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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 36.
Reggie:
The minute the guy who thought he was the BBC said that, everyone seemed to change. George stopped the train and stuck out a paw at me. “Now that the staff are gone, we can have a decent chat. Pleased to meet you, Reggie my boy.”
The slightly vacant smile and distracted look were gone, replaced by a wide and friendly grin as we shook paws.
I finally picked my jaw up from the floor, fitted it back on and asked, “You mean – you’re trying to tell me – “
“That I’m not crazy?”
“Dash it all, yes!”
He grinned. “Great fun, what?”
“Do you mean to sit there – “
“Speaking of that, could you help a fellow up?” I obliged and helped Grandfather up into a chair. “And pass out those cigars from the train, there’s a good chap. The matches are in the tender.”
A few other patients had gathered around, and soon a few of them were enjoying their smokes. I had one as well, just to be part of the group while Willow took a seat.
I was still more than a bit gobsmacked, I can tell you.
“Grandfather?”
“Yes, Reggie?”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been playing a practical joke?”
“Hmm? Oh yes.”
“For thirty years!?”
“Yes.”
I just blinked at him.
“And I’ve had a jolly time of it, apart from that indefinite nurse. Always fussing, fussing, fussing. Anyway, Reggie, who's this charming lass, hmm? Oh, right, probably your mate, the one Joss has been bellowing about." He half-rose from his seat and shook paws with Willow.
"Don't you get bored, Mr. Buckhorn?" Willow asked.
"Heavens, no, my dear! Haven't had to do a lick of work in decades. Hated running the show, you know. Not my thing at all." He smoked a bit before adding, “I really would have liked to have been an engine driver, but old Fred - my sire, you know, your great-grandsire, Reggie - oh, my, he wouldn't have liked that at all. Had a thing about trains, you know. Something in the Civil War . . ."
“So you’re not crazy, then.” I found myself starting to smile.
"Crazy? Dear me, no. If there's anyone ga-ga, it's probably my daughter-in-law. Fancy buying the Phillies. Get you certified in most countries, let me tell you. Never liked that team, always rooted for the Pirates, like my mate.” His smile grew wistful. “Ah, dear, lovely lass. Miss her cigars."
I exchanged looks with Willow. She seemed about to start laughing, and I was inclined to join her.
Out of relief, as much as anything.
"Marvelous thing about being insane, you know,” George went on. “Don't have to pay taxes."
"That's . . . very sane."
"Ironic, eh what?” He laughed, taking another draw on his cigar. A few of the other patients shared his joke. "Reggie, dear boy, do your grandsire a favor. See if you can't get them to put more custard in my pudding. They've been skimping lately."
“I will, I promise, Grandfather. But . . . but are none of the patients here insane?”
“Not a one.” He laughed again. “Oh, it works out wonderfully, you know. The government misses out on stacks of cash, and we get to watch our families and random nurses make fools of themselves. Meanwhile, no work, no worries."
The elderly bulldog in the tutu piped up. "It's the second largest collection of formerly rich, aged half-wits to be found in England."
"What's the first largest?"
"House of Lords, still, I think."
“But you’re not mad, General?” Willow asked.
“Not even mildly irritated,” he said with a chuckle. “Far from it, my dear, despite four years on the front lines. In fact, dancing’s helped me stay limber and healthy ever since my nephews chucked me in here back in ’29.”
“What about him?” Willow asked, pointing at the fox who was busily climbing out of the burrow of pillows. “The nurse said he thinks he’s feral.”
All of the patients laughed.
“Get out of there, Tristan, we have visitors.”
“Righto, George.” The vulpine stepped clear of the pile, put his paws against his lower back and stretched. “Oof. That’s the worst thing about getting old. I can’t do a fetal curl-up anymore.” He walked over to us and shook my paw. “Sir Tristan Fenwick.”
I blinked at the last name. “Do you know Lady Pamela Fenwick?”
“Only because she’s my daughter.” He looked amused by this. “She wanted so much to run the firm herself, so I let her have it.” He peered at me. “Oh. Wait. Got it, you're that young chappie who took my daughter Pam for 10,000 good looking pounds. Oooh, she was still steaming about that months later, you know." He lit up a cigar.
“And he’s not mad, either,” I said to my grandfather.
"Oh, quite barking mad, my boy,” he replied with a broad wink. “It allowed him to pass on his entire estate to his daughter, tax-free."
“Amazing.”
"He also gets to bite the occasional solicitor now and again. Just for appearances, you know."
"Aye, George. Can't overdo it, y'know."
"Oh, quite."
"How come you've never bitten a solicitor, George?"
"Herbivore, y'know."
"Oh, right. Out of character. You should bite your fawn. No fur would question you, there."
"Probably tastes wretched."
"With all that fat on him? He's well-marbled. I could get 500 pounds at Smithfield for him."
We all shared a good laugh at that. I have to tell you, I was feeling quite a bit better than I felt on the drive down to Lincoln Park.
A canine who had been a Bishop was holding forth. "Ah, well, you know. Inbreeding. We're all supposed to be mad, you know."
"Well, you run through nurses like anything, Pip," George remarked.
"It's jolly good fun, you know. Making 'em cry and all that. They're expecting things to be easy."
“Well, they keep hiring felines for you, Pip. You'd think they'd learn." He leaned over to me and murmured, “He’s got fast paws for someone so old.”
“You’re only as old as you feel, George.”
“Oh, quite right, Pip.”
***
Willow:
I turned to the fox, who smiled and bowed over my paw. “Sir Tristan Farouk Fenwick, Mrs. Buckhorn, at your service.”
“’Tristan Farouk?’”
“Yes, I'm sorry to say, my father was opera-mad. He was the one who convinced the Khedive to put on Aida, you know."
"Did that cause much trouble?"
"You'd have had to ask my sister Amneris about that."
“Doesn’t it get boring?”
“Oh, not really, no. As long as I get my daily copy of the Financial Times I’m quite content.”
"Isn't there some risk that the tax people will come after you for fraud?"
"How so? We've been declared insane."
"Well, suppose they test you now."
"Ah, we got better thanks to good care." He winked. “And we have things squared.”
“’Squared?’”
He refused to elaborate.
***
Reggie:
“Does the staff know?”
“Good heavens, no! As far as they know, we’re just a bunch of mad old fuddy-duddies. Mind you, it keeps us all sharp outwitting them.” George winked. “Sometimes they go about unarmed, if you take my meaning.”
“You mean the inmates run the asylum?”
“Don’t be absurd, my boy! We delegate.” He stubbed out his cigar and looked at me. “You're surprised?”
“Well – “
“Oh, come, Reggie, where do you think you got your acting talent? Certainly not from your father. Josslyn was a good fawn and is a fine buck, but he’s about as subtle as a brick through a window. Your mother’s far more devious, but that’s what he gets for marrying a Philadelphia girl. Queer town, Philadelphia. Never liked it. Give me Pittsburgh, any old time."
He started talking about trains then, and asked me quite a few questions about the FRB consist over in America. He also told me a few things about pre-Civil War Aliquippa, ‘where bucks were bucks and the whiskey ate holes in the floor.’
The man who thought he was the BBC hurriedly stubbed out his cigar and said, “And the weather for the country is winds, light to variable.”
There was a bit of a scramble, with Sir Tristan doing his best to burrow back into his pile of cushions and General Wofford working on his plie.
“He’s got to be careful about that. Dicey ticker, you know.” There was the sound of an approaching commotion, and George muttered as he sat back down on the floor again, “Oh, dear. She's coming back. And has left the top two buttons unbuttoned on her uniform, again. There's eternal optimism for you."
Miss Daniels, his nurse, indeed had her blouse partly open, and I guessed that she was angling to hook herself an inheritance.
Of course, with that bait, she may have believed she had a sure thing.
One of the nurses walked over to the BBC man. “Now, Sir Owen, it’s not very nice to be talking so loud. Do I have to go and twiddle your knob to keep you quiet?”
The phrase “thunderous quiet” greeted this as completely apropos.
A portly bear in an impeccable three-piece suit came running in at that moment, making engine noises. A nurse carrying a tea tray was coming after him.
George had started up his train set again and he murmured to me, “That’s Sir Moses Marblestone. Was head of a merchant bank until he went off the rails – insisted that they hire a pantomime horse.”
“What’s his madness?” I asked.
“Just watch.”
Sir Moses had come careening through the room, scattering a few of Sir Tristan’s cushions and almost striking General Wofford. He spluttered to a halt and the nurse caught up to him.
“Now then, Sir Moses, see what happened? You didn’t have your petrol and you’ve just run straight down. But here I have a lovely cup of Ethyl for you. Would you like two lumps?”
“Vroom!” the bear said happily, and the nurse gave him a cup of tea.
“So?” I asked George.
“He thinks he’s a Mercedes motorcar. Devil of a time getting him up on cold mornings.”
The commotion had upset the caboose on George’s trains, and Miss Daniels clucked her tongue at him. “Now, you're not being nice, George. It's very naughty of you to make me bend over to pick up your trains all the time.”
Whereupon she bent over.
Grandfather just gave her an innocent, vacant blink.
But rest assured that there were seven sets of eyes looking over behind her back. Not me, of course; I only have eyes for Willow.
We stopped by Dr. Mink’s office to pass on George’s request about the custard, and started for home.
As Nosey drove, we passed two orderlies holding a struggling fur in a straitjacket. Poor Jerzy; I hoped he’d be all right.
The croquet pitch was deserted, as the patients were in for supper.
The caribou?
Gone.
***
Willow:
On the drive back, I reached over and took Reggie’s paw. He smiled, leaned over and kissed me.
I returned the kiss, with interest.
“Feeling better, Reggie?”
“Yes indeed, Willow.”
“No more misgivings about our fawn?”
“None whatever.” He smiled. “In fact, I’m sure that he – or she – will turn out just fine.”
<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 36.
Reggie:
The minute the guy who thought he was the BBC said that, everyone seemed to change. George stopped the train and stuck out a paw at me. “Now that the staff are gone, we can have a decent chat. Pleased to meet you, Reggie my boy.”
The slightly vacant smile and distracted look were gone, replaced by a wide and friendly grin as we shook paws.
I finally picked my jaw up from the floor, fitted it back on and asked, “You mean – you’re trying to tell me – “
“That I’m not crazy?”
“Dash it all, yes!”
He grinned. “Great fun, what?”
“Do you mean to sit there – “
“Speaking of that, could you help a fellow up?” I obliged and helped Grandfather up into a chair. “And pass out those cigars from the train, there’s a good chap. The matches are in the tender.”
A few other patients had gathered around, and soon a few of them were enjoying their smokes. I had one as well, just to be part of the group while Willow took a seat.
I was still more than a bit gobsmacked, I can tell you.
“Grandfather?”
“Yes, Reggie?”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been playing a practical joke?”
“Hmm? Oh yes.”
“For thirty years!?”
“Yes.”
I just blinked at him.
“And I’ve had a jolly time of it, apart from that indefinite nurse. Always fussing, fussing, fussing. Anyway, Reggie, who's this charming lass, hmm? Oh, right, probably your mate, the one Joss has been bellowing about." He half-rose from his seat and shook paws with Willow.
"Don't you get bored, Mr. Buckhorn?" Willow asked.
"Heavens, no, my dear! Haven't had to do a lick of work in decades. Hated running the show, you know. Not my thing at all." He smoked a bit before adding, “I really would have liked to have been an engine driver, but old Fred - my sire, you know, your great-grandsire, Reggie - oh, my, he wouldn't have liked that at all. Had a thing about trains, you know. Something in the Civil War . . ."
“So you’re not crazy, then.” I found myself starting to smile.
"Crazy? Dear me, no. If there's anyone ga-ga, it's probably my daughter-in-law. Fancy buying the Phillies. Get you certified in most countries, let me tell you. Never liked that team, always rooted for the Pirates, like my mate.” His smile grew wistful. “Ah, dear, lovely lass. Miss her cigars."
I exchanged looks with Willow. She seemed about to start laughing, and I was inclined to join her.
Out of relief, as much as anything.
"Marvelous thing about being insane, you know,” George went on. “Don't have to pay taxes."
"That's . . . very sane."
"Ironic, eh what?” He laughed, taking another draw on his cigar. A few of the other patients shared his joke. "Reggie, dear boy, do your grandsire a favor. See if you can't get them to put more custard in my pudding. They've been skimping lately."
“I will, I promise, Grandfather. But . . . but are none of the patients here insane?”
“Not a one.” He laughed again. “Oh, it works out wonderfully, you know. The government misses out on stacks of cash, and we get to watch our families and random nurses make fools of themselves. Meanwhile, no work, no worries."
The elderly bulldog in the tutu piped up. "It's the second largest collection of formerly rich, aged half-wits to be found in England."
"What's the first largest?"
"House of Lords, still, I think."
“But you’re not mad, General?” Willow asked.
“Not even mildly irritated,” he said with a chuckle. “Far from it, my dear, despite four years on the front lines. In fact, dancing’s helped me stay limber and healthy ever since my nephews chucked me in here back in ’29.”
“What about him?” Willow asked, pointing at the fox who was busily climbing out of the burrow of pillows. “The nurse said he thinks he’s feral.”
All of the patients laughed.
“Get out of there, Tristan, we have visitors.”
“Righto, George.” The vulpine stepped clear of the pile, put his paws against his lower back and stretched. “Oof. That’s the worst thing about getting old. I can’t do a fetal curl-up anymore.” He walked over to us and shook my paw. “Sir Tristan Fenwick.”
I blinked at the last name. “Do you know Lady Pamela Fenwick?”
“Only because she’s my daughter.” He looked amused by this. “She wanted so much to run the firm herself, so I let her have it.” He peered at me. “Oh. Wait. Got it, you're that young chappie who took my daughter Pam for 10,000 good looking pounds. Oooh, she was still steaming about that months later, you know." He lit up a cigar.
“And he’s not mad, either,” I said to my grandfather.
"Oh, quite barking mad, my boy,” he replied with a broad wink. “It allowed him to pass on his entire estate to his daughter, tax-free."
“Amazing.”
"He also gets to bite the occasional solicitor now and again. Just for appearances, you know."
"Aye, George. Can't overdo it, y'know."
"Oh, quite."
"How come you've never bitten a solicitor, George?"
"Herbivore, y'know."
"Oh, right. Out of character. You should bite your fawn. No fur would question you, there."
"Probably tastes wretched."
"With all that fat on him? He's well-marbled. I could get 500 pounds at Smithfield for him."
We all shared a good laugh at that. I have to tell you, I was feeling quite a bit better than I felt on the drive down to Lincoln Park.
A canine who had been a Bishop was holding forth. "Ah, well, you know. Inbreeding. We're all supposed to be mad, you know."
"Well, you run through nurses like anything, Pip," George remarked.
"It's jolly good fun, you know. Making 'em cry and all that. They're expecting things to be easy."
“Well, they keep hiring felines for you, Pip. You'd think they'd learn." He leaned over to me and murmured, “He’s got fast paws for someone so old.”
“You’re only as old as you feel, George.”
“Oh, quite right, Pip.”
***
Willow:
I turned to the fox, who smiled and bowed over my paw. “Sir Tristan Farouk Fenwick, Mrs. Buckhorn, at your service.”
“’Tristan Farouk?’”
“Yes, I'm sorry to say, my father was opera-mad. He was the one who convinced the Khedive to put on Aida, you know."
"Did that cause much trouble?"
"You'd have had to ask my sister Amneris about that."
“Doesn’t it get boring?”
“Oh, not really, no. As long as I get my daily copy of the Financial Times I’m quite content.”
"Isn't there some risk that the tax people will come after you for fraud?"
"How so? We've been declared insane."
"Well, suppose they test you now."
"Ah, we got better thanks to good care." He winked. “And we have things squared.”
“’Squared?’”
He refused to elaborate.
***
Reggie:
“Does the staff know?”
“Good heavens, no! As far as they know, we’re just a bunch of mad old fuddy-duddies. Mind you, it keeps us all sharp outwitting them.” George winked. “Sometimes they go about unarmed, if you take my meaning.”
“You mean the inmates run the asylum?”
“Don’t be absurd, my boy! We delegate.” He stubbed out his cigar and looked at me. “You're surprised?”
“Well – “
“Oh, come, Reggie, where do you think you got your acting talent? Certainly not from your father. Josslyn was a good fawn and is a fine buck, but he’s about as subtle as a brick through a window. Your mother’s far more devious, but that’s what he gets for marrying a Philadelphia girl. Queer town, Philadelphia. Never liked it. Give me Pittsburgh, any old time."
He started talking about trains then, and asked me quite a few questions about the FRB consist over in America. He also told me a few things about pre-Civil War Aliquippa, ‘where bucks were bucks and the whiskey ate holes in the floor.’
The man who thought he was the BBC hurriedly stubbed out his cigar and said, “And the weather for the country is winds, light to variable.”
There was a bit of a scramble, with Sir Tristan doing his best to burrow back into his pile of cushions and General Wofford working on his plie.
“He’s got to be careful about that. Dicey ticker, you know.” There was the sound of an approaching commotion, and George muttered as he sat back down on the floor again, “Oh, dear. She's coming back. And has left the top two buttons unbuttoned on her uniform, again. There's eternal optimism for you."
Miss Daniels, his nurse, indeed had her blouse partly open, and I guessed that she was angling to hook herself an inheritance.
Of course, with that bait, she may have believed she had a sure thing.
One of the nurses walked over to the BBC man. “Now, Sir Owen, it’s not very nice to be talking so loud. Do I have to go and twiddle your knob to keep you quiet?”
The phrase “thunderous quiet” greeted this as completely apropos.
A portly bear in an impeccable three-piece suit came running in at that moment, making engine noises. A nurse carrying a tea tray was coming after him.
George had started up his train set again and he murmured to me, “That’s Sir Moses Marblestone. Was head of a merchant bank until he went off the rails – insisted that they hire a pantomime horse.”
“What’s his madness?” I asked.
“Just watch.”
Sir Moses had come careening through the room, scattering a few of Sir Tristan’s cushions and almost striking General Wofford. He spluttered to a halt and the nurse caught up to him.
“Now then, Sir Moses, see what happened? You didn’t have your petrol and you’ve just run straight down. But here I have a lovely cup of Ethyl for you. Would you like two lumps?”
“Vroom!” the bear said happily, and the nurse gave him a cup of tea.
“So?” I asked George.
“He thinks he’s a Mercedes motorcar. Devil of a time getting him up on cold mornings.”
The commotion had upset the caboose on George’s trains, and Miss Daniels clucked her tongue at him. “Now, you're not being nice, George. It's very naughty of you to make me bend over to pick up your trains all the time.”
Whereupon she bent over.
Grandfather just gave her an innocent, vacant blink.
But rest assured that there were seven sets of eyes looking over behind her back. Not me, of course; I only have eyes for Willow.
We stopped by Dr. Mink’s office to pass on George’s request about the custard, and started for home.
As Nosey drove, we passed two orderlies holding a struggling fur in a straitjacket. Poor Jerzy; I hoped he’d be all right.
The croquet pitch was deserted, as the patients were in for supper.
The caribou?
Gone.
***
Willow:
On the drive back, I reached over and took Reggie’s paw. He smiled, leaned over and kissed me.
I returned the kiss, with interest.
“Feeling better, Reggie?”
“Yes indeed, Willow.”
“No more misgivings about our fawn?”
“None whatever.” He smiled. “In fact, I’m sure that he – or she – will turn out just fine.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments