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Tzimmes Crack Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
turnbolt
3.
September 1, 1938
Lodge:
It has always been my experience, since I began my employment with the Hon. Reginald Buckhorn, to prepare myself for all eventualities if there is a prolonged period of calm around him. Since the birth of his buck-fawn, Mr. Buckhorn and his mate had been remarkably quiet.
Such a state of affairs, of course, could not last.
The first indication that something was, to use the vernacular, 'brewing,' began with the delivery of a telegram to the Buckhorns’ townhouse in Mayfair. Since it was early evening, both Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn were in residence. I made certain to tip the young canine, and then studied the telegram’s envelope, at first somewhat disturbed to see that the message had originated from the Spontoon Island Independencies.
Prior to his marriage, Mr. Buckhorn traveled extensively before settling in the Spontoons, and as his valet I accompanied him. More often than not, I found it to be my duty to look after Mr. Buckhorn as he sought refuge in his rooms to deal with the result of some alcohol-fueled adventure or other.
However, for the past eight months things have settled into a pattern one might almost describe as “routine.”
Knowing Mrs. Buckhorn’s concerns for her father’s health, I examined the telegram’s envelope and noted that the sender was Detective Inspector Franklin J. Stagg, Spontoon Islands Constabulary, Meeting Island, and that it was addressed to both Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn. Thus partly reassured, I sought out my employer and his mate. (I say “reassured,” because if the communication had come from, say, the bartender at Shepherd’s Hotel, that would have been greatly worrying.)
Mr. Buckhorn was in the drawing room, studying some business papers while listening to tango music on the radio. Eugene Peni’s orchestra, I believe. While not as “innovative” (if that is the proper word) as LYRC in the Spontoons, the BBC’s musicians are every bit as talented. No doubt a comparison those at Portland Place would find objectionable.
My employer was engrossed in his paperwork, and at first did not hear me clear my throat. His ears swiveled upon reiteration, and he looked up and smiled at me. “Oh, hullo, Lodge!” He tipped his head back and stretched. “Blasted papers; they’ve almost put me to sleep. What’s that?” he asked, noting the telegram I held out in my paw.
“Telegram for you and Mrs. Buckhorn, Sir.” As my employer likes to say, “There are no secrets between us, eh Lodge?” I prefer to keep him in a state of ignorance on that point.
Mr. Buckhorn must have divined a species of unstated enquiry in my tone, because he replied with his wonted cheerfulness, “Willow’s upstairs in the nursery, seeing to young Thomas. I think Sophia’s helping her.” Sophia Lovassag was the maid, and the mare was doing a sterling job of keeping the household in order. A vital operation, to be sure.
“Let’s see what we have – oh! It’s from her father. That reminds me, Lodge.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I keep forgetting to apologize to the Inspector for the trouble I caused him on Spontoon.”
“I think that the Inspector would think an apology superfluous, Sir.”
“Superfluous? Nonsense, Lodge! I gave the poor old buck fits, and then I up and marry his daughter.” He began to open the envelope, taking care not to tear it. The fact that he was doing this with a miniature Samoan shark-spear meant something or other, I could not divine what.
“Perhaps, Sir, he would regard your marriage to his daughter as apology enough, as it moved her into safer waters, as it were.” This was true; the former Miss Fawnsworthy was an agent with the Minkerton’s Detective Agency.
Mister Buckhorn gave a soft snort as he opened the telegram and began to read. “I suppose you may be right, Lodge. You usually are, after all. Still, it’s the thought that . . . “ My employer’s voice trailed away significantly, and I could hear his tail flagging against the chair.
“Is anything the matter, Sir?”
I said this to his retreating tail as he abruptly bolted from his chair and ran up the stairs. Three at a time, judging from the pace. There was a pause.
“YAAAHOOOOO!” is the correct transliteration of Mrs. Buckhorn’s comment on the telegram’s comments. Followed, in counterpoint, by the sound of young Master Thomas crying.
Acting on an assumption, I began to head upstairs to fetch the trunks from the attic.
***
Reggie:
For a brief moment, I thought I was back in Samoa, getting ready to be shish ka-bobbed by a brace of well-conditioned lads brandishing shark-spears. There was that feeling of impending doom, or at least impalement.
Amazing what a single steady glare can do, what? Especially when said ocular stilettos are being leveled at you by a steel-gray Hungarian mare who used to keep an Empress’ household in order by sheer force of will. Which explains why my back was up against the wall while Sophia gently rocked Tommy back to sleep.
Willow had her own back against the opposite wall, with her paws over her mouth. I could hear her tail flagging against the plaster, though.
Couldn’t blame her, really.
Tommy started to doze, and Sophia put him in his bed and backed away two steps. She then turned and looked at me and Willow. She made a shooing motion with one of her paws, then followed it up with a more peremptory gesture and another one of those glares. Well, it’s rather a rum go to chase a mother and father out of their own fawn’s room, so I tried to glare back.
Good Lord.
I’ve very rarely seen someone who could punch holes in walls with their eyes. True for telling, I don’t even think the Sire is capable of it, but I distinctly felt the plaster cave in on either side of my head. Willow tip-hooved out of the room, still holding her paws over her muzzle.
I followed her.
I really didn’t feel like staying in there to pick up the scattered shreds of my dignity.
Willow had gone downstairs, I suppose hoping that the distance would guarantee that Tommy wouldn’t wake up. When I got to the drawing room she withdrew (as it were), and Grace took her place (ditto).
How do I know? Experience.
She was sitting in her favorite armchair, her knees drawn up to her chest. “Reggie?”
“Yes, Grace?”
“Could you . . . please read it again?”
“Of course.” I cleared my throat as I smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper. “From Franklin J. Stagg, Detective Inspector, Spontoon Island Constabulary, to – “ I caught the look on her face, and skipped a bit.
“You are both invited to wedding, stop. Rosalie Baumgartner and myself, stop. Date for wedding 2 October 1938, stop. Please bring your fawn, stop. Love you both, stop.”
I gave Grace my pawkerchief, and waited for the rain squalls to go away.
When she finally composed herself, Grace asked a very stupid question.
“C-Can we go, Reggie?”
See what I mean?
I stuck the telegram into a pocket, and took her paws in mine. “Beloved, if I said ‘No,’ you’d crack the world in half just to make it a shorter trip.” Through her tears, she suddenly giggled. “Of course we’re going – or, at least, you and Tommy are.”
That brought Willow back. “What do you mean?”
“Well, your sire said ‘both.’ That could mean he just wants Willow and Grace, and not me.”
She blinked at me for a moment. “Reggie,” she finally asked in a careful tone, “have you done something I should know about?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I did something you should know about?”
“Why do you think that I think you did something I should know about?”
“I don’t know why you would think that I think you’d think that I’d do something you should know about . . . I think.” I closed my eyes tightly. “Willow?”
“Yes, Reggie?”
With my eyes still closed, I groped for a chair and sat down in it. “Could you get me an aspirin? I think I’ve sprained my brain.”
I heard her stand up, and I moved about a bit as she settled in my lap and started running a paw between my antlers. The pain in my head started to go away. “Reggie?” she asked after a few minutes of this.
“Hmm?”
She nestled against me while stroking my headfur. The pain in the old brain-pan started to be replaced by a familiar bright pink fog. After a while, she asked, choosing her words very carefully, “Reggie, have you been doing any business in the Spontoons?”
“Hmm? No, Willow.”
Her lips brushed mine. “Have you called anyone about the Spontoons?”
I say, if those Inquisition chappies had interrogated Protestants like this, we’d still all be Catholics, Archbishop Crowley notwithstanding. “No, Willow.”
Another kiss. “Telegrams?”
“No, Willow.”
Kiss. “Radio?”
“No, Willow.” I was starting to get a bit warm under the collar.
Her paws started wandering, buttons being unbuttoned along the way. “You and I are going to my father’s wedding, yes?”
“Yes, Willow.”
And I think we can draw a bit of a curtain over what happened next. A pink’un.
***
Willow:
We did manage to wait until we were upstairs in our bedroom before, well, Nature took its course.
Much later, Reggie was sound asleep, with me curled up against his back.
Perfect time for a conversation.
“Grace?” I called out as I wandered into the back of my head.
“Over here, Willow.” I found Grace sitting at one of two chairs, a table with a tea service between them. She was wearing a robe, and I found that I was as well. “You think we need to talk?” She poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of me as I sat down.
“Yes,” I said. “Just a little. Are you okeh with this? With Da getting married?”
Grace looked a bit surprised. “Of course. Father needed Rosalie’s love and support. Why shouldn’t they get married?”
“I wholeheartedly agree on that point. But, you know, Rosie’s not Catholic.”
My other personality (‘original’ personality, in her opinion) looked a bit thoughtful before shrugging. “At least they won’t get married according to those heathenish traditions they have in the Spontoons.”
I smiled. “True for telling, Twin.” I held my cup out to her. “Here’s to Da and Rosie, the happy couple.”
Grace gave me an arch look. “Tea?” Things seemed to shift a bit, and now we both had champagne flutes in our paws. “To the happy couple.”
We clinked glasses, and it was my turn to drift off to dreamland.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
turnbolt3.
September 1, 1938
Lodge:
It has always been my experience, since I began my employment with the Hon. Reginald Buckhorn, to prepare myself for all eventualities if there is a prolonged period of calm around him. Since the birth of his buck-fawn, Mr. Buckhorn and his mate had been remarkably quiet.
Such a state of affairs, of course, could not last.
The first indication that something was, to use the vernacular, 'brewing,' began with the delivery of a telegram to the Buckhorns’ townhouse in Mayfair. Since it was early evening, both Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn were in residence. I made certain to tip the young canine, and then studied the telegram’s envelope, at first somewhat disturbed to see that the message had originated from the Spontoon Island Independencies.
Prior to his marriage, Mr. Buckhorn traveled extensively before settling in the Spontoons, and as his valet I accompanied him. More often than not, I found it to be my duty to look after Mr. Buckhorn as he sought refuge in his rooms to deal with the result of some alcohol-fueled adventure or other.
However, for the past eight months things have settled into a pattern one might almost describe as “routine.”
Knowing Mrs. Buckhorn’s concerns for her father’s health, I examined the telegram’s envelope and noted that the sender was Detective Inspector Franklin J. Stagg, Spontoon Islands Constabulary, Meeting Island, and that it was addressed to both Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn. Thus partly reassured, I sought out my employer and his mate. (I say “reassured,” because if the communication had come from, say, the bartender at Shepherd’s Hotel, that would have been greatly worrying.)
Mr. Buckhorn was in the drawing room, studying some business papers while listening to tango music on the radio. Eugene Peni’s orchestra, I believe. While not as “innovative” (if that is the proper word) as LYRC in the Spontoons, the BBC’s musicians are every bit as talented. No doubt a comparison those at Portland Place would find objectionable.
My employer was engrossed in his paperwork, and at first did not hear me clear my throat. His ears swiveled upon reiteration, and he looked up and smiled at me. “Oh, hullo, Lodge!” He tipped his head back and stretched. “Blasted papers; they’ve almost put me to sleep. What’s that?” he asked, noting the telegram I held out in my paw.
“Telegram for you and Mrs. Buckhorn, Sir.” As my employer likes to say, “There are no secrets between us, eh Lodge?” I prefer to keep him in a state of ignorance on that point.
Mr. Buckhorn must have divined a species of unstated enquiry in my tone, because he replied with his wonted cheerfulness, “Willow’s upstairs in the nursery, seeing to young Thomas. I think Sophia’s helping her.” Sophia Lovassag was the maid, and the mare was doing a sterling job of keeping the household in order. A vital operation, to be sure.
“Let’s see what we have – oh! It’s from her father. That reminds me, Lodge.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I keep forgetting to apologize to the Inspector for the trouble I caused him on Spontoon.”
“I think that the Inspector would think an apology superfluous, Sir.”
“Superfluous? Nonsense, Lodge! I gave the poor old buck fits, and then I up and marry his daughter.” He began to open the envelope, taking care not to tear it. The fact that he was doing this with a miniature Samoan shark-spear meant something or other, I could not divine what.
“Perhaps, Sir, he would regard your marriage to his daughter as apology enough, as it moved her into safer waters, as it were.” This was true; the former Miss Fawnsworthy was an agent with the Minkerton’s Detective Agency.
Mister Buckhorn gave a soft snort as he opened the telegram and began to read. “I suppose you may be right, Lodge. You usually are, after all. Still, it’s the thought that . . . “ My employer’s voice trailed away significantly, and I could hear his tail flagging against the chair.
“Is anything the matter, Sir?”
I said this to his retreating tail as he abruptly bolted from his chair and ran up the stairs. Three at a time, judging from the pace. There was a pause.
“YAAAHOOOOO!” is the correct transliteration of Mrs. Buckhorn’s comment on the telegram’s comments. Followed, in counterpoint, by the sound of young Master Thomas crying.
Acting on an assumption, I began to head upstairs to fetch the trunks from the attic.
***
Reggie:
For a brief moment, I thought I was back in Samoa, getting ready to be shish ka-bobbed by a brace of well-conditioned lads brandishing shark-spears. There was that feeling of impending doom, or at least impalement.
Amazing what a single steady glare can do, what? Especially when said ocular stilettos are being leveled at you by a steel-gray Hungarian mare who used to keep an Empress’ household in order by sheer force of will. Which explains why my back was up against the wall while Sophia gently rocked Tommy back to sleep.
Willow had her own back against the opposite wall, with her paws over her mouth. I could hear her tail flagging against the plaster, though.
Couldn’t blame her, really.
Tommy started to doze, and Sophia put him in his bed and backed away two steps. She then turned and looked at me and Willow. She made a shooing motion with one of her paws, then followed it up with a more peremptory gesture and another one of those glares. Well, it’s rather a rum go to chase a mother and father out of their own fawn’s room, so I tried to glare back.
Good Lord.
I’ve very rarely seen someone who could punch holes in walls with their eyes. True for telling, I don’t even think the Sire is capable of it, but I distinctly felt the plaster cave in on either side of my head. Willow tip-hooved out of the room, still holding her paws over her muzzle.
I followed her.
I really didn’t feel like staying in there to pick up the scattered shreds of my dignity.
Willow had gone downstairs, I suppose hoping that the distance would guarantee that Tommy wouldn’t wake up. When I got to the drawing room she withdrew (as it were), and Grace took her place (ditto).
How do I know? Experience.
She was sitting in her favorite armchair, her knees drawn up to her chest. “Reggie?”
“Yes, Grace?”
“Could you . . . please read it again?”
“Of course.” I cleared my throat as I smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper. “From Franklin J. Stagg, Detective Inspector, Spontoon Island Constabulary, to – “ I caught the look on her face, and skipped a bit.
“You are both invited to wedding, stop. Rosalie Baumgartner and myself, stop. Date for wedding 2 October 1938, stop. Please bring your fawn, stop. Love you both, stop.”
I gave Grace my pawkerchief, and waited for the rain squalls to go away.
When she finally composed herself, Grace asked a very stupid question.
“C-Can we go, Reggie?”
See what I mean?
I stuck the telegram into a pocket, and took her paws in mine. “Beloved, if I said ‘No,’ you’d crack the world in half just to make it a shorter trip.” Through her tears, she suddenly giggled. “Of course we’re going – or, at least, you and Tommy are.”
That brought Willow back. “What do you mean?”
“Well, your sire said ‘both.’ That could mean he just wants Willow and Grace, and not me.”
She blinked at me for a moment. “Reggie,” she finally asked in a careful tone, “have you done something I should know about?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I did something you should know about?”
“Why do you think that I think you did something I should know about?”
“I don’t know why you would think that I think you’d think that I’d do something you should know about . . . I think.” I closed my eyes tightly. “Willow?”
“Yes, Reggie?”
With my eyes still closed, I groped for a chair and sat down in it. “Could you get me an aspirin? I think I’ve sprained my brain.”
I heard her stand up, and I moved about a bit as she settled in my lap and started running a paw between my antlers. The pain in my head started to go away. “Reggie?” she asked after a few minutes of this.
“Hmm?”
She nestled against me while stroking my headfur. The pain in the old brain-pan started to be replaced by a familiar bright pink fog. After a while, she asked, choosing her words very carefully, “Reggie, have you been doing any business in the Spontoons?”
“Hmm? No, Willow.”
Her lips brushed mine. “Have you called anyone about the Spontoons?”
I say, if those Inquisition chappies had interrogated Protestants like this, we’d still all be Catholics, Archbishop Crowley notwithstanding. “No, Willow.”
Another kiss. “Telegrams?”
“No, Willow.”
Kiss. “Radio?”
“No, Willow.” I was starting to get a bit warm under the collar.
Her paws started wandering, buttons being unbuttoned along the way. “You and I are going to my father’s wedding, yes?”
“Yes, Willow.”
And I think we can draw a bit of a curtain over what happened next. A pink’un.
***
Willow:
We did manage to wait until we were upstairs in our bedroom before, well, Nature took its course.
Much later, Reggie was sound asleep, with me curled up against his back.
Perfect time for a conversation.
“Grace?” I called out as I wandered into the back of my head.
“Over here, Willow.” I found Grace sitting at one of two chairs, a table with a tea service between them. She was wearing a robe, and I found that I was as well. “You think we need to talk?” She poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of me as I sat down.
“Yes,” I said. “Just a little. Are you okeh with this? With Da getting married?”
Grace looked a bit surprised. “Of course. Father needed Rosalie’s love and support. Why shouldn’t they get married?”
“I wholeheartedly agree on that point. But, you know, Rosie’s not Catholic.”
My other personality (‘original’ personality, in her opinion) looked a bit thoughtful before shrugging. “At least they won’t get married according to those heathenish traditions they have in the Spontoons.”
I smiled. “True for telling, Twin.” I held my cup out to her. “Here’s to Da and Rosie, the happy couple.”
Grace gave me an arch look. “Tea?” Things seemed to shift a bit, and now we both had champagne flutes in our paws. “To the happy couple.”
We clinked glasses, and it was my turn to drift off to dreamland.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Deer
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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