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Listed in Folders
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 24.
Gwladys:
It took a day or so to get Joss moving, but when The Immovable Object starts to shift he can move like an avalanche.
Or more like the Great Boston Molasses Flood.
The hardest part was getting him to let Reggie take over as Chairman of the Board in his absence. The fact that his only son was Vice-Chairman didn’t seem to matter to him, and he was scarcely confident that he’d be in nearly constant contact with the firm.
Still, once the decision had been made, things moved quite smoothly.
Reggie and Willow saw us off Wednesday morning at Victoria Station, and we took the train to Dover. A few hours on the cross-Channel ferry and we were in France.
Now, you might think we would stop for a while in Paris. I’m sure it’s all very romantic, but the City of Light holds no attraction for me. I’m not a moth.
Oh, there’s one or two haute couture houses that I patronize (and Willow has got to come with me one of these days), but apart from that, once you see the Eiffel Tower you’ve seen it.
We boarded the Train Bleu on time and as the city began to recede I heard Josslyn grumble, “Nasty place.”
I nodded. “I’m told even Louis XIV hated it.”
“Hmmph. Something you don’t see every day – a Frenchman with sense.”
***
Reggie:
I’ve only been on the job a month, and now I’m taking charge of the place?
I’ll bet that had The Sire in the highest dudgeon. Even if he needed a ladder to reach that point.
Willow, bless her, was supportive as I left early that Wednesday morning for work.
She gave me a kiss and said, “I know you’ll do well.”
I wish I had her confidence.
Nosey actually drove slowly (well, slower than usual) because of the traffic, and as we idled at a traffic light another car drew up alongside us.
“Cor, Guv, will you look at that?”
I glanced to my right and had to admit I was impressed.
It was a two-door sports car, very low slung and looking as if half of it was taken up by its engine.
“What kind of car’s that, Nosey?”
“Well, Guv, thot’s a Horch 853 Sport, thot is.”
“German?”
“Yeah. Two hunnerd seventy-four cubic inch straight eight-cylinder motor innit, top speed o’ eighty-five.”
“Good Lord. Looks quite the mover.”
Nosey nodded. “Toikes corners well, it does. Me bruvver sez it’s a good’un fer them whot loikes thot. ‘Course, there’s some whot say me bruvver’s blood's actually petrol, and H.G. Wells used him as a model when he wrote War of the Worlds."
“But he’s just your brother Stig.”
“Roight, Guv.”
The light changed and the Horch sped past us.
I recognized the driver. It was Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell. The ram looked quite pleased with himself.
“Good morning, Mr. Buckhorn.”
The doorman touched his cap as he ushered me in, and I went upstairs.
The office floor was still quite deserted, which suited me. I was sure that word had got round that I was the top deer, at least temporarily, and I didn’t want to run a gauntlet like I did two months ago.
Those blasted dispatch boxes were waiting for me when I stepped into my office.
***
Gwladys:
Ah, Monaco.
All the benefits of France without actually being France, if you know what I mean.
The Hotel l’Oceanique has seen us (primarily Josslyn’s increasingly widening shadow) for a bit over ten years now, and they know exactly how to take care of us. A limousine for us at the train station, quiet and attentive staff to cater to our every need, and a completely seamless and efficient registration.
Of course, my mate’s appetite had to be catered to as well. Since Buckhorn’s supplies many of the best restaurants in Monaco and Josslyn visits most of them in turn when he’s down here on holiday, they are all expected to be on form.
Josslyn abuses them at every opportunity, mostly verbally. They tolerate it because of the aforesaid reasons, as well as the fact that they don’t want that much money taking the Train Bleu back to Britain.
They also expect good tips.
Well, from me, at any rate.
The Oceanique also knows that I’m the owner of the Bellevue-Stagford in Fillydelphia, so they have professional reasons for looking after my needs as well.
While Joss signed the register, I stood near the bags as the bellhops got ready to take them upstairs. As soon as he threw the pen down on the counter, I gestured and the bags set off to our suite.
***
Reggie:
“Ah, good morning, Nigel.”
Nigel gave a pause and smiled. “Good morning, Reginald. Heard you’re taking the gavel until your sire gets back from hols.”
“Er, yes. Could you step into my office for a moment?”
The ram stepped in. His horns were polished and his fleece quite in order. His teeth were a bit crooked, though.
“Look here,” I said, “I want to apologize for my outburst back in July.”
He looked surprised.
“It wasn’t right of me to do so.”
“Well . . . thank you very much, old man. I want to apologize as well, for my insinuation,” and he offered me a paw, which I took with a smile. “I must say I didn’t expect an apology.”
“I’m not my sire, you know.”
He smiled. “I’ll see you at the board meeting. Eleven?”
“On the dot, yes.”
“Cheers.” Nigel walked out, and I sat down. I felt that I’d made a bit of an ally on the Board, one who wasn’t a relative.
I looked out the window, then glanced at the copy of the newspaper I’d brought in with me.
Hmm, mostly sunny, mild, winds light to variable . . .
***
Gwladys:
Josslyn stayed upstairs, taking a nap.
More like trying to see if his snoring can shake the plaster from the walls.
Not wanting to sit there and listen to the sound of industrial sawing all afternoon, I changed into a sun dress and took a seat by the pool to get some fresh air and read the latest news.
I confess I didn’t get too far through the first page before giving up. Thoreau was right; all you need to do is change the dates, and most newspapers will have the same subject matter.
A young couple walked past me, both in tennis whites, and I looked up from the society pages to watch them.
They were both rabbits, and seemed to have eyes largely for each other.
Ah, young love. It reminded me of Reggie and Willow.
I wondered briefly who they were, but further reading of the society pages revealed that the buck was the young Count de Conejo, an exile from Spain who was working in the local branch of the Banque d’Ibex.
He picked a good one to work in. I use that bank myself when I’m in the south of France, mostly because it’s also a branch of American Express.
The young lady on his arm was listed in the paper as well as his fiancée, Elizabeth von Zahringen, a younger daughter of the Baden ducal family. At least neither had lowered their sights when scouting for a prospective mate.
Seeing the young Count did bring up a quite unwelcome memory of his grandfather. I had seen the old Count de Conejo one or two times in the casino years ago, and I still have no idea what was worse, his manners or his regrettable digestive upsets.
From what I heard, the old rabbit’s son was killed by anarchists in Spain, leaving the young man I saw heir to the family’s titles and what’s left of their wealth.
I hoped he would make good use of it. From the looks of things, Spain was going to be a rather unhealthy place for quite a few years to come.
Pity.
***
Reggie:
“What’s this?” Old Uncle Albert asked as he was helped into the boardroom. Cousin William, who seemed to be the one who always drew the short straw, looked surprised.
The boardroom had been, well, rather redecorated.
The table and chairs were all outside in the rooftop garden, under a canopy (I recall English weather, thank you, and am well aware that a nicely sunny day can turn bad without a moment’s thought for the poor furs below). The now-empty room was being set up for lunch.
I was already at the head of the table, as I was supposed to be.
Slowly, the other members of the Board drifted out of the room and took their seats. They looked a bit uncomfortable, I suppose a bit like zoo animals that had been caged up so long that they didn’t quite know what to make of the wide-open spaces in Africa. I gave them a smile to set them at ease, and gestured for them to sit down.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. “You might be wondering why we’re outside today.”
“You bet your flag we’re wondering,” William muttered.
“It’s a very fine day, and I thought that a slight change in scenery might help sharpen a few wits,” I went on. “Now, old business: Cousin Stanley?”
Stanley looked like he was actually enjoying the weather. He had moved his chair a bit out of the shade so he could catch some of the sun. “Matters have cleared up in San Mingus.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “Shipments have resumed since the government and us managed to work out an agreement with the union.”
“What’s that do to our bottom line?” William asked.
“Five percent.” He shot me a worried glance.
I was certain that the Sire would have immediately flown into a rage.
As it was, I asked, “Do we still have an agent in Porto Vicuna?”
“Yes.”
“Are they unionized?”
“No.”
I nodded. “We open up another shipping point there, and our profit from there can offset any losses we might realize from San Mingus.”
Stanley looked a bit startled at that. “Are you sure, Sir?”
“Reggie.”
“Reggie.”
“It’ll do until my father comes back from his vacation. Next item . . . Mr. Wilberforce.”
Wilberforce was a skunk, and his tail was gleaming in a stray shaft of sunlight. “Sir?”
“What’s the latest from Belgium?”
“Oh, well . . . may I ask a question, first?”
“Of course.”
“May I take my jacket off? It’s rather warm out here today.”
I grinned. “Splendid notion! In fact, if you feel the need to get more comfortable, gentlemen, do so.” I fitted actions to words, stood, took off my own jacket and sat back down.
Have to lead by example, you know.
“Smoke them if you have them – but please,” and I wagged a finger, “don’t nibble too much on the plants. You’ll spoil lunch.”
A few of the members chuckled at that, and Wilberforce took up his folder of reports. “Our dairy suppliers report that milk yields are up again.”
“Capital! Next?”
We went around the table, and by the time we were done with the old business nearly all of the chaps had relaxed. One or two were smoking, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
“Now, is there any new business?” An otter raised a paw. “Yes – er, O’Dell, is it?”
And so we went around again. Quite a bit like a carousel, but nowhere near as much fun.
Finally I said, “Well! Does anyone have anything else? No? Then I move we adjourn, and step inside for lunch.”
Uncle Albert, who had been dozing in the sun, stirred and said, “Second!”
“Thank you, Uncle. All in favor?”
<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 24.
Gwladys:
It took a day or so to get Joss moving, but when The Immovable Object starts to shift he can move like an avalanche.
Or more like the Great Boston Molasses Flood.
The hardest part was getting him to let Reggie take over as Chairman of the Board in his absence. The fact that his only son was Vice-Chairman didn’t seem to matter to him, and he was scarcely confident that he’d be in nearly constant contact with the firm.
Still, once the decision had been made, things moved quite smoothly.
Reggie and Willow saw us off Wednesday morning at Victoria Station, and we took the train to Dover. A few hours on the cross-Channel ferry and we were in France.
Now, you might think we would stop for a while in Paris. I’m sure it’s all very romantic, but the City of Light holds no attraction for me. I’m not a moth.
Oh, there’s one or two haute couture houses that I patronize (and Willow has got to come with me one of these days), but apart from that, once you see the Eiffel Tower you’ve seen it.
We boarded the Train Bleu on time and as the city began to recede I heard Josslyn grumble, “Nasty place.”
I nodded. “I’m told even Louis XIV hated it.”
“Hmmph. Something you don’t see every day – a Frenchman with sense.”
***
Reggie:
I’ve only been on the job a month, and now I’m taking charge of the place?
I’ll bet that had The Sire in the highest dudgeon. Even if he needed a ladder to reach that point.
Willow, bless her, was supportive as I left early that Wednesday morning for work.
She gave me a kiss and said, “I know you’ll do well.”
I wish I had her confidence.
Nosey actually drove slowly (well, slower than usual) because of the traffic, and as we idled at a traffic light another car drew up alongside us.
“Cor, Guv, will you look at that?”
I glanced to my right and had to admit I was impressed.
It was a two-door sports car, very low slung and looking as if half of it was taken up by its engine.
“What kind of car’s that, Nosey?”
“Well, Guv, thot’s a Horch 853 Sport, thot is.”
“German?”
“Yeah. Two hunnerd seventy-four cubic inch straight eight-cylinder motor innit, top speed o’ eighty-five.”
“Good Lord. Looks quite the mover.”
Nosey nodded. “Toikes corners well, it does. Me bruvver sez it’s a good’un fer them whot loikes thot. ‘Course, there’s some whot say me bruvver’s blood's actually petrol, and H.G. Wells used him as a model when he wrote War of the Worlds."
“But he’s just your brother Stig.”
“Roight, Guv.”
The light changed and the Horch sped past us.
I recognized the driver. It was Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell. The ram looked quite pleased with himself.
“Good morning, Mr. Buckhorn.”
The doorman touched his cap as he ushered me in, and I went upstairs.
The office floor was still quite deserted, which suited me. I was sure that word had got round that I was the top deer, at least temporarily, and I didn’t want to run a gauntlet like I did two months ago.
Those blasted dispatch boxes were waiting for me when I stepped into my office.
***
Gwladys:
Ah, Monaco.
All the benefits of France without actually being France, if you know what I mean.
The Hotel l’Oceanique has seen us (primarily Josslyn’s increasingly widening shadow) for a bit over ten years now, and they know exactly how to take care of us. A limousine for us at the train station, quiet and attentive staff to cater to our every need, and a completely seamless and efficient registration.
Of course, my mate’s appetite had to be catered to as well. Since Buckhorn’s supplies many of the best restaurants in Monaco and Josslyn visits most of them in turn when he’s down here on holiday, they are all expected to be on form.
Josslyn abuses them at every opportunity, mostly verbally. They tolerate it because of the aforesaid reasons, as well as the fact that they don’t want that much money taking the Train Bleu back to Britain.
They also expect good tips.
Well, from me, at any rate.
The Oceanique also knows that I’m the owner of the Bellevue-Stagford in Fillydelphia, so they have professional reasons for looking after my needs as well.
While Joss signed the register, I stood near the bags as the bellhops got ready to take them upstairs. As soon as he threw the pen down on the counter, I gestured and the bags set off to our suite.
***
Reggie:
“Ah, good morning, Nigel.”
Nigel gave a pause and smiled. “Good morning, Reginald. Heard you’re taking the gavel until your sire gets back from hols.”
“Er, yes. Could you step into my office for a moment?”
The ram stepped in. His horns were polished and his fleece quite in order. His teeth were a bit crooked, though.
“Look here,” I said, “I want to apologize for my outburst back in July.”
He looked surprised.
“It wasn’t right of me to do so.”
“Well . . . thank you very much, old man. I want to apologize as well, for my insinuation,” and he offered me a paw, which I took with a smile. “I must say I didn’t expect an apology.”
“I’m not my sire, you know.”
He smiled. “I’ll see you at the board meeting. Eleven?”
“On the dot, yes.”
“Cheers.” Nigel walked out, and I sat down. I felt that I’d made a bit of an ally on the Board, one who wasn’t a relative.
I looked out the window, then glanced at the copy of the newspaper I’d brought in with me.
Hmm, mostly sunny, mild, winds light to variable . . .
***
Gwladys:
Josslyn stayed upstairs, taking a nap.
More like trying to see if his snoring can shake the plaster from the walls.
Not wanting to sit there and listen to the sound of industrial sawing all afternoon, I changed into a sun dress and took a seat by the pool to get some fresh air and read the latest news.
I confess I didn’t get too far through the first page before giving up. Thoreau was right; all you need to do is change the dates, and most newspapers will have the same subject matter.
A young couple walked past me, both in tennis whites, and I looked up from the society pages to watch them.
They were both rabbits, and seemed to have eyes largely for each other.
Ah, young love. It reminded me of Reggie and Willow.
I wondered briefly who they were, but further reading of the society pages revealed that the buck was the young Count de Conejo, an exile from Spain who was working in the local branch of the Banque d’Ibex.
He picked a good one to work in. I use that bank myself when I’m in the south of France, mostly because it’s also a branch of American Express.
The young lady on his arm was listed in the paper as well as his fiancée, Elizabeth von Zahringen, a younger daughter of the Baden ducal family. At least neither had lowered their sights when scouting for a prospective mate.
Seeing the young Count did bring up a quite unwelcome memory of his grandfather. I had seen the old Count de Conejo one or two times in the casino years ago, and I still have no idea what was worse, his manners or his regrettable digestive upsets.
From what I heard, the old rabbit’s son was killed by anarchists in Spain, leaving the young man I saw heir to the family’s titles and what’s left of their wealth.
I hoped he would make good use of it. From the looks of things, Spain was going to be a rather unhealthy place for quite a few years to come.
Pity.
***
Reggie:
“What’s this?” Old Uncle Albert asked as he was helped into the boardroom. Cousin William, who seemed to be the one who always drew the short straw, looked surprised.
The boardroom had been, well, rather redecorated.
The table and chairs were all outside in the rooftop garden, under a canopy (I recall English weather, thank you, and am well aware that a nicely sunny day can turn bad without a moment’s thought for the poor furs below). The now-empty room was being set up for lunch.
I was already at the head of the table, as I was supposed to be.
Slowly, the other members of the Board drifted out of the room and took their seats. They looked a bit uncomfortable, I suppose a bit like zoo animals that had been caged up so long that they didn’t quite know what to make of the wide-open spaces in Africa. I gave them a smile to set them at ease, and gestured for them to sit down.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. “You might be wondering why we’re outside today.”
“You bet your flag we’re wondering,” William muttered.
“It’s a very fine day, and I thought that a slight change in scenery might help sharpen a few wits,” I went on. “Now, old business: Cousin Stanley?”
Stanley looked like he was actually enjoying the weather. He had moved his chair a bit out of the shade so he could catch some of the sun. “Matters have cleared up in San Mingus.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “Shipments have resumed since the government and us managed to work out an agreement with the union.”
“What’s that do to our bottom line?” William asked.
“Five percent.” He shot me a worried glance.
I was certain that the Sire would have immediately flown into a rage.
As it was, I asked, “Do we still have an agent in Porto Vicuna?”
“Yes.”
“Are they unionized?”
“No.”
I nodded. “We open up another shipping point there, and our profit from there can offset any losses we might realize from San Mingus.”
Stanley looked a bit startled at that. “Are you sure, Sir?”
“Reggie.”
“Reggie.”
“It’ll do until my father comes back from his vacation. Next item . . . Mr. Wilberforce.”
Wilberforce was a skunk, and his tail was gleaming in a stray shaft of sunlight. “Sir?”
“What’s the latest from Belgium?”
“Oh, well . . . may I ask a question, first?”
“Of course.”
“May I take my jacket off? It’s rather warm out here today.”
I grinned. “Splendid notion! In fact, if you feel the need to get more comfortable, gentlemen, do so.” I fitted actions to words, stood, took off my own jacket and sat back down.
Have to lead by example, you know.
“Smoke them if you have them – but please,” and I wagged a finger, “don’t nibble too much on the plants. You’ll spoil lunch.”
A few of the members chuckled at that, and Wilberforce took up his folder of reports. “Our dairy suppliers report that milk yields are up again.”
“Capital! Next?”
We went around the table, and by the time we were done with the old business nearly all of the chaps had relaxed. One or two were smoking, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
“Now, is there any new business?” An otter raised a paw. “Yes – er, O’Dell, is it?”
And so we went around again. Quite a bit like a carousel, but nowhere near as much fun.
Finally I said, “Well! Does anyone have anything else? No? Then I move we adjourn, and step inside for lunch.”
Uncle Albert, who had been dozing in the sun, stirred and said, “Second!”
“Thank you, Uncle. All in favor?”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments