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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 27.
Willow:
“Burning the midnight oil, Reggie?”
I had woken up to find a bare spot where my husband should have been, and a bit of light peeking under the door to his study. I eased the door open – too quietly; I have to make sure that at least some of the hinges squeak, it’s a good burglar alarm – and he gave a guilty start.
There were papers all over the desk, and a pot of coffee stood sentinel on one corner of his desk.
“Oh! Hullo, Willow.” He accepted a smooch from me, a smooch that ended up with me sitting on his lap. “Just been going over this proposal Nigel gave to me.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“Oh, I started looking at it while at work . . . then a bit after dinner . . . then, well . . . “
“Reggie?”
“Yes, love?”
“It’s just after midnight.”
“It is?” He looked at the clock. “Good lord.” He looked glumly at the papers. “And I’m barely two-thirds done with the blasted thing.”
“Anything wrong with it?”
“Not so far as I can see – yet,” and he filled me in on who had given it to him.
“You expect a booby trap?”
“Not really, but then I am a bit of a booby at times.”
“Not lately, you know,” I said.
“Thanks to you.”
That earned him another smooch, and I snuggled up in his lap as he read a few more pages.
“What?”
Nertz. I had almost dozed off in his lap.
Don’t get me wrong, it was nice and comfy.
“What, love?”
Reggie looked . . .
Well, he looked angry.
***
Reggie:
“Mrs. Rodgers?”
“Yes, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“I need to have you make a change to the daily schedule, please.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Yes. There won’t be a board meeting today. It’s Friday, and there’s nothing really pressing, I don’t think.”
The Sire’s secretary smiled at me. I knew I must have looked like I had spent the night on a bench in Regent’s Park. I didn’t get much sleep last night.
Willow, bless her, had looked worried when I left the house. I had pointed out to her a few bits in the stack of papers I’d been given.
She had (very gently, and quite unnecessarily) asked me to not do anything rash.
I assured her – sleepily – that I wouldn’t.
Mrs. Rodgers looked over a stack of notes, and finally said, “No, Sir, there’s nothing that can’t be put off until Monday.”
“Good, good. In fact, I think I’ll make an early day of it, and leave after lunch.”
She smiled. “You look tired, Sir.”
“I’m sure I look very tired, Mrs. Rodgers.”
***
Gwladys:
For some reason, Joss decided to accept the duCleds’ invitation.
That had me worried.
My mate’s sense of humor is usually well-buried beneath layers of anger and gruff exterior. But it sometimes peeks out, as when he bribed the altarkit at Reggie’s wedding to slip a little improvisation into Father Merino’s missal.
So, yes, he does have a sense of humor.
Not as high-spirited as his son’s, and I must say that had me worried as well.
Bottle up something like that for too long, and you may want to watch out when it does go off. Ask anyone living near Mount Etna.
After a leisurely breakfast on a brilliant Saturday morning, I found myself near the pool again, enjoying the Riviera weather.
A small commotion drew my attention, along with that of several others. A young marteness was – well, ‘sweeping’ might be a good term – through the area, with a small gaggle of young men of several species trailing after her.
I could see the attraction. She was quite pretty, apparently in her early twenties and possessed of the kind of body one gets from a life of vigorous exercise and good diet. To say her curves were dangerous would be an understatement.
More like homicidal curves.
The elderly rooster in a nearby lounge harrumphed and took his sunglasses off. He started wiping the lenses with his towel as he muttered something in French about young ladies with more money than sense dragging down the moral tone of the place.
“Pardonnez-moi,” I interrupted gently, “but who is that young woman? You seem to know of her.”
“Oui, Madame.” The rooster straightened up in his seat and bowed slightly. “M. Tirez-l’autre, at your service.”
“Gwladys Buckhorn.”
“The young woman, she is Celestine Belette-Cornee. Pouf! She has much money, but little brain, I fear.”
I gazed across the patio at the young woman in question, who was holding court with a few boys fawning over her (even the ones who weren’t cervine). I had to agree with M. Tirez-l’autre’s opinion.
“Pity she is losing her fortune.”
This offpaw remark brought my attention back to the rooster. “Is she in business?”
“Oui, she is . . . although for not too longer, hein?”
This interested me, and I begged further information.
Which the gallant Frenchman was all too happy to supply. Most people can’t resist the urge to gossip.
It transpired that the young woman was the owner of a soft drink company, having inherited it on the death of her husband. His death was considered by my informant to be inevitable; i.e., she was twenty-three and in prime condition, while he had been ninety and correspondingly frail.
C’est la vie. I offered my condolences, and asked him to continue.
Various furs had offered the unfortunate widow several business propositions, one of which – an attempt to break into the U.S. soft drink market – had come close to bankrupting the company entirely.
Other furs had wanted her to lose quite a bit more than her shirt.
“Poor child,” I tsked. “What does her company make?”
“Zut! It makes a drink called Clementina.”
“Clementina? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is made with the fruit, you see. Quite the, how you say, fizzy.” He said the last word in English, with a slightly wry pucker of his beak.
I nodded and, intrigued, decided to try it.
***
Willow:
Reggie has one quality that I really admire.
He doesn’t stay angry long, and doesn’t seem capable of holding a grudge.
The weekend was spent up at Grasmere again, enjoying the weather.
Yes, even the rain and occasional fog was very pleasant.
Reggie looked after me, although I think I snapped at him once or twice. My little passenger must be getting to me.
<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 27.
Willow:
“Burning the midnight oil, Reggie?”
I had woken up to find a bare spot where my husband should have been, and a bit of light peeking under the door to his study. I eased the door open – too quietly; I have to make sure that at least some of the hinges squeak, it’s a good burglar alarm – and he gave a guilty start.
There were papers all over the desk, and a pot of coffee stood sentinel on one corner of his desk.
“Oh! Hullo, Willow.” He accepted a smooch from me, a smooch that ended up with me sitting on his lap. “Just been going over this proposal Nigel gave to me.”
“How long have you been at it?”
“Oh, I started looking at it while at work . . . then a bit after dinner . . . then, well . . . “
“Reggie?”
“Yes, love?”
“It’s just after midnight.”
“It is?” He looked at the clock. “Good lord.” He looked glumly at the papers. “And I’m barely two-thirds done with the blasted thing.”
“Anything wrong with it?”
“Not so far as I can see – yet,” and he filled me in on who had given it to him.
“You expect a booby trap?”
“Not really, but then I am a bit of a booby at times.”
“Not lately, you know,” I said.
“Thanks to you.”
That earned him another smooch, and I snuggled up in his lap as he read a few more pages.
“What?”
Nertz. I had almost dozed off in his lap.
Don’t get me wrong, it was nice and comfy.
“What, love?”
Reggie looked . . .
Well, he looked angry.
***
Reggie:
“Mrs. Rodgers?”
“Yes, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“I need to have you make a change to the daily schedule, please.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Yes. There won’t be a board meeting today. It’s Friday, and there’s nothing really pressing, I don’t think.”
The Sire’s secretary smiled at me. I knew I must have looked like I had spent the night on a bench in Regent’s Park. I didn’t get much sleep last night.
Willow, bless her, had looked worried when I left the house. I had pointed out to her a few bits in the stack of papers I’d been given.
She had (very gently, and quite unnecessarily) asked me to not do anything rash.
I assured her – sleepily – that I wouldn’t.
Mrs. Rodgers looked over a stack of notes, and finally said, “No, Sir, there’s nothing that can’t be put off until Monday.”
“Good, good. In fact, I think I’ll make an early day of it, and leave after lunch.”
She smiled. “You look tired, Sir.”
“I’m sure I look very tired, Mrs. Rodgers.”
***
Gwladys:
For some reason, Joss decided to accept the duCleds’ invitation.
That had me worried.
My mate’s sense of humor is usually well-buried beneath layers of anger and gruff exterior. But it sometimes peeks out, as when he bribed the altarkit at Reggie’s wedding to slip a little improvisation into Father Merino’s missal.
So, yes, he does have a sense of humor.
Not as high-spirited as his son’s, and I must say that had me worried as well.
Bottle up something like that for too long, and you may want to watch out when it does go off. Ask anyone living near Mount Etna.
After a leisurely breakfast on a brilliant Saturday morning, I found myself near the pool again, enjoying the Riviera weather.
A small commotion drew my attention, along with that of several others. A young marteness was – well, ‘sweeping’ might be a good term – through the area, with a small gaggle of young men of several species trailing after her.
I could see the attraction. She was quite pretty, apparently in her early twenties and possessed of the kind of body one gets from a life of vigorous exercise and good diet. To say her curves were dangerous would be an understatement.
More like homicidal curves.
The elderly rooster in a nearby lounge harrumphed and took his sunglasses off. He started wiping the lenses with his towel as he muttered something in French about young ladies with more money than sense dragging down the moral tone of the place.
“Pardonnez-moi,” I interrupted gently, “but who is that young woman? You seem to know of her.”
“Oui, Madame.” The rooster straightened up in his seat and bowed slightly. “M. Tirez-l’autre, at your service.”
“Gwladys Buckhorn.”
“The young woman, she is Celestine Belette-Cornee. Pouf! She has much money, but little brain, I fear.”
I gazed across the patio at the young woman in question, who was holding court with a few boys fawning over her (even the ones who weren’t cervine). I had to agree with M. Tirez-l’autre’s opinion.
“Pity she is losing her fortune.”
This offpaw remark brought my attention back to the rooster. “Is she in business?”
“Oui, she is . . . although for not too longer, hein?”
This interested me, and I begged further information.
Which the gallant Frenchman was all too happy to supply. Most people can’t resist the urge to gossip.
It transpired that the young woman was the owner of a soft drink company, having inherited it on the death of her husband. His death was considered by my informant to be inevitable; i.e., she was twenty-three and in prime condition, while he had been ninety and correspondingly frail.
C’est la vie. I offered my condolences, and asked him to continue.
Various furs had offered the unfortunate widow several business propositions, one of which – an attempt to break into the U.S. soft drink market – had come close to bankrupting the company entirely.
Other furs had wanted her to lose quite a bit more than her shirt.
“Poor child,” I tsked. “What does her company make?”
“Zut! It makes a drink called Clementina.”
“Clementina? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is made with the fruit, you see. Quite the, how you say, fizzy.” He said the last word in English, with a slightly wry pucker of his beak.
I nodded and, intrigued, decided to try it.
***
Willow:
Reggie has one quality that I really admire.
He doesn’t stay angry long, and doesn’t seem capable of holding a grudge.
The weekend was spent up at Grasmere again, enjoying the weather.
Yes, even the rain and occasional fog was very pleasant.
Reggie looked after me, although I think I snapped at him once or twice. My little passenger must be getting to me.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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