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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 17.
Willow:
I was very proud of my Reggie when he got home that night with the good news that not only had he got the contract signed, but that his father had also signed off on it.
And later on I showed him how proud I was, but that’s all you’ll hear of that.
That weekend we drove up to Monongahela House, where Gwladys greeted us effusively, her mate less so.
In fact, he barely said two words to either me or Reggie.
Over dinner, you could hear his teeth grinding as he glared down the length of the table at his son.
“Reggie.”
Ah! The Sphinx speaks.
Reggie looks up from his salad. “Yes, Father?”
“It’s company policy for successful negotiations to get a bonus,” he said, almost every word making him look as if he was eating sour persimmons. “You’ll find it on your desk Monday morning.”
That last came out as a growl, making me wonder (not for the first time) if there were any wolves in Josslyn’s family tree. Doubt it. Probably just backwoods Pennsylvania manners reasserting themselves.
Reggie, bless him, merely nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
That just seemed to irritate Josslyn further.
Sunday after church we took a walk around the grounds, mostly by the bank of the Crimea River. Reggie carried a picnic basket with him, and we had a nice lunch in a small clearing.
“Hungry, love?” Reggie asked as I settled down and he started laying out a tablecloth.
“Ravenous. Your son is always hungry.”
“My – “ The look on Reggie’s face was precious. “How do you know?”
“The fact of the matter is I don’t.” I accepted a tomato sandwich and a glass of iced tea from my mate, and watched him settle down beside me.
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter if it’s a buck or a doe.”
“No?”
“Just so long as it takes after you,” and he kissed me.
***
Josslyn:
“Come away from the window, Josslyn. Your snorting is fogging it up.”
“Bah.”
“Honestly, isn’t it enough that you have to stare daggers at your son and daughter-in-law? Are you going to glare at them from a distance as well?”
“Just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“Whether the stories of gypsies lurking in the woods may be true.”
“You’d never sell Reggie to the gypsies, Josslyn.”
I gave my mate a nice, toothy smile. “No, I’d probably have to pay them to take him off my paws.”
***
Reggie:
Another Monday. Another week of work.
Just as Father said, there was an envelope on my desk when I arrived. I opened it and looked at the amount on the cheque.
Good Lord.
There’s no way I could spend all of this. Well, all right, back in my well-oiled days I’d have figured out something, but in present circs conspicuous spending like this would land me on the front page of the Daily Herald.
Not that I need it, at any rate; as Vice-Chairman I’m fairly well-paid for what I do, and I’m still getting monthly payments directly into the old bank account.
So, Reggie, what to do?
I was still thinking about it that afternoon, and I found myself looking out my office window.
It was a warm afternoon, and as I looked down at the street below –
I had an idea.
And it was a corker, at that. One that even Artie (Tons of Fun) Wisent couldn’t top.
***
Lodge:
“Nosey.”
“Yus, Missus?”
“Any luck?”
“Roight, Missus. Nine-Fingers Artie an’ th’ Vicar they say that t’guy Grubber, ‘e loikes t’go – “
“Wait a moment. Lodge?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I think it’s best you don’t hear any of this.”
“Of course, Ma’am.”
Discretion was, of course, the better part of valor, not to mention the advantages of plausible deniability, so I absented myself as Mrs. Buckhorn and Mr. Barker resumed their conversation about Mr. Grubber’s nocturnal activities.
***
Willow:
An . . . interesting set of facts.
Nosey came through in spades, and I sweetened his pay increase with a two-pound bonus.
After he left to go get Reggie from work, I patted the packet of information he had acquired for me.
Now, as far as I know, there were never any carnivores in my family tree – on either side of the family.
But I’m feeling particularly bloodthirsty right now.
The next day, I was driven over to the lawyers’ office.
Let me set the scene for you:
Here’s me on one side of the conference table, with Mr. Buzzard beside me, and the rest of the senior partners (Whackett, Stubble and Boot) taking the mezzanine seats. Whackett, a rather tall and broad eagle, has a decidedly unhealthy gleam in his eyes.
Across the table is Mr. Neatsfoot, with Mr. Grubber (a badger) and Mr. Pilchard (otter) flanking him.
Between us on the table is the leasehold contract.
Mr. Buzzard opens the bidding: “We have gone over the contract – “
“The signed contract,” Pilchard countered.
“Signed in good faith,” Grubber added, looking smug.
“Signed, sight unseen,” I said, keeping my ire at a slow simmer.
“ – and we have found numerous irregularities.”
“It’s all perfectly legal.” This from Neatsfoot, who was rubbing his paws again, as if he was starting a fire.
“The courts may see it differently,” Buzzard said gravely.
My cervine opponent abruptly stopped rubbing his paws.
“Our argument will be that if your clients can afford to take us to court, they can surely pay the fair amount stipulated in the contract,” Grubber growled. His claws looked a bit ungroomed. Well, he’s very busy after hours, so hygiene probably takes a back seat.
Pilchard caught the look in my eye, and started to fidget a little.
An argument had started up, three on four.
(Time to put a stop to this, Willow.)
(I agree, Grace. High time.)
“Gentlemen,” I said, “there is a way out of this, that will not require taking it to court.”
Buzzard gave me a quizzical glance.
Neatsfoot, Grubber and Pilchard all looked interested.
I opened the folder in front of me and slid a document across the table. “This is the leasehold contract – without all of the sub-clauses, and with the hidden charges removed.”
“So?” Pilchard asked.
“So you three will sign it. I will then sign it, in the presence of my solicitor.”
“And if we refuse?” Neatsfoot asked.
I smiled.
I removed three pieces of paper from the file, and dealt them out, one apiece.
They glanced at them, and there was a collective bugging out of eyes as they dropped everything and started reading absorbedly.
The trio glared at me, and I just sat there and smiled as Buzzard looked impassive.
“What is the meaning of this? This is common blackmail!” Pilchard said.
Grubber had deflated visibly as he read his paper. I could almost hear a blattering sound as he slumped, muttering, “I’m ruined . . . “
Neatsfoot merely looked at me sharply. “Where did you get this?”
“None of your business,” I said, “but let’s just say that I know enough to ruin all three of you. Sign that contract, and it all goes away.”
“And if not?”
“It’ll be front page news in the Speculum tomorrow morning.” For those who didn’t know, the Speculum is a small-circulation newspaper with a reputation for publishing the unvarnished, uncensored truth. Haven’t lost a libel action yet, either.
The estate agents went into a huddle as Buzzard leaned in close to me. “Pardon me for asking, but where did you get this information?”
“A little bird told me,” I whispered back.
The trio came out of the huddle, Grubber looking downcast, Pilchard looking defeated, and Neatsfoot looking defiant.
I met their stares calmly. I used to win staring contests at Collegiate.
Finally the three took out fountain pens and signed the contract. I signed it, then the four lawyers witnessed it.
“Now, gentlemen,” I said sweetly, “you can expect next month’s payment on time. Good day.”
They left, tails between legs (not quite literally, in Neatsfoot and Grubber’s parts), and after the door closed Mr. Buzzard said, “That was awfully close to extortion, Mrs. Buckhorn.”
“It wasn’t quite, Mr. Buzzard, and there was no way they could take me to court for it without admitting what they were trying to do.” I grinned. “It was merely a matter of showing them who had the sharpest clauses.”
***
Josslyn:
What the blazes is this?
The expense account for our Bournemouth plant just reported paying out – that much?!
For ice cream!?
For worker’s entertainment?!?
Bournemouth produces a lot of seaweed for salads, as well as agar for jams and jellies. One of our best producers, as well, with a manager who hasn’t shown any sign of irrational behavior in twenty years.
What happened? Has that ass Lawrence finally taken leave of his senses?
Wait a minute . . .
“RODGERS!”
Mrs. Rodgers comes in before I finish shouting. Good secretary.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“Get my – that – get that little – “
“Yes, sir. One moment.”
After a moment Reggie comes in (not surprising she knew who I was referring to). “Yes, sir?”
“What’s the meaning of this!?” I shout, and hurl the report at him.
I almost hit him, too.
He stoops and picks it up, then looks it over. “You sent your bonus to Bournemouth?”
“Yes, Father.”
“All right, blast it, I’ll ask. For pity’s sake, why?”
“Well, Father, I didn’t really need the money.”
My muzzle falls open.
“And I was wondering what to do with it when I saw an ice cream vendor out on the pavement. I thought that it might be a good idea to treat the workers down in Bournemouth. They’ve done a cracking job this fiscal year. I’m sure, of course, you’ve read the reports.”
He puts the report back on the desk. “And it was your favorite flavor, as well,” he says. “Belgian Vanilla with Blueberries, Buckhorn’s Best. Will that be all, Father?”
I can’t think of a thing to say.
He walks out, and when the door closes I realize something.
He does have my father’s touch with the workers.
“GRAAHHH!”
“OW!”
Blast!
My mate will be after me with that damned hoof trimmer again.
<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 17.
Willow:
I was very proud of my Reggie when he got home that night with the good news that not only had he got the contract signed, but that his father had also signed off on it.
And later on I showed him how proud I was, but that’s all you’ll hear of that.
That weekend we drove up to Monongahela House, where Gwladys greeted us effusively, her mate less so.
In fact, he barely said two words to either me or Reggie.
Over dinner, you could hear his teeth grinding as he glared down the length of the table at his son.
“Reggie.”
Ah! The Sphinx speaks.
Reggie looks up from his salad. “Yes, Father?”
“It’s company policy for successful negotiations to get a bonus,” he said, almost every word making him look as if he was eating sour persimmons. “You’ll find it on your desk Monday morning.”
That last came out as a growl, making me wonder (not for the first time) if there were any wolves in Josslyn’s family tree. Doubt it. Probably just backwoods Pennsylvania manners reasserting themselves.
Reggie, bless him, merely nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
That just seemed to irritate Josslyn further.
Sunday after church we took a walk around the grounds, mostly by the bank of the Crimea River. Reggie carried a picnic basket with him, and we had a nice lunch in a small clearing.
“Hungry, love?” Reggie asked as I settled down and he started laying out a tablecloth.
“Ravenous. Your son is always hungry.”
“My – “ The look on Reggie’s face was precious. “How do you know?”
“The fact of the matter is I don’t.” I accepted a tomato sandwich and a glass of iced tea from my mate, and watched him settle down beside me.
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter if it’s a buck or a doe.”
“No?”
“Just so long as it takes after you,” and he kissed me.
***
Josslyn:
“Come away from the window, Josslyn. Your snorting is fogging it up.”
“Bah.”
“Honestly, isn’t it enough that you have to stare daggers at your son and daughter-in-law? Are you going to glare at them from a distance as well?”
“Just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“Whether the stories of gypsies lurking in the woods may be true.”
“You’d never sell Reggie to the gypsies, Josslyn.”
I gave my mate a nice, toothy smile. “No, I’d probably have to pay them to take him off my paws.”
***
Reggie:
Another Monday. Another week of work.
Just as Father said, there was an envelope on my desk when I arrived. I opened it and looked at the amount on the cheque.
Good Lord.
There’s no way I could spend all of this. Well, all right, back in my well-oiled days I’d have figured out something, but in present circs conspicuous spending like this would land me on the front page of the Daily Herald.
Not that I need it, at any rate; as Vice-Chairman I’m fairly well-paid for what I do, and I’m still getting monthly payments directly into the old bank account.
So, Reggie, what to do?
I was still thinking about it that afternoon, and I found myself looking out my office window.
It was a warm afternoon, and as I looked down at the street below –
I had an idea.
And it was a corker, at that. One that even Artie (Tons of Fun) Wisent couldn’t top.
***
Lodge:
“Nosey.”
“Yus, Missus?”
“Any luck?”
“Roight, Missus. Nine-Fingers Artie an’ th’ Vicar they say that t’guy Grubber, ‘e loikes t’go – “
“Wait a moment. Lodge?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I think it’s best you don’t hear any of this.”
“Of course, Ma’am.”
Discretion was, of course, the better part of valor, not to mention the advantages of plausible deniability, so I absented myself as Mrs. Buckhorn and Mr. Barker resumed their conversation about Mr. Grubber’s nocturnal activities.
***
Willow:
An . . . interesting set of facts.
Nosey came through in spades, and I sweetened his pay increase with a two-pound bonus.
After he left to go get Reggie from work, I patted the packet of information he had acquired for me.
Now, as far as I know, there were never any carnivores in my family tree – on either side of the family.
But I’m feeling particularly bloodthirsty right now.
The next day, I was driven over to the lawyers’ office.
Let me set the scene for you:
Here’s me on one side of the conference table, with Mr. Buzzard beside me, and the rest of the senior partners (Whackett, Stubble and Boot) taking the mezzanine seats. Whackett, a rather tall and broad eagle, has a decidedly unhealthy gleam in his eyes.
Across the table is Mr. Neatsfoot, with Mr. Grubber (a badger) and Mr. Pilchard (otter) flanking him.
Between us on the table is the leasehold contract.
Mr. Buzzard opens the bidding: “We have gone over the contract – “
“The signed contract,” Pilchard countered.
“Signed in good faith,” Grubber added, looking smug.
“Signed, sight unseen,” I said, keeping my ire at a slow simmer.
“ – and we have found numerous irregularities.”
“It’s all perfectly legal.” This from Neatsfoot, who was rubbing his paws again, as if he was starting a fire.
“The courts may see it differently,” Buzzard said gravely.
My cervine opponent abruptly stopped rubbing his paws.
“Our argument will be that if your clients can afford to take us to court, they can surely pay the fair amount stipulated in the contract,” Grubber growled. His claws looked a bit ungroomed. Well, he’s very busy after hours, so hygiene probably takes a back seat.
Pilchard caught the look in my eye, and started to fidget a little.
An argument had started up, three on four.
(Time to put a stop to this, Willow.)
(I agree, Grace. High time.)
“Gentlemen,” I said, “there is a way out of this, that will not require taking it to court.”
Buzzard gave me a quizzical glance.
Neatsfoot, Grubber and Pilchard all looked interested.
I opened the folder in front of me and slid a document across the table. “This is the leasehold contract – without all of the sub-clauses, and with the hidden charges removed.”
“So?” Pilchard asked.
“So you three will sign it. I will then sign it, in the presence of my solicitor.”
“And if we refuse?” Neatsfoot asked.
I smiled.
I removed three pieces of paper from the file, and dealt them out, one apiece.
They glanced at them, and there was a collective bugging out of eyes as they dropped everything and started reading absorbedly.
The trio glared at me, and I just sat there and smiled as Buzzard looked impassive.
“What is the meaning of this? This is common blackmail!” Pilchard said.
Grubber had deflated visibly as he read his paper. I could almost hear a blattering sound as he slumped, muttering, “I’m ruined . . . “
Neatsfoot merely looked at me sharply. “Where did you get this?”
“None of your business,” I said, “but let’s just say that I know enough to ruin all three of you. Sign that contract, and it all goes away.”
“And if not?”
“It’ll be front page news in the Speculum tomorrow morning.” For those who didn’t know, the Speculum is a small-circulation newspaper with a reputation for publishing the unvarnished, uncensored truth. Haven’t lost a libel action yet, either.
The estate agents went into a huddle as Buzzard leaned in close to me. “Pardon me for asking, but where did you get this information?”
“A little bird told me,” I whispered back.
The trio came out of the huddle, Grubber looking downcast, Pilchard looking defeated, and Neatsfoot looking defiant.
I met their stares calmly. I used to win staring contests at Collegiate.
Finally the three took out fountain pens and signed the contract. I signed it, then the four lawyers witnessed it.
“Now, gentlemen,” I said sweetly, “you can expect next month’s payment on time. Good day.”
They left, tails between legs (not quite literally, in Neatsfoot and Grubber’s parts), and after the door closed Mr. Buzzard said, “That was awfully close to extortion, Mrs. Buckhorn.”
“It wasn’t quite, Mr. Buzzard, and there was no way they could take me to court for it without admitting what they were trying to do.” I grinned. “It was merely a matter of showing them who had the sharpest clauses.”
***
Josslyn:
What the blazes is this?
The expense account for our Bournemouth plant just reported paying out – that much?!
For ice cream!?
For worker’s entertainment?!?
Bournemouth produces a lot of seaweed for salads, as well as agar for jams and jellies. One of our best producers, as well, with a manager who hasn’t shown any sign of irrational behavior in twenty years.
What happened? Has that ass Lawrence finally taken leave of his senses?
Wait a minute . . .
“RODGERS!”
Mrs. Rodgers comes in before I finish shouting. Good secretary.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“Get my – that – get that little – “
“Yes, sir. One moment.”
After a moment Reggie comes in (not surprising she knew who I was referring to). “Yes, sir?”
“What’s the meaning of this!?” I shout, and hurl the report at him.
I almost hit him, too.
He stoops and picks it up, then looks it over. “You sent your bonus to Bournemouth?”
“Yes, Father.”
“All right, blast it, I’ll ask. For pity’s sake, why?”
“Well, Father, I didn’t really need the money.”
My muzzle falls open.
“And I was wondering what to do with it when I saw an ice cream vendor out on the pavement. I thought that it might be a good idea to treat the workers down in Bournemouth. They’ve done a cracking job this fiscal year. I’m sure, of course, you’ve read the reports.”
He puts the report back on the desk. “And it was your favorite flavor, as well,” he says. “Belgian Vanilla with Blueberries, Buckhorn’s Best. Will that be all, Father?”
I can’t think of a thing to say.
He walks out, and when the door closes I realize something.
He does have my father’s touch with the workers.
“GRAAHHH!”
“OW!”
Blast!
My mate will be after me with that damned hoof trimmer again.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Listed in Folders
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