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

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Part 18.


August 1937.
Willow:

A few weeks after we resolved things with the estate agents, Reggie was starting to adjust to working Monday through Friday. A few times he’s come home late and looking a bit wrung out.

So this weekend I vetoed our usual drive out to the country in favor of staying at home and simply enjoying ourselves. Reggie embraced the idea (and me) fully.

After spending a quiet Saturday together we decided to take a walk around the neighborhood and take in the sights of Hyde Park.

The Park’s a huge place, so we didn’t go too far. It felt good to feel a well-trimmed lawn under our hooves, and the sunset looked wonderful through the trees.

As we rounded a bend I saw a group of people surrounding a tall rabbit perched on a box. He was yelling something over the hubbub, but I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying. “What’s going on over there?” I asked.

“Looks like a speaker’s corner,” Reggie replied. “They’re places where people can stand up and talk about anything. It’s jolly good fun. Care to have a listen?”

I tucked my arm around his and nestled a bit closer. “Love to.”

We got closer and hovered at the fringe of the small crowd, where a few people had gathered to talk back to the speaker and discuss what he had been saying among themselves. The rabbit, wearing a slightly threadbare suit, was talking about the recent vote held in Austria.

I recalled reading in the paper that they had held an election on whether or not to join Germany. The result was a resounding Nein, according to the article.

Of course, Austria had the advantage of a powerful friend, in this case Italy.

The rabbit on the soapbox was talking about how Germany was a threat, and would try again. He looked old enough to have fought in the Great War.

Offering an opposing viewpoint – at the top of his voice, with a considerably less polite vocabulary - was a stocky canine wearing a pin on his shirt. The pin bore a stylized lightning bolt.

I shuddered a bit.

You see, the one (and only) good thing the New Haven Revolt did for me was give me a well-placed distrust of any form of extremism. Don’t get me wrong; I decided a long time ago that I was a true-blue conservative. I think Reggie, bless him, was a conservative as well, but had a liberal ‘live and let live’ attitude.

Looking at the Union guy hurling abuse at the speaker, I wondered how long that attitude might last in England.

If I were alone, I’d give him the business end of my purse and make it look like an accident.

(You should anyway. Reggie will protect you.)

(I think not, Twin. I’m not putting Reggie in danger – and have you forgotten our little passenger?)

(. . .)

After listening for several minutes, we moved on and headed home.

As we neared the front door of the house I said, “You know something?”

“What, love?”

“I haven’t seen anything of the Greenleaf-Hays lately. I wonder if they’re on holiday.”

“Could be. Willow, we should really invite them over for dinner some night.”

“Really?”

“Yes, dash it all. What’s the use in having neighbors when you can’t have them over? Besides, we haven’t had guests in the house for dinner since we moved in. And they’re both rabbits, from what you told me – it’s not like we’ll be expecting Coney to grill steaks.”

I grinned. “Well then. I’ll keep an eye out for them, and invite them – when? Next weekend?”

“Perfect.”


***


Reggie:

Willow managed to catch sight of our neighbors (well, Mrs. Greenleaf-Hay, at least) and extended our invitation to dinner.

It was accepted with a certain amount of enthusiasm, my wife said, with Petunia (Mrs. G-H) saying that it should be a matter of no moment to get her husband Louis to agree.

And it should go without saying that our lepine neighbors presented themselves at our door that Saturday evening. Introductions were made, and we settled down in the drawing room while Paczki offered a tray of drinks and Zenobia offered appetizers.

Willow had also asked, and very cleverly might I add, what were our guests’ preferences. To my surprise, Louis (as he insisted I call him) insisted on beer – a good ale – and cheese for starters.

“Beer and cheese, Louis?” I asked. I was having a canapé and a glass of water.

“Oh, absolutely, Reggie,” he said in a hearty and matter-of-fact tone. “I learned to appreciate it when I was in the Army.”

“Willow said she’d seen a picture of you in uniform. What regiment were you in?”

Louis looked proud as he drew himself up, his rabbit ears adding inches. “The Welsh Guards. Got my commission in the regiment.”

I congratulated him, of course, and knew that he was older. He’d seen action in the War, poor chap, but seemed none the worse for it.

We talked about business, and the conversation turned to gardening. He and Petunia had one under the front windows, with a slightly more extensive one behind. Louis supposed that, as fellow herbivores, Willow and I would get around to breaking ground.

“You’ll appreciate it, Reggie,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s very relaxing after a hard week at work, believe me. Doing the garden, digging the weeds – who could ask for more?”

“Well, I had been looking for a hobby,” I said, and Willow caught my eye. She had a big smile on her muzzle. “I might start one in the Spring after the fawn’s born.”

“Splendid!” Louis said, and on that note Lodge announced dinner.

Mr. Coney, our cook, outdid himself. After a nice squash soup we were presented with a tasty vegetarian lasagna. It was excellent, and I reminded myself to tell him so.

Petunia was sipping at her wine when Willow said, “We would have invited you both over sooner, but you were out.”

“Oh, we were away on holiday, dear.”

“South of France?”

“Heavens, no,” Mrs. G-H said with a laugh. “Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight.”

“If it’s not too dear,” Louis interjected.

“We shall scrimp and save,” Petunia reminded him. “We have the children down there with us, and we have such fun.”

“Children?” Willow asked. “Any grandchildren?”

Petunia grinned. “Three.”

“Vera, Chuck and Dave,” Louis said proudly.

Willow and I exchanged looks, and she unobtrusively rubbed her stomach.

Dash it all – who let the pink fog in here again?


***


Lodge:

The Buckhorn’s first dinner party was a qualified success. Mr. Coney rose to the occasion and justified his reputation.

Unfortunately, the Galor Sisters were more than justifying what Mr. Coney imparted to me, and what I have observed on several occasions over the past few weeks of their employment.

Zenobia was making the most outrageous display of herself, swishing her tail and making the hem of her skirt flirt and coquette while she obviously watched to see my reactions. Paczki was scarcely much better, finding excuses to bend over at the waist to pick things up.

I resolved at once, again, to express my displeasure at their antics. A dinner party is no place for frivolous behavior on the part of the staff. While I do not wish to burden the Buckhorns with staff problems, I may have to acquaint my employers with this.

Before the dessert was served, I had decided upon a course of action: I would speak to each of them in turn. They are both hard workers, and when they are not shamelessly trying to attract my attention they are attentive to their assigned duties.

“Zenobia,” I said as she and Paczki got ready to take around slices of apple galette.

I said it quietly, but in a very severe tone.

“Yesss, Mister Lodge?” the marten said, batting her eyelashes at me. Her sister glared at her.

I adopted a stony mien. “I will see you in the butler’s pantry after the dinner.”

This did not seem to have the desired effect. Zenobia – I believe the word is ‘slinked,’ although I do not ordinarily use such vulgar terms – up to me and said, “How much of me do you vish to see, Mister Lodge?”

My tail hit the wainscoting, eliciting a sound very much like a gunshot.

Zenobia smiled and moved on serenely, “in maiden meditation, fancy free,” pausing only to sneer at her sister before taking her tray of desserts out to the dining room.

To make matters worse, Mister Coney gave me a sympathetic look. “Would you want a drop of sherry to steady your nerves, Mr. Lodge?”

“No, thank you Mister Coney,” I said with a touch too much asperity, jerked my lapels into line a bit too harshly and went back to the dining room.

“I say, Lodge,” Mister Buckhorn said as I reappeared at my station, “what was that noise just now?”

“Er, nothing, Sir.”

“Sounded like someone dropped a book.”

I refrained from remarking to Mr. Buckhorn that it was a hint dropped, not a book.

“Indeed, Sir. Perhaps Mr. Coney dropped something.”

“Well, please tell him to be more careful,” Mrs. Buckhorn said.

“Yes, Madam.”

Zenobia favored me with a smile and walked out of the dining room, the tip of her tail toying with the hem of her uniform.

“Miss Galor looks as if she’s just noshed on an entire flock of passenger pigeons,” Mr. Buckhorn observed.

I found myself tugging at my collar. “Perhaps, Sir, I expect she has done her usual superlative job.”

“Good of you to say so, Lodge.”

I daresay she had, indeed, done a superlative job.

That of discomfiting me quite thoroughly.




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