And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Seven.



Rosie turned away from the discussion in time to see a trio of canines finish tipping their flat caps to Franklin as he left to go back to work. The three, a wolfhound, a beagle and one mixed-breed, put their hats back on and bustled over to a table. All three of them were wearing white shirts, tweed jackets, and strange kiltlike garments that hung from their waists to below their knees.

When they reached a vacant table, one of them put a small block of wood at one end of the table and placed a wooden dowel in the block. The dowel held a green flag with a tricolor of orange, white, and a lighter shade of green in the upper left corner.

The cheetah femme gathered up a trio of menus and walked over to the table. “Welcome to Luchow’s,” she said, and offered the menus with a smile. “What’s with this?” and she pointed at the small flag.

The wolfhound sat up straighter in his seat. “We’re claimin’ this table as ours.” This declaration was met by a chorus of two “Ayes!” as the other two canines busied themselves with their menus. One sounded more enthusiastic than the other.

Rosie raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

“Aye, an’ we are,” the beagle said. “Is it not so, Seamus?”

The wolfhound nodded. “Aye, Paddy.” The third canine was reading his menu absorbedly, his lips moving silently.

“It’s only your table until you leave,” Rosie said.

“An’ why is that?” Seamus asked.

“Because this is my restaurant.”

The beagle got an almost vulpine shifty expression. “An’ have ye a flag? She’s got t’have a flag, eh Timmeen?” he asked, directing his question to his nondescript companion, who remained fixated on his menu.

Rosie smiled. “A flag? No. I have something better.”

She raised a paw.

Sproing!

SLASH!

“Any questions?” she asked as she sheathed her claws, leaving a few thin tatters of green still glued to the dowel.

Seamus and Paddy watched as the freshly-sliced ribbons of fabric drifted to the table and to the floor. Paddy looked up. “An’ should we just be havin’ our lunch, Seamus?”

“Aye, we should,” the wolfhound replied.

“Good.” Rosie took out her pad. “What’ll you have?”

All three ordered Reuben sandwiches with coleslaw, with water to drink – “Seein’ as there’s no porter,” Paddy said – and Rosie headed back to the kitchen to post the order.

Returning with three glasses of ice water she asked, “Where are you three from?”

“We’re from Cuan Ruma,” Seamus said.

“And where’s that?”

“Faith,” Paddy said, “we’re from the Oirish East Indies, an’ ne’er a more pleasant place ye’ll see apart fro’ Auld Eire itself!” He sipped at his water. “We’re here fer th’ air races, we are.”

“I hope you have fun,” Rosie said.

“Fun?!” Seamus spluttered. “Fun, is it? We’re no’ here fer fun, Miss! We’re afther racin’, we are! We’ve our own plane in th’ races.”

“Seamus an’ me’re th’ mechanics,” Paddy said, “an’ Timmeen here’s our pilot.” The beagle gestured at the nondescript canine, who sat gazing ahead and barely moving.

“Uh huh,” Rosie said skeptically, and went back to the kitchen to see if their lunch was ready. As she stepped into the restaurant, she made room as K’nutt moved past her with a tray in his paw to clear away some of the tables.

“What’s with them, Rosie?” Vicky asked. “You usually don’t let your claws out to play.”

“They’re one of the race crews,” Rosie replied, “from the Irish East Indies – what?” She asked as she turned around, ears flicking. Her tail swished in agitation as she saw one of her handyfurs seated at the table with the Irish East Indies trio, with the beagle and the wolfhound talking to him animatedly.

“What’s that all about, I wonder?” Vicky asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m not paying K’nutt to sit around and talk to the customers,” the cheetah said. “Nick, how much longer on those sandwiches?”

“Almost ready, Rosie,” the rabbit replied.

“Okeh,” and she waited, tail snapping back and forth, until all three plates were ready. She gathered up the plates and headed out to the table.

“All right, boys,” Rosie said, “here’s your lunches. Can I have my handyfur back, so he can get back to work?” She eyed K’nutt, and the tod started to stammer an apology.

The wolfhound, Seamus, goggled up at her. “Whisht! Is it so, that this genius is yer handyfur?”

Everything seemed to pause.

A passing seagull seemed to stop in midair.

Rosie raised one eyebrow.

Very slowly.

“Genius?” she asked.

“So he is!” the beagle, Paddy, declared. “Last night, ‘twas, Seamus an’ I were havin’ ev’ry bit o’ trouble with our plane’s engine. An’ oop comes this foine tod, and fixes it!”

Timmeen, the other member of the trio, smiled around a mouthful of his sandwich.

“I’m probably going to be afraid to ask, but how did he fix it?” Rosie asked.

“An’ is it not so,” Seamus said, “that young K’nutt, here, secrifoiced th’ gum he was afther chewin,’ an’ fixed th’ engine!” At this, Rosie glanced down at K’nutt, who nodded.

“Uh huh. So he just stuck his gum on your engine, and now you think he’s a genius?”

“Aye!” Seamus said, punctuating the word with a slap of an open paw against the table that made the plates and glasses rattle. “Y’see, ‘tis no’ jist puttin’ th’ gum, mind, but knowin’ where an’ when t’stick th’ gum in – ah, that’s sheer genius, that is!”

“We’re afther askin’ him t’becoom our chief mechanic,” Paddy said.

“I’ll think about it,” Rosie said, and after refilling their ice water she retreated to the relative cool of the restaurant’s interior.

The stupid might be catching, after all.


***

A. Cadbury Mouchoir fastidiously licked his fingers clean before wiping his paws with a napkin. After securing a meatloaf sandwich as the cost of his advice, he and B’onss had headed into the space behind the restaurant, where the young fox waited for the feline to finish his meal.

“Now, my young B’onss, tell me,” the feline asked, “how do you propose to go about wooing this young lady?”

B’onss’ ears went back. “I ain’t got that far yet,” he said. “I was t’inkin’ o’ askin’ her th’ next time I see her.”

“Ah, and when is that?”

The young fox thought for a moment. “Dunno.”

“Then you will need to find out,” Mouchoir said, “and try to find out as much as you can about her, her likes and dislikes.” His ears flicked. “Tell me, is this vision that has stolen your heart a fellow fox?”

“Huh?”

“Is she a vixen?”

“Nah. I think she’s a skunk, but she ain’t got no stripes.”

“Hmm.” The feline smiled. “Then I can suggest one important gift you can give her.”

“Yeah?”

Mouchoir tapped the side of his muzzle. “Chocolate-covered bees, my boy. Have you a suit? You must look presentable. The appearance of the outer fur can give a member of the fair sex an insight into the inner fur’s quality and intentions.”

“Yeah, I got a suit, but Ma’s gonna be takin’ me in t’get a new one. I’m kinda big fer th’ old one.”

“Capital, my young friend, capital! Now I must, like a surgeon, touch on a sensitive subject.”

“What’s that?”

“Money, my boy. If you plan on squiring this young woman around, you must have some funds for dinner and amusements.”

B’onss put his paw to his chin. “I ain’t thought that far ahead, Mooch.”

“It’s no problem, my dear B’onss. There is always time when you’re trying to attract a young lady.”

“B’onss!” Rosie called out.

The young fox’s ears went back. “Comin’, Rosie. Talk ta ya later, Mooch.”

“Anytime, my boy.” B’onss went back inside, leaving the older feline seated on the back stoop for a few moments. He finally got to his feet, dusted himself off, and said to himself, “Cadbury my boy, you have your work cut out for yourself.” He gave a soft chuckle, followed by an even softer belch, and started making his way down the alley to the nearest side street.



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