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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 32.
Josslyn:
My mate – bah! – tells me that I’m being silly for being paranoid.
I’m NOT paranoid.
Merely . . . suspicious.
“Good Morning, Lord Buckhorn.”
I’m surprised I’m being allowed in the building, so I look around the corners, expecting to see two furs in white coats with a canvas-backed coat for me.
The kind with two very long sleeves and a belt in the back.
The newspaper vendor at the corner had a sign up reading, “GREAT PURGE ON.”
It took me a moment before I realized that he was talking about the dratted Russians again.
“Good Morning, Lord Buckhorn.”
“Mrs. Rodgers.”
“Your morning memos and reports are on your desk. I’ve taken the liberty of setting an appointment to talk with young Mr. Buckhorn at ten-thirty.”
Good woman, Rodgers.
I check out the chair (it’d be just like him to put a joy buzzer or live wire under the thing) and then sit down.
Top memo’s one from Reggie. Says he’s very happy that I’m back, and hopes I had a good vacation.
Bah.
The next one . . . ah, yes, this is the one I wanted. It’s a report of my son’s activities over the past week.
Hmm.
Seems to have deferred all major decisions for me to handle, says it’s not his place. Impertinent.
The next memo’s from Reggie, describing in greater detail what that idiot Nigel and that insipid little clot William were up to, and how he took care of things. Hmm, not bad. “Mrs. Rodgers!”
“Yes, Lord Buckhorn?”
“Tell my – son – that I’ll see him now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
After a few minutes an all-too-familiar shadow falls across my threshold. “Yes, Father?”
“Come in. Want to talk to you.”
He sits down.
“Just finished reading your report. I approve of sending William off to Burma. He’ll be lucky if he manages to keep his head on his shoulders.”
“He always struck me – up till now – to be levelheaded, yes.”
“And Nigel . . . figured out what he was doing, did you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“All by yourself?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Hmm. Tennis, eh? I would’ve tossed him out a window. Seen how high he’d bounce.”
Good Lord, there he goes with that grin of his again.
But there’s a difference: It’s not the vapid gawp I’m used to seeing.
“Well, Father, I didn’t let him off entirely scot-free.”
“Eh?”
“In fact, if you’ll come to one of the windows facing the car park . . . “
I’m forced to admit I’m intrigued, so I go with him.
We have a small area in the rear of the building for deliveries and for members of the Board to park their cars if they want to drive in.
“So, what am I looking at?”
He points, and I see what he’s done.
Nigel had bought this huge and expensive piece of German motorcar about a month ago. Always crowing about it, too, the feeble-minded ovine. Why he couldn’t buy British, I don’t know.
But he might be in the market for a new one.
The top was down on the car, and it was filled with something that looked dark brown, and had flowers in it.
“You didn’t.”
“No, but I arranged it.”
“That’s – “
“Yes, Father. Two hundredweights of Buckhorn’s finest manure and garden soil, with orchids planted.” He chuckles. “And it looks like Nigel’s just found out.”
I see Pilkington-Barnwell racing out of the building as a constable takes notice of the car.
He’s got his ticket book out.
“He liked that car.”
“He should like it even better now. It has snacks.”
I head back to my office. I may not admit it, but it was a good practical joke.
Which reminds 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 32.
Josslyn:
My mate – bah! – tells me that I’m being silly for being paranoid.
I’m NOT paranoid.
Merely . . . suspicious.
“Good Morning, Lord Buckhorn.”
I’m surprised I’m being allowed in the building, so I look around the corners, expecting to see two furs in white coats with a canvas-backed coat for me.
The kind with two very long sleeves and a belt in the back.
The newspaper vendor at the corner had a sign up reading, “GREAT PURGE ON.”
It took me a moment before I realized that he was talking about the dratted Russians again.
“Good Morning, Lord Buckhorn.”
“Mrs. Rodgers.”
“Your morning memos and reports are on your desk. I’ve taken the liberty of setting an appointment to talk with young Mr. Buckhorn at ten-thirty.”
Good woman, Rodgers.
I check out the chair (it’d be just like him to put a joy buzzer or live wire under the thing) and then sit down.
Top memo’s one from Reggie. Says he’s very happy that I’m back, and hopes I had a good vacation.
Bah.
The next one . . . ah, yes, this is the one I wanted. It’s a report of my son’s activities over the past week.
Hmm.
Seems to have deferred all major decisions for me to handle, says it’s not his place. Impertinent.
The next memo’s from Reggie, describing in greater detail what that idiot Nigel and that insipid little clot William were up to, and how he took care of things. Hmm, not bad. “Mrs. Rodgers!”
“Yes, Lord Buckhorn?”
“Tell my – son – that I’ll see him now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
After a few minutes an all-too-familiar shadow falls across my threshold. “Yes, Father?”
“Come in. Want to talk to you.”
He sits down.
“Just finished reading your report. I approve of sending William off to Burma. He’ll be lucky if he manages to keep his head on his shoulders.”
“He always struck me – up till now – to be levelheaded, yes.”
“And Nigel . . . figured out what he was doing, did you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“All by yourself?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Hmm. Tennis, eh? I would’ve tossed him out a window. Seen how high he’d bounce.”
Good Lord, there he goes with that grin of his again.
But there’s a difference: It’s not the vapid gawp I’m used to seeing.
“Well, Father, I didn’t let him off entirely scot-free.”
“Eh?”
“In fact, if you’ll come to one of the windows facing the car park . . . “
I’m forced to admit I’m intrigued, so I go with him.
We have a small area in the rear of the building for deliveries and for members of the Board to park their cars if they want to drive in.
“So, what am I looking at?”
He points, and I see what he’s done.
Nigel had bought this huge and expensive piece of German motorcar about a month ago. Always crowing about it, too, the feeble-minded ovine. Why he couldn’t buy British, I don’t know.
But he might be in the market for a new one.
The top was down on the car, and it was filled with something that looked dark brown, and had flowers in it.
“You didn’t.”
“No, but I arranged it.”
“That’s – “
“Yes, Father. Two hundredweights of Buckhorn’s finest manure and garden soil, with orchids planted.” He chuckles. “And it looks like Nigel’s just found out.”
I see Pilkington-Barnwell racing out of the building as a constable takes notice of the car.
He’s got his ticket book out.
“He liked that car.”
“He should like it even better now. It has snacks.”
I head back to my office. I may not admit it, but it was a good practical joke.
Which reminds me . . .
<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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