
“I’m sure he saw plenty of action nevertheless,” Gwladys said with a grin, “when he wasn’t inflicting his cooking on his fellows.”
A shout drew our attention, and down towards the south end of the broad field we could see a group of boys choosing sides. “Oh good,” Gwladys said.
“What?”
“They’re setting up for a cricket match.”
“You understand cricket, Gwladys?”
A soft snort. “Hardly. I just accept it and cheer when everyone else does. Since Joss can’t be bothered, I’m usually called on to show up at village functions – you know, festivals and the like.
I nodded. While England had come a long way, there was still what was called noblesse oblige here and there. “Did Joss ever play cricket as a boy?”
Gwladys laughed. “No, he preferred boxing. They would have had to change the rules if he took up cricket. GBW.”
“GBW?”
“Gut Before Wicket.”
***
Reggie:
One of the spectators at the cricket match was the proprietor of one of the two pubs in the village, Mr. Crowe. Like a proper raven, his feathers were a deep and glossy black so dark they looked purple in the sun. He regaled with me a tale of the most prominent cricket player in the parish, a young man who hit a double century.
Complete gibberish to me, but I listened gravely and applauded when there was a good catch or a solid hit.
“He used to hit the ball so hard,” Mr. Crowe said with an amused click of his beak, “that the ball would go straight into that bend in the river, down that way.”
“I imagine that put a lot of weir and tear on the cricket ball.”
After a break for a bite to eat and lemonade or tea, it was my duty to judge the prettiest baby.
With Willow to help me, I went through a receiving line thingy, greeting all the happy mothers, then picking up each child to hold him or her and try to judge who was nicest.
The first was a very cute little badger kit, the youngest daughter of the village butcher. I held her, gently coached by her mother and Willow, and the little tyke smiled up at me.
Then promptly spit up all over my jacket.
There were a lot of people laughing, and the kit’s mother looked mortified.
I assured her that everything was all right, that things like this happened, and that the little girl was going to grow up to be a superb judge of character.
I shed my jacket and cleaned up a bit. It was getting hot out anyway.
“Willow?” I whispered as I washed the worst of it off my chin.
“Yes, Reggie?”
“She won’t make the final cut, I’m afraid.”
Two babies later, a breathtakingly cute little fawn and a delicate little kitten, I picked up a little beagle.
Who promptly bit my finger.
The next one was a ferret kit, who took one look up at me as I held him and started screaming and howling like – well, like an air-raid siren or fire engine’s horn.
He settled down the instant I gave him back to his mother, and stepped away for a moment. “Willow?”
“Can’t hear you, but let me guess.”
“Right.”
The last one, a little setter puppy, was nursing on a bottle of Buckhorn’s Fawnula.
He was a pretty little fellow, but I think his mother was trying to queer the pitch a bit.
The beagle with the sharp teeth won.
***
Willow:
After the baby contest we took a bit of a drive around the village. It was hard going for Nosey, as there were only a few roads and they were full of blind curves and bends.
One of the pubs was called The Jolly Friar, and judging by the sign the old fellow had about ten or so.
The sign on the other one, though . . . “Reggie?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Why is it called The Albatross and Stick?”
“Lost in the mists of time, Willow. But it’s famous for its wafers.”
From the look on Nosey’s face, the beer was top-notch as well.
After our drive we still had a few hours before dinner, so Reggie called in Lodge and between the three of us tackled the Jackson contract that Josslyn had saddled his son with.
Reggie took a lot of notes, glossing each page to hit the high points. Finally he put his pencil down and said, “It’s a hard bargain, but overall it’s fair, I think. Trust Father to make getting to the point as hard as possible.”
“Well, lawyers have to eat too, Reggie,” I pointed out.
“Do lawyers eat? I always thought they were like those vampire chappies out East somewhere.”
“Hungary,” offered Lodge.
“Why yes, Lodge, I am feeling a bit peckish,” Reggie said. “Must be getting close to dinnertime.”
Dinner was a very tasty salad of locally grown ingredients, with dandelion greens predominating. The main course was something new from the FRB test kitchens.
“Looks like a meatloaf,” Gwladys remarked.
“It’s something new. We start marketing it next month,” Joss said gruffly.
“And I suppose you’ve already tried and approved it.”
A glare at his mate through his monocle. “Of course.”
“It’s quite tasty, Father,” Reggie said, sampling his. “Mostly beans, is it?”
Joss nodded. “And what else?”
Reggie took up the challenge, took another bite and chewed judiciously. “Hmm . . . tomato, basil – not sweet, Greek perhaps? – there are two types of beans . . . “
“Nothing wrong with your sense of taste,” his father grumbled.
“Well, it’s certainly tasty. Another winner, Father.”
“It had better be. Took six months to get it right. Why can’t herbivore foods taste and look like the slop they give carnivores, I asked.”
I tried it, then tucked in with gusto. It certainly did taste good.
Gwladys asked, “Will you two be leaving tomorrow morning?”
I glanced at Reggie, who was using his napkin.
He gave me a look.
I smiled. “No. We’ll be leaving tonight to go back to London.”
“Eh? Why in blazes are you going back tonight?”
“I have work to do, Father,” Reggie explained.
Joss gave a curt nod. Apparently it was the correct answer.
***
Gwladys:
My son and his wife left shortly after dinner. Travis was busying himself supervising the maids.
Joss was still grumbling.
“I have to say that I’m looking forward to having them come back.”
Silence.
“They made a very good impression on the villagers.”
My mate grumbled, “Whole village of idiots . . . “
“Old Paul said it was like having George back again.”
I smiled when he flinched, but the smile went away when he muttered, “That little clot is up to something – I’m certain of it.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s YOUR fawn.”
“I’m glad you think so. He inherited my table manners, at least.” I looked at him over the tops of my glasses. “Joss, please do stop being so suspicious of the boy. Has he done anything to merit you taking on so?”
“He. Breathes.”
I let this pass, and decided to harry his flanks a bit. With so much flank, it’s an easy target.
“Mind you, he may look a bit like me . . . but he also looks a bit like your father, and has a lot of your father’s knack with furs.”
That made him jump a bit. With the prospect of him becoming a grandfather getting closer and closer, he’s gotten jumpier and jumpier.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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