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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 56.
Reggie:
I concluded my business with the Baron, and the Sire, I think, will be pleased at the flow of Argentine wheat into FRB’s factories. Followed, probably, by an increased flow of moolah into the company coffers with a good slice left over for Onkel Roberto in Patagonia.
There was still no sign of Mr. Strype, although there were occasional muffled noises coming from a wardrobe. I’m still a bit mystified at how he could have locked himself in, when the wardrobe will only lock from the outside.
One of those mysteries, I guess.
The Baron and I shook paws, and I was treated to a ringing slap to my back from him. “It is indeed excellent that friends can do a bit of business, yes, Herr Buckhorn?”
“Er, yes.”
We also agreed on meeting with our wives for dinner at one of the better restaurants in Honolulu. It had an agreeable atmosphere, the maitre d’ was an earnest American and not a snooty Frenchman, and the food was an eclectic mix of cuisines.
Willow had bulgur pilaf-stuffed mushrooms, while I had a very tasty vegetable terrine. The Baron and Baronin had meat, naturally.
Father Time had passed us on the plane, so it was now nineteen thirty-eight. Willow had been under the weather, and missed any festivities. I couldn’t blame her.
I ordered a single glass of champagne, and after she took a tiny sip (no harm to our fawn, and I hope the little fellow appreciated the gesture) I toasted the New Year in.
Oh all right, it was a bit late. What of it?
The restaurant also boasted live entertainment, usually hired locally but with some talent from Los Angeles in season. Over coffee and dessert, we settled back to watch the show.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said after warming us up with a few jokes, “we have a local fellow here to entertain you. Let’s have some applause for . . . Carmichael!”
I literally couldn’t believe my ears, but our outrage was quieted as the polar bear stepped out. He started playing, and I relieved only slightly to see that his weapon of choice was a ukulele, and not the more plangent banjolele.
He played a few songs, actually quite nicely, before swinging into a rather brisk number to a swaying hula beat and accompanied by what appeared to be a trio of stock backup singers.
Nice young ladies, but looking a bit bored.
“Politics and foreign wars
All the sports and all the scores
That's the Radio Hula.
Business news from Tokyo,
Stuff you heard on Benny’s show
That's the Radio Hula.
It's late in the day, you're bored
And you’ve maybe lost your chance;
So weave yourself a fine grass skirt
And everybody dance!
Have some fun, be a pal,
Ev'ry hula guy and gal,
Do the Radio Hula.
(SPOKEN) Everybody!
(Instrumental)
(SUNG) That's the Radio Hula.
(SPOKEN) Younger crowd only!
(Instrumental)
(SUNG) That's the Radio Hula!
Who cares what the natives think?
They're a loony crew.
And if your neighbors call the cops
Here's all you have to do:
When they yell, "It's half past three!"
Tell them, "Hey -- it's news to me!"
That's the Radio Hula!”
Interestingly, the hula beat was a bit fast, almost a polka tune really (as far as I could recall from various nights spent in Milwaukee beer halls).
The emcee, a native Hawaiian, looked a bit offended, while the crowd laughed and clapped.
I decided that Carmichael had a future, provided he avoided trying to get to Cleveland.
We parted company with the von Kojotes that night, and Willow and I retired to bed. I insisted that she get some rest before we started back to Britain.
The consist was up in San Francisco, and the plane would be taking us there first.
The next morning we were cooling our heels at the Marine Air Terminal while various papers were perused and stamped and the Customs chappies made sure that we weren’t trying to smuggle a secret poi recipe out of the country. Willow was reading a magazine, while I had gone to look for a drink of water.
There was a water cooler, which was jolly good, and even better there were no hail-fellow-well-met types lounging around it to share the latest gossip about who might be flying in or out of Hawaii. I was sipping at my second paper cupful when I spotted two furs standing on either side of a closed door.
One was a sort I’d seen in Hong Kong and Spontoon, a red panda. The other was a sort of lion with a very large mane done up in braids. The look on his muzzle and his general build reminded me of Samoa.
Of course, this fellow was taller, and looked far more fearsome. He didn’t have a sharp shark spear in his paws, but then he didn’t look as if he’d need one if it came to a mayhem moment.
I made my way back to the lounge Willow and I were – well, lounging – in, and I addressed Lodge. “Lodge, have you see the two furs parked at the other private lounge? One wonders who they might be watching over.”
My beaver chum twitched his whiskers. “I shall endeavor to find out, Sir,” and off he shimmered.
“Reggie?”
“Yes, love?”
“Suppose whoever’s there doesn’t want to be disturbed?”
“Oh, I don’t intend on disturbing anyone, Willow. I’m just curious.”
In a trice, Lodge was back. “They are bodyguards, Mr. Buckhorn.”
“Bodyguards?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What body are they guarding?”
“Her Grace, the 14th Duchess of Strathdern, Sir.”
“A Duchess! Goodness. Anyone we know?”
Willow had looked up when Lodge spoke. “Lodge, isn’t that Katie MacArran?”
“Indeed, Ma’am.”
“MacArran?” I thought a moment, then snapped my fingers. “Delhi Gin! She owns it, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“She's also the person who loaned us that yacht for my bachelorette party,” Willow interjected, with a very beautiful blush at the memory of that very memorable night.
“Well, well! Small world, what? But what is she doing here? I recall reading that she pretty much flies anywhere she wants, and no one makes her wait around in airports, guarded by fierce furs.”
Lodge merely looked patient, and Willow acquainted me with the news that Her Grace had been wounded while flying against the Japanese in China last month. She indicated an article in the magazine she was reading as proof. Lodge added that she was apparently waiting for a flight to Oakland. How Lodge finds this stuff out, I’ll never know.
I have a feeling that if I did know, I’d lose sleep at night.
“Reggie?”
“Yes, Willow?”
My lovely doe looked very pleased. “Go ask her to join us.”
“What?”
“One good turn deserves another, so we should offer her a lift. I’m sure we have plenty of room on the plane.”
“Oh, well, of course. Are you sure you’ll be all right to have company on the flight?”
She smiled. “I’ll do my best. After all, mares greet does, and does greet does – “
“And little bucks say ‘Hidy.’” We laughed. “I’ll go make introductions. About time I used my business cards for something.”
<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 56.
Reggie:
I concluded my business with the Baron, and the Sire, I think, will be pleased at the flow of Argentine wheat into FRB’s factories. Followed, probably, by an increased flow of moolah into the company coffers with a good slice left over for Onkel Roberto in Patagonia.
There was still no sign of Mr. Strype, although there were occasional muffled noises coming from a wardrobe. I’m still a bit mystified at how he could have locked himself in, when the wardrobe will only lock from the outside.
One of those mysteries, I guess.
The Baron and I shook paws, and I was treated to a ringing slap to my back from him. “It is indeed excellent that friends can do a bit of business, yes, Herr Buckhorn?”
“Er, yes.”
We also agreed on meeting with our wives for dinner at one of the better restaurants in Honolulu. It had an agreeable atmosphere, the maitre d’ was an earnest American and not a snooty Frenchman, and the food was an eclectic mix of cuisines.
Willow had bulgur pilaf-stuffed mushrooms, while I had a very tasty vegetable terrine. The Baron and Baronin had meat, naturally.
Father Time had passed us on the plane, so it was now nineteen thirty-eight. Willow had been under the weather, and missed any festivities. I couldn’t blame her.
I ordered a single glass of champagne, and after she took a tiny sip (no harm to our fawn, and I hope the little fellow appreciated the gesture) I toasted the New Year in.
Oh all right, it was a bit late. What of it?
The restaurant also boasted live entertainment, usually hired locally but with some talent from Los Angeles in season. Over coffee and dessert, we settled back to watch the show.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said after warming us up with a few jokes, “we have a local fellow here to entertain you. Let’s have some applause for . . . Carmichael!”
I literally couldn’t believe my ears, but our outrage was quieted as the polar bear stepped out. He started playing, and I relieved only slightly to see that his weapon of choice was a ukulele, and not the more plangent banjolele.
He played a few songs, actually quite nicely, before swinging into a rather brisk number to a swaying hula beat and accompanied by what appeared to be a trio of stock backup singers.
Nice young ladies, but looking a bit bored.
“Politics and foreign wars
All the sports and all the scores
That's the Radio Hula.
Business news from Tokyo,
Stuff you heard on Benny’s show
That's the Radio Hula.
It's late in the day, you're bored
And you’ve maybe lost your chance;
So weave yourself a fine grass skirt
And everybody dance!
Have some fun, be a pal,
Ev'ry hula guy and gal,
Do the Radio Hula.
(SPOKEN) Everybody!
(Instrumental)
(SUNG) That's the Radio Hula.
(SPOKEN) Younger crowd only!
(Instrumental)
(SUNG) That's the Radio Hula!
Who cares what the natives think?
They're a loony crew.
And if your neighbors call the cops
Here's all you have to do:
When they yell, "It's half past three!"
Tell them, "Hey -- it's news to me!"
That's the Radio Hula!”
Interestingly, the hula beat was a bit fast, almost a polka tune really (as far as I could recall from various nights spent in Milwaukee beer halls).
The emcee, a native Hawaiian, looked a bit offended, while the crowd laughed and clapped.
I decided that Carmichael had a future, provided he avoided trying to get to Cleveland.
We parted company with the von Kojotes that night, and Willow and I retired to bed. I insisted that she get some rest before we started back to Britain.
The consist was up in San Francisco, and the plane would be taking us there first.
The next morning we were cooling our heels at the Marine Air Terminal while various papers were perused and stamped and the Customs chappies made sure that we weren’t trying to smuggle a secret poi recipe out of the country. Willow was reading a magazine, while I had gone to look for a drink of water.
There was a water cooler, which was jolly good, and even better there were no hail-fellow-well-met types lounging around it to share the latest gossip about who might be flying in or out of Hawaii. I was sipping at my second paper cupful when I spotted two furs standing on either side of a closed door.
One was a sort I’d seen in Hong Kong and Spontoon, a red panda. The other was a sort of lion with a very large mane done up in braids. The look on his muzzle and his general build reminded me of Samoa.
Of course, this fellow was taller, and looked far more fearsome. He didn’t have a sharp shark spear in his paws, but then he didn’t look as if he’d need one if it came to a mayhem moment.
I made my way back to the lounge Willow and I were – well, lounging – in, and I addressed Lodge. “Lodge, have you see the two furs parked at the other private lounge? One wonders who they might be watching over.”
My beaver chum twitched his whiskers. “I shall endeavor to find out, Sir,” and off he shimmered.
“Reggie?”
“Yes, love?”
“Suppose whoever’s there doesn’t want to be disturbed?”
“Oh, I don’t intend on disturbing anyone, Willow. I’m just curious.”
In a trice, Lodge was back. “They are bodyguards, Mr. Buckhorn.”
“Bodyguards?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What body are they guarding?”
“Her Grace, the 14th Duchess of Strathdern, Sir.”
“A Duchess! Goodness. Anyone we know?”
Willow had looked up when Lodge spoke. “Lodge, isn’t that Katie MacArran?”
“Indeed, Ma’am.”
“MacArran?” I thought a moment, then snapped my fingers. “Delhi Gin! She owns it, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“She's also the person who loaned us that yacht for my bachelorette party,” Willow interjected, with a very beautiful blush at the memory of that very memorable night.
“Well, well! Small world, what? But what is she doing here? I recall reading that she pretty much flies anywhere she wants, and no one makes her wait around in airports, guarded by fierce furs.”
Lodge merely looked patient, and Willow acquainted me with the news that Her Grace had been wounded while flying against the Japanese in China last month. She indicated an article in the magazine she was reading as proof. Lodge added that she was apparently waiting for a flight to Oakland. How Lodge finds this stuff out, I’ll never know.
I have a feeling that if I did know, I’d lose sleep at night.
“Reggie?”
“Yes, Willow?”
My lovely doe looked very pleased. “Go ask her to join us.”
“What?”
“One good turn deserves another, so we should offer her a lift. I’m sure we have plenty of room on the plane.”
“Oh, well, of course. Are you sure you’ll be all right to have company on the flight?”
She smiled. “I’ll do my best. After all, mares greet does, and does greet does – “
“And little bucks say ‘Hidy.’” We laughed. “I’ll go make introductions. About time I used my business cards for something.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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