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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 39.
Willow:
Reggie was definitely feeling his oats.
Made me wish I felt the same, but my little passenger wasn’t being quiet today.
Over a very tasty cauliflower soup Reggie told me what he’d done at work, and we chatted a bit about things that were on his mind. “But enough of that, Willow – how have you been doing?” my darling asked.
“A bit of this and that,” I said. “Haven’t been feeling well, thanks to our little bundle of joy here.”
“That’s very naughty of him – or her.”
“We did get a letter from Rosie.”
“Really! Tell all, my love.”
It seemed, as I related to Reggie, that Rosie and Da had encountered a figure from his past in New Haven. Very far in the past; I’d never heard of anyone named Bernyce Pratt-Wallingford (I’d definitely have remembered that name) but apparently she’d held a torch for my father since they were at Collegiate.
And she’d come bearing gifts, as well.
Including a few items that Mummy had given her for safekeeping before the Revolt.
It made me wonder just what baby pictures of mine Rosie now had to tease me with.
But it made Da happy, and that made me happy.
***
Josslyn:
What the –
What’s that blasted indefinite up to THIS time?!
“Rodgers!”
My secretary’s at the door in an instant. She knows when I want her immediately. “Yes, Sir?”
“Get Jameson here. Now.”
“Jameson, Sir?”
“Yes, Jameson! Jameson, Jameson, Jameson!” I slammed my fist on the desk.
Drat.
My inkstand’s almost gone over the side. Luckily I caught it before it did go.
Rodgers goes off to fetch Jameson.
He’s back in minutes, practically on her heels. Decent enough fellow, for a weasel. He’s the director of the firm’s Research and Development section. Solid grounding as a food chemist. I hired him away from Fenwick Foods ten years ago, and they’re still kicking themselves over it.
“Y-yes, Sir?”
“What . . . is the meaning of THIS?” and I hurl a sheaf of papers at him. “Would you mind telling me why you’re spending Company funds on some air-brained scheme of my idiot son’s?”
“Scheme?” He stoops down and picks up the papers. “Oh, yes, the O-2, yes yes. Should save us millions if it works.”
“I don’t – what? Millions of what?”
“Hmm?”
“Millions of what, you mustelid moron?”
“Hmm? Oh, pounds of course. While you were on holiday, Sir, your son noticed three ideas that were put forward by my staff.”
“And what of it?”
“Well, Sir, your son thought that if they combined the three processes at certain points, it could increase efficiency at our juicing plants. These are the authorizations for the pilot plant.”
“How much of an increase?”
“Hmm, perhaps as much as twenty percent.” He flips pages and offers the report to me. “The cost savings is here, Item Three.”
I snatch the thing out of his paws and read it again.
Good Lord.
“Will it work?”
“Hmm, quite well, I think, with almost no expense in designing new equipment. You see, it uses things we already have. Just in a different configuration.”
I growl at this benighted boffin. “Never mind all that. How in blazes did he think of this?”
“Hmm, well, I don’t know, Sir.” He turned and walked out, mumbling to himself like a madman.
Why do I put up with him? Simply, he’s the best in his line of work, blast him.
“Rodgers!”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Get my . . . son . . . in here.”
This time I read the proposal over, back to front. When I look up, he’s standing there.
I sit back and glare at him for a bit. “This proposal of yours.”
“Yes, Father?”
“Jameson actually thinks it’ll work. How’d you think of it?”
He puts a paw to his chin. “Well, Father, while you and Mummy were on holiday I was looking over the papers that Mrs. Rodgers and Miss Haversham were giving me. It’s what I was supposed to do, y’know.”
I just nodded. Going on the wagon seemed to have repaired his work ethic. “Go on.”
“It just seemed to me that it might work.”
“I don’t recall you taking a degree in engineering.”
A smile. “I didn’t, Father, as you well know. No, I called the three chaps in – very bright young fellows, too – and put the question to them. They hadn’t thought of combining things, so they put their heads together and came up with this.” He points at the papers.
“How’d you think of combining it, then?”
“Jigsaw puzzles, Father.”
“Eh?”
“You know I used to play with jigsaw puzzles as a fawn – “
“I think the last piece was found around Christmas. LAST year.”
“ – and I thought they could be fitted together.” He has the temerity to shrug. “When I talked to Jameson about it, he thought it showed promise. Are you going to approve it?”
Just for that, I wouldn’t. But that wizened weasel thinks there might be something in it.
I grabbed my pen and signed it.
He walks out, and I slammed the door closed behind him.
Gad, my head hurts.
“Rodgers.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Put a call in to my doctor. I’ll see him this afternoon. Time to have him start earning his pay for a change.”
***
“Hmm . . . “
“Blast it! Will you say something other than ‘Hmm?’”
“Yes, Lord Josslyn. Well, I find that your blood pressure’s too high – “
“You always say that!”
“Because it’s always true. You are calamitously obese – “
“I am not!”
“Lord Josslyn, if you keep on the way you are I can refer you to a reputable funeral director.”
“ . . . “
“That’s better. Now, hold still.”
Damn the man. Still, he’s the best on Harley Street, and the only doctor I’ll have, for two reasons.
First, he’s a roe deer. I won’t let a carnivore pill-pusher anywhere near me.
Second, he’s a Cambridge man. Too many layabout Old Boys from Oxford here in London. Last thing I want to do is reminisce about university.
“And you say you’ve been having nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“Insomnia?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling anxious as well?”
“Yes, confound it.”
“Any idea why?”
As if I’d tell him.
“Hmm, yes. Well, I’m going to give you a prescription, Lord Josslyn, and some advice.”
“What?”
“Medical advice.”
“I should damned well hope it’s medical advice! What do you think I’m paying you for?”
“My medical advice, Lord Josslyn, is that you lose some weight.”
“Bah.”
“It’ll help you live longer.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m going to give you a prescription for quinalbarbitone, Lord Josslyn.”
“What the blazes is that?”
“It’s a fairly mild tranquilizer. It’ll help you sleep, and help you stay calm.”
“I have NO trouble staying CALM!”
“Yes, I see that.”
Blasted pill-pusher. Probably gets kickbacks for using that blasted pad of his.
<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 39.
Willow:
Reggie was definitely feeling his oats.
Made me wish I felt the same, but my little passenger wasn’t being quiet today.
Over a very tasty cauliflower soup Reggie told me what he’d done at work, and we chatted a bit about things that were on his mind. “But enough of that, Willow – how have you been doing?” my darling asked.
“A bit of this and that,” I said. “Haven’t been feeling well, thanks to our little bundle of joy here.”
“That’s very naughty of him – or her.”
“We did get a letter from Rosie.”
“Really! Tell all, my love.”
It seemed, as I related to Reggie, that Rosie and Da had encountered a figure from his past in New Haven. Very far in the past; I’d never heard of anyone named Bernyce Pratt-Wallingford (I’d definitely have remembered that name) but apparently she’d held a torch for my father since they were at Collegiate.
And she’d come bearing gifts, as well.
Including a few items that Mummy had given her for safekeeping before the Revolt.
It made me wonder just what baby pictures of mine Rosie now had to tease me with.
But it made Da happy, and that made me happy.
***
Josslyn:
What the –
What’s that blasted indefinite up to THIS time?!
“Rodgers!”
My secretary’s at the door in an instant. She knows when I want her immediately. “Yes, Sir?”
“Get Jameson here. Now.”
“Jameson, Sir?”
“Yes, Jameson! Jameson, Jameson, Jameson!” I slammed my fist on the desk.
Drat.
My inkstand’s almost gone over the side. Luckily I caught it before it did go.
Rodgers goes off to fetch Jameson.
He’s back in minutes, practically on her heels. Decent enough fellow, for a weasel. He’s the director of the firm’s Research and Development section. Solid grounding as a food chemist. I hired him away from Fenwick Foods ten years ago, and they’re still kicking themselves over it.
“Y-yes, Sir?”
“What . . . is the meaning of THIS?” and I hurl a sheaf of papers at him. “Would you mind telling me why you’re spending Company funds on some air-brained scheme of my idiot son’s?”
“Scheme?” He stoops down and picks up the papers. “Oh, yes, the O-2, yes yes. Should save us millions if it works.”
“I don’t – what? Millions of what?”
“Hmm?”
“Millions of what, you mustelid moron?”
“Hmm? Oh, pounds of course. While you were on holiday, Sir, your son noticed three ideas that were put forward by my staff.”
“And what of it?”
“Well, Sir, your son thought that if they combined the three processes at certain points, it could increase efficiency at our juicing plants. These are the authorizations for the pilot plant.”
“How much of an increase?”
“Hmm, perhaps as much as twenty percent.” He flips pages and offers the report to me. “The cost savings is here, Item Three.”
I snatch the thing out of his paws and read it again.
Good Lord.
“Will it work?”
“Hmm, quite well, I think, with almost no expense in designing new equipment. You see, it uses things we already have. Just in a different configuration.”
I growl at this benighted boffin. “Never mind all that. How in blazes did he think of this?”
“Hmm, well, I don’t know, Sir.” He turned and walked out, mumbling to himself like a madman.
Why do I put up with him? Simply, he’s the best in his line of work, blast him.
“Rodgers!”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Get my . . . son . . . in here.”
This time I read the proposal over, back to front. When I look up, he’s standing there.
I sit back and glare at him for a bit. “This proposal of yours.”
“Yes, Father?”
“Jameson actually thinks it’ll work. How’d you think of it?”
He puts a paw to his chin. “Well, Father, while you and Mummy were on holiday I was looking over the papers that Mrs. Rodgers and Miss Haversham were giving me. It’s what I was supposed to do, y’know.”
I just nodded. Going on the wagon seemed to have repaired his work ethic. “Go on.”
“It just seemed to me that it might work.”
“I don’t recall you taking a degree in engineering.”
A smile. “I didn’t, Father, as you well know. No, I called the three chaps in – very bright young fellows, too – and put the question to them. They hadn’t thought of combining things, so they put their heads together and came up with this.” He points at the papers.
“How’d you think of combining it, then?”
“Jigsaw puzzles, Father.”
“Eh?”
“You know I used to play with jigsaw puzzles as a fawn – “
“I think the last piece was found around Christmas. LAST year.”
“ – and I thought they could be fitted together.” He has the temerity to shrug. “When I talked to Jameson about it, he thought it showed promise. Are you going to approve it?”
Just for that, I wouldn’t. But that wizened weasel thinks there might be something in it.
I grabbed my pen and signed it.
He walks out, and I slammed the door closed behind him.
Gad, my head hurts.
“Rodgers.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Put a call in to my doctor. I’ll see him this afternoon. Time to have him start earning his pay for a change.”
***
“Hmm . . . “
“Blast it! Will you say something other than ‘Hmm?’”
“Yes, Lord Josslyn. Well, I find that your blood pressure’s too high – “
“You always say that!”
“Because it’s always true. You are calamitously obese – “
“I am not!”
“Lord Josslyn, if you keep on the way you are I can refer you to a reputable funeral director.”
“ . . . “
“That’s better. Now, hold still.”
Damn the man. Still, he’s the best on Harley Street, and the only doctor I’ll have, for two reasons.
First, he’s a roe deer. I won’t let a carnivore pill-pusher anywhere near me.
Second, he’s a Cambridge man. Too many layabout Old Boys from Oxford here in London. Last thing I want to do is reminisce about university.
“And you say you’ve been having nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“Insomnia?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling anxious as well?”
“Yes, confound it.”
“Any idea why?”
As if I’d tell him.
“Hmm, yes. Well, I’m going to give you a prescription, Lord Josslyn, and some advice.”
“What?”
“Medical advice.”
“I should damned well hope it’s medical advice! What do you think I’m paying you for?”
“My medical advice, Lord Josslyn, is that you lose some weight.”
“Bah.”
“It’ll help you live longer.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m going to give you a prescription for quinalbarbitone, Lord Josslyn.”
“What the blazes is that?”
“It’s a fairly mild tranquilizer. It’ll help you sleep, and help you stay calm.”
“I have NO trouble staying CALM!”
“Yes, I see that.”
Blasted pill-pusher. Probably gets kickbacks for using that blasted pad of his.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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