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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 16.
Reggie:
I gave Willow a long smooch. “Good luck, sweetheart,” she said as I headed down the steps. Nosey was waiting at the car.
“Thanks. I think I’ll need it,” and she waved as we sped off.
Arthur Jackson was staying at a nice hotel in Grosvenor Square, and when he got in I said, “Blades, please, Nosey.”
“Roight, Guv’nor. That’s onny a short fare.” And off we went again.
The last time I was at Blades was shortly before I left England to see the world with Lodge accompanying me. Various gin-soaked memories swam up at me, with one particularly vivid one involving a makeshift trebuchet crafted of two chairs, a bell cord, two hundred pounds of books from the club’s library and several bottles of Chateau de Chassilay.
I guessed they’d had the time to repair the damage to the windows by now.
Damage to peoples’ sensibilities, well . . . that would take longer, of course.
The doorman, a short canine in livery, blanched when he saw the buck-self step out of the car, briefcase in paw. I can only assume that he had a very good memory (doormen and concierges often do) or what I had done had been seared into his memory and was now part of the club’s lore. “Oh! Ah, er, Mr. B-Buckhorn.”
“That’s right,” I said with a smile. “My guest and I have a private dining room reserved.”
“Oh, ah, of course, sir.” The canine gave Jackson a pitying look as he ushered us in.
The place was pretty much as I recalled it. Light wood paneling up to about knee-height, then very nice wallpaper. Lighting neither too bright nor too dim, and a general air of quiet contemplation.
It was quiet.
One might almost say too quiet.
We were shown into our dining room and there were two employees waiting for us, the club’s sommelier and a waiter. Menus were presented, as well as the wine list.
There was some reluctance when the wine list was offered to me.
I waved it away. “Water for me, please. With ice and a twist of lemon.”
The sommelier froze in shock. His tail went straight up, and I almost got concerned, him being a mephit and all.
The waiter looked like he was about to faint.
Arthur took the wine list from the sommelier’s nerveless grasp, perused it and said, “I’ll have a bottle of Beaujolais. The ’32, I think, was a good year.”
He had to repeat it, twice, before the penny dropped and the sommelier took back the list. The waiter took appetizer orders and they both left.
Giving me surprised and almost fearful looks at me as they went.
In fact, the waiter almost collided with the doorjamb.
Arthur watched them go, and looked at me questioningly.
Well, here goes, Reggie.
“I, er, had a certain reputation, Arthur, and my escapades have apparently not been forgotten.”
“Er, you mean – “ He made a slight gesture.
I nodded.
“Well, you certainly don’t seem bothered by it now.”
I smiled. “I owe that to my wife.”
“I hadn’t heard you’d gotten married. Nice girl?”
“The very best.”
“Congratulations, then. Family?”
“Well, to use a metaphor, I suppose, I’d say that construction is ongoing.” We laughed.
After appetizers, our entrees arrived, steak for him and a nice dish of stuffed mushrooms over rice for me. “That smells rather good,” I said, aiming my nose at his plate.
He looked surprised at that. “You eat meat?”
“No, not at all, dear chap. My stomachs can’t handle it. But I can appreciate the aroma.”
I started to add some soy sauce to my rice, and his ears perked up. “What’s that?”
“Hmm? Oh, it's soy sauce.”
“Soy sauce?”
“Er, yes. They make it over in Japan and China, from soybeans. Soybeans, soy sauce. Rather simple, really, and they’re as liberal with it over there as Yanks are with catsup.”
He was spooning a bit of horseradish onto his plate and grinned as he did so.
Over dinner we talked about a few things. I found out that he lived on his father’s estate in Ontario, a place called Windsor. I also found out that he was engaged to a fine young lady, whose father owned steel mills. Advance congratulations were offered, and gladly accepted.
After dessert my water glass was refilled, while Arthur had a glass of MacArran Scotch, neat, and a cigar. I selected one as well (cigar, not drink), and we sat and smoked a bit.
I eyed the Scotch. “Have you met Katie MacArran?”
“Once, yes. Met her at a dinner in her honor in Toronto. Have you met her?”
“Yes, once. Fine figure of a mare.”
With the last of the dessert dishes cleared away, I leaned over (almost banging my rack against the table in the process) and opened my briefcase. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes, yes we should. You know, Reggie? You’re a damned sight easier to deal with than your father.”
“Well, the Sire is very much a force of Nature, don’t you know.” I put the contract on the table, and moved my ashtray to one side. He moved his chair, and we started in on it.
Most of the contract was legal stuff, and of importance mainly to the lawyers. Between me, Willow and Lodge we’d managed to pick out the points that were likely to cause the most trouble.
At one point I came up for air and looked at the clock. “Good Lord, it’s after nine o’clock!”
Arthur looked up as well from a note he’d been scribbling in the margin. “I’m surprised they haven’t thrown us out.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, it must be getting close to closing time.”
“Oh, not at all, dear chap. I seriously think some of the older members never leave at all.”
As we looked out of the dining room windows we saw a member trot on by, clutching a ponderous tome of cricket rules in his paws.
“Hmmph, cricket,” Arthur snorted as he turned away from the window. “Give me baseball any time.” He grinned and gave me a wink. “You can actually read the rules for that game.”
“You like baseball?”
“Yes, I do. I’m an admirer of the Detroit Tigers. They’re – “
I held up a paw. “Oh, no need to tell me about it. You know the Phillies, of course?”
“Well, of course. They are still in the National League, right?”
“My mother hopes so.”
“Oh, a fan?”
“Of a sort,” I said. “She owns them.”
His ears went straight up. “Your mother – Gwladys Buckhorn owns the Phillies?”
“Quite right.”
“She’s the one bankrolling that new park they’re building?”
“Oh, it won’t be ready for quite a while yet. They’re still playing at Shibe Park, I think.” I took a sip of my water and yawned behind my paw. Manners, y’know. “Shall we continue? There’s only one point left to cover . . . “
We finally wrapped up our business about eleven. All that was left was to dot the T’s and cross the I’s on the whole endeavor.
Arthur stretched and yawned. “Well, Reggie, you drive hard bargains, but fair ones. Shall I come round to your office tomorrow morning to sign it?”
“Good heavens, no, Arthur old bean.”
“No?”
“It’ll be a while getting all this typed up, y’know. I’ll take you back to your hotel and you get a good night’s sleep.”
“So, what time tomorrow, then?”
“Hmm.” I looked over our notes again, and had to blink a few times. I was very glad I wasn’t the one driving. “Say after lunch? One o’clock? My secretary’s an absolute whiz at typing.”
“If you say so. One it is, then.”
***
Josslyn:
Ah, Friday morning!
Still no sign of a signed contract for the Jackson account.
Good. That means that blasted blot has failed.
I’m going to enjoy rubbing that in his mother’s nose.
Should I call her now? No; better to wait until the close of business, when he comes up and admits his failure.
I can wait.
After the daily board meeting and before lunch, I see a memorandum on my desk.
It’s from Reggie.
I snort and flip it over face down. No sense in reading nonsense.
Lunch was particularly satisfying.
Around one o’clock I hear a small commotion outside my office, and I look out to see young Jackson. The puppy’s heading over to Reggie’s office.
What in blazes is he doing here?
Unless . . .
I walk over to my son’s office in time to see Jackson putting away his fountain pen and the two of them shaking paws.
Reggie sees me and says, “Hullo, Father. Mr. Jackson – “
“Arthur, Reggie.”
“Arthur was just finishing signing the contract.”
“Contract? What blasted contract? What are you on about?”
“The contract summarized in the memo I put on your desk just his morning, Father. Didn’t you read it?”
I hadn’t.
And I’ll yank my own antlers out before I’ll admit it.
I go back to my office and read it.
Hmm.
Contract stipulations . . . harvest times . . . product transportation, handling . . . profit sharing . . .
Most of it’s what I gave him. The important things are new to me.
I look up to see Reggie with the contract in his paws.
“What?”
“You need to sign the contract, Father.”
I scowl at him. “Didn’t you sign it?”
“That’s your job, Father,” the little blot reminds me. “You’re head of the firm, after all, and far be it from me to put you aside, hmm?”
If that puppy Jackson weren’t looking over his shoulder, I’d break that fawn’s nose for that, see if I wouldn’t.
I snatch the contract from his paws and read it over. It’s all there, blast it. A hard bargain, but scrupulously fair.
Damn.
I go to sign my name and the blasted pen nib breaks.
“Would you like to borrow my Barker, Father?”
I snatch it from him and sign my name, then look up to see Jackson shaking paws with Reggie. “Good doing business with you, Reggie old man. We winter down at Jekyll Island; you and wife should come down and see us sometime.”
They walk out, taking the signed contract with them.
As soon as the door closes I kick the desk.
Damn!
I think I chipped a hoof.
***
Gwladys:
"Hold still, Josslyn. I have the hoof trimmer, here."
"Blast it woman, I . . . "
"Would you rather your valet do it?"
". . ."
"I didn't think so. Harder to explain to him, isn't it?"
I busied myself with fixing my mate’s little problem. "Now, Josslyn, surely you can't hold a grudge that long. That Jackson contract should be quite profitable, and it's a good thing to lock up all the Canadian production for ten years."
My mate grumbled indistinctly.
“And you don't like going to Canada. You've said so any number of times."
Against which he couldn’t argue. Sir Avery Jackson is every bit as stubborn as my Josslyn (if my conversations with his wife are any indication). On occasion in the past years, he’d force Joss to cross the Atlantic to Toronto to deal with the contract personally.
“Besides, you know poutine upsets your tummies – although that doesn’t stop you from eating it.”
<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 16.
Reggie:
I gave Willow a long smooch. “Good luck, sweetheart,” she said as I headed down the steps. Nosey was waiting at the car.
“Thanks. I think I’ll need it,” and she waved as we sped off.
Arthur Jackson was staying at a nice hotel in Grosvenor Square, and when he got in I said, “Blades, please, Nosey.”
“Roight, Guv’nor. That’s onny a short fare.” And off we went again.
The last time I was at Blades was shortly before I left England to see the world with Lodge accompanying me. Various gin-soaked memories swam up at me, with one particularly vivid one involving a makeshift trebuchet crafted of two chairs, a bell cord, two hundred pounds of books from the club’s library and several bottles of Chateau de Chassilay.
I guessed they’d had the time to repair the damage to the windows by now.
Damage to peoples’ sensibilities, well . . . that would take longer, of course.
The doorman, a short canine in livery, blanched when he saw the buck-self step out of the car, briefcase in paw. I can only assume that he had a very good memory (doormen and concierges often do) or what I had done had been seared into his memory and was now part of the club’s lore. “Oh! Ah, er, Mr. B-Buckhorn.”
“That’s right,” I said with a smile. “My guest and I have a private dining room reserved.”
“Oh, ah, of course, sir.” The canine gave Jackson a pitying look as he ushered us in.
The place was pretty much as I recalled it. Light wood paneling up to about knee-height, then very nice wallpaper. Lighting neither too bright nor too dim, and a general air of quiet contemplation.
It was quiet.
One might almost say too quiet.
We were shown into our dining room and there were two employees waiting for us, the club’s sommelier and a waiter. Menus were presented, as well as the wine list.
There was some reluctance when the wine list was offered to me.
I waved it away. “Water for me, please. With ice and a twist of lemon.”
The sommelier froze in shock. His tail went straight up, and I almost got concerned, him being a mephit and all.
The waiter looked like he was about to faint.
Arthur took the wine list from the sommelier’s nerveless grasp, perused it and said, “I’ll have a bottle of Beaujolais. The ’32, I think, was a good year.”
He had to repeat it, twice, before the penny dropped and the sommelier took back the list. The waiter took appetizer orders and they both left.
Giving me surprised and almost fearful looks at me as they went.
In fact, the waiter almost collided with the doorjamb.
Arthur watched them go, and looked at me questioningly.
Well, here goes, Reggie.
“I, er, had a certain reputation, Arthur, and my escapades have apparently not been forgotten.”
“Er, you mean – “ He made a slight gesture.
I nodded.
“Well, you certainly don’t seem bothered by it now.”
I smiled. “I owe that to my wife.”
“I hadn’t heard you’d gotten married. Nice girl?”
“The very best.”
“Congratulations, then. Family?”
“Well, to use a metaphor, I suppose, I’d say that construction is ongoing.” We laughed.
After appetizers, our entrees arrived, steak for him and a nice dish of stuffed mushrooms over rice for me. “That smells rather good,” I said, aiming my nose at his plate.
He looked surprised at that. “You eat meat?”
“No, not at all, dear chap. My stomachs can’t handle it. But I can appreciate the aroma.”
I started to add some soy sauce to my rice, and his ears perked up. “What’s that?”
“Hmm? Oh, it's soy sauce.”
“Soy sauce?”
“Er, yes. They make it over in Japan and China, from soybeans. Soybeans, soy sauce. Rather simple, really, and they’re as liberal with it over there as Yanks are with catsup.”
He was spooning a bit of horseradish onto his plate and grinned as he did so.
Over dinner we talked about a few things. I found out that he lived on his father’s estate in Ontario, a place called Windsor. I also found out that he was engaged to a fine young lady, whose father owned steel mills. Advance congratulations were offered, and gladly accepted.
After dessert my water glass was refilled, while Arthur had a glass of MacArran Scotch, neat, and a cigar. I selected one as well (cigar, not drink), and we sat and smoked a bit.
I eyed the Scotch. “Have you met Katie MacArran?”
“Once, yes. Met her at a dinner in her honor in Toronto. Have you met her?”
“Yes, once. Fine figure of a mare.”
With the last of the dessert dishes cleared away, I leaned over (almost banging my rack against the table in the process) and opened my briefcase. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes, yes we should. You know, Reggie? You’re a damned sight easier to deal with than your father.”
“Well, the Sire is very much a force of Nature, don’t you know.” I put the contract on the table, and moved my ashtray to one side. He moved his chair, and we started in on it.
Most of the contract was legal stuff, and of importance mainly to the lawyers. Between me, Willow and Lodge we’d managed to pick out the points that were likely to cause the most trouble.
At one point I came up for air and looked at the clock. “Good Lord, it’s after nine o’clock!”
Arthur looked up as well from a note he’d been scribbling in the margin. “I’m surprised they haven’t thrown us out.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, it must be getting close to closing time.”
“Oh, not at all, dear chap. I seriously think some of the older members never leave at all.”
As we looked out of the dining room windows we saw a member trot on by, clutching a ponderous tome of cricket rules in his paws.
“Hmmph, cricket,” Arthur snorted as he turned away from the window. “Give me baseball any time.” He grinned and gave me a wink. “You can actually read the rules for that game.”
“You like baseball?”
“Yes, I do. I’m an admirer of the Detroit Tigers. They’re – “
I held up a paw. “Oh, no need to tell me about it. You know the Phillies, of course?”
“Well, of course. They are still in the National League, right?”
“My mother hopes so.”
“Oh, a fan?”
“Of a sort,” I said. “She owns them.”
His ears went straight up. “Your mother – Gwladys Buckhorn owns the Phillies?”
“Quite right.”
“She’s the one bankrolling that new park they’re building?”
“Oh, it won’t be ready for quite a while yet. They’re still playing at Shibe Park, I think.” I took a sip of my water and yawned behind my paw. Manners, y’know. “Shall we continue? There’s only one point left to cover . . . “
We finally wrapped up our business about eleven. All that was left was to dot the T’s and cross the I’s on the whole endeavor.
Arthur stretched and yawned. “Well, Reggie, you drive hard bargains, but fair ones. Shall I come round to your office tomorrow morning to sign it?”
“Good heavens, no, Arthur old bean.”
“No?”
“It’ll be a while getting all this typed up, y’know. I’ll take you back to your hotel and you get a good night’s sleep.”
“So, what time tomorrow, then?”
“Hmm.” I looked over our notes again, and had to blink a few times. I was very glad I wasn’t the one driving. “Say after lunch? One o’clock? My secretary’s an absolute whiz at typing.”
“If you say so. One it is, then.”
***
Josslyn:
Ah, Friday morning!
Still no sign of a signed contract for the Jackson account.
Good. That means that blasted blot has failed.
I’m going to enjoy rubbing that in his mother’s nose.
Should I call her now? No; better to wait until the close of business, when he comes up and admits his failure.
I can wait.
After the daily board meeting and before lunch, I see a memorandum on my desk.
It’s from Reggie.
I snort and flip it over face down. No sense in reading nonsense.
Lunch was particularly satisfying.
Around one o’clock I hear a small commotion outside my office, and I look out to see young Jackson. The puppy’s heading over to Reggie’s office.
What in blazes is he doing here?
Unless . . .
I walk over to my son’s office in time to see Jackson putting away his fountain pen and the two of them shaking paws.
Reggie sees me and says, “Hullo, Father. Mr. Jackson – “
“Arthur, Reggie.”
“Arthur was just finishing signing the contract.”
“Contract? What blasted contract? What are you on about?”
“The contract summarized in the memo I put on your desk just his morning, Father. Didn’t you read it?”
I hadn’t.
And I’ll yank my own antlers out before I’ll admit it.
I go back to my office and read it.
Hmm.
Contract stipulations . . . harvest times . . . product transportation, handling . . . profit sharing . . .
Most of it’s what I gave him. The important things are new to me.
I look up to see Reggie with the contract in his paws.
“What?”
“You need to sign the contract, Father.”
I scowl at him. “Didn’t you sign it?”
“That’s your job, Father,” the little blot reminds me. “You’re head of the firm, after all, and far be it from me to put you aside, hmm?”
If that puppy Jackson weren’t looking over his shoulder, I’d break that fawn’s nose for that, see if I wouldn’t.
I snatch the contract from his paws and read it over. It’s all there, blast it. A hard bargain, but scrupulously fair.
Damn.
I go to sign my name and the blasted pen nib breaks.
“Would you like to borrow my Barker, Father?”
I snatch it from him and sign my name, then look up to see Jackson shaking paws with Reggie. “Good doing business with you, Reggie old man. We winter down at Jekyll Island; you and wife should come down and see us sometime.”
They walk out, taking the signed contract with them.
As soon as the door closes I kick the desk.
Damn!
I think I chipped a hoof.
***
Gwladys:
"Hold still, Josslyn. I have the hoof trimmer, here."
"Blast it woman, I . . . "
"Would you rather your valet do it?"
". . ."
"I didn't think so. Harder to explain to him, isn't it?"
I busied myself with fixing my mate’s little problem. "Now, Josslyn, surely you can't hold a grudge that long. That Jackson contract should be quite profitable, and it's a good thing to lock up all the Canadian production for ten years."
My mate grumbled indistinctly.
“And you don't like going to Canada. You've said so any number of times."
Against which he couldn’t argue. Sir Avery Jackson is every bit as stubborn as my Josslyn (if my conversations with his wife are any indication). On occasion in the past years, he’d force Joss to cross the Atlantic to Toronto to deal with the contract personally.
“Besides, you know poutine upsets your tummies – although that doesn’t stop you from eating it.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments