Stonewall Jackson's Way
Come, stack arms, men. Pile on the rails,
Stir up the campfire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now--the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew--
The shrewd, dry smile--the speech so pat--
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well--
Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell--
Lord save his soul! We'll give him"...well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue Light's going to pray;
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff;
Attention; it's his way!
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God--
"Lay bare thine arm; stretch forth thy rod;
Amen." That's "Stonewall's way."
He's in the saddle now! Fall in!
Steady, the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off! He'll win
His way out, ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
"Quick step--we're with him ere the dawn!"
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
The sun's bright glances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge--
Pope and his Yankees whipped before--
"Bayonet and grape!" hear Stonewall roar,
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score
In Stonewall Jackson's way."
Ah, maiden! wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow! read with eyes that burn
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on,
Thy life shall not be all forlorn--
The foe had better ne'er been born,
That gets in Stonewall's way.
John Williamson Palmer
About Me
- Miss Pancake Taylor
- I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
The March of The Iron Brigade
See, where the morning's beam
Purples the Cedar stream,
Long lines of bayonets gleam,
Fiercely and bright arrayed.
Tramp, tramp, with step so true,
As if on grand review.
It is the march, I trow,
Of the Iron Brigade.
Bristoe and Catlett's glen
All are alive with men,
Cheery and blithe as when
Forming on dress parade;
Onward, thro' wood and field,
Hearts all with courage steel'd
Ne'er to the foe shall yield
The old Iron Brigade.
Tramp, tramp, with weary feet,
Thro' rivers wide and deep,
O'er pathways rough and steep,
Breastwork and barricade;
Covering ten leagues and more,
To Rappahannock's shore,
Men never marched before
Like the Iron Brigade.
Grand was the martial sight,
In the glad morning's light,
When from old Falmouth's height.
Footmen and Cavalcade,
'Mid bridges burning high,
Burnishing all the sky,
March'd with light step and spry,
The old Iron Brigade.
Cheer upon cheer arise,
Up thro' the vaulted skies,
While the proud rebel flies,
Baffled and sore dismay'd.
Long will the poets tell,
While the glad numbers swell,
All the deeds that befell
The old Iron Brigade.
John Bryson
See, where the morning's beam
Purples the Cedar stream,
Long lines of bayonets gleam,
Fiercely and bright arrayed.
Tramp, tramp, with step so true,
As if on grand review.
It is the march, I trow,
Of the Iron Brigade.
Bristoe and Catlett's glen
All are alive with men,
Cheery and blithe as when
Forming on dress parade;
Onward, thro' wood and field,
Hearts all with courage steel'd
Ne'er to the foe shall yield
The old Iron Brigade.
Tramp, tramp, with weary feet,
Thro' rivers wide and deep,
O'er pathways rough and steep,
Breastwork and barricade;
Covering ten leagues and more,
To Rappahannock's shore,
Men never marched before
Like the Iron Brigade.
Grand was the martial sight,
In the glad morning's light,
When from old Falmouth's height.
Footmen and Cavalcade,
'Mid bridges burning high,
Burnishing all the sky,
March'd with light step and spry,
The old Iron Brigade.
Cheer upon cheer arise,
Up thro' the vaulted skies,
While the proud rebel flies,
Baffled and sore dismay'd.
Long will the poets tell,
While the glad numbers swell,
All the deeds that befell
The old Iron Brigade.
John Bryson
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA
Ring the good ol' bugle, boys, we'll sing another song,
Sing it with the spirit that will start the world along,
Sing it as we used to sing it 50,000 strong
While we were marching through Georgia.
CHORUS:
Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea
While we were marching through Georgia!
How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound!
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!
How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground
While we were marching through Georgia!
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears
When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years.
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers
While we were marching through Georgia!
"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"
So the saucy rebels said, and 'twas a handsome boast,
Had they not forgot, alas, to reckon with the host
While we were marching through Georgia!
So we made a thoroughfare for freedom and her train,
Sixty miles in latitude, 300 to the main.
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain
While we were marching through Georgia!
Henry Clay Work
Ring the good ol' bugle, boys, we'll sing another song,
Sing it with the spirit that will start the world along,
Sing it as we used to sing it 50,000 strong
While we were marching through Georgia.
CHORUS:
Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea
While we were marching through Georgia!
How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound!
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!
How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground
While we were marching through Georgia!
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears
When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years.
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers
While we were marching through Georgia!
"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"
So the saucy rebels said, and 'twas a handsome boast,
Had they not forgot, alas, to reckon with the host
While we were marching through Georgia!
So we made a thoroughfare for freedom and her train,
Sixty miles in latitude, 300 to the main.
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain
While we were marching through Georgia!
Henry Clay Work
Les Animeaux - Part 11
By Way of an Explanation – or Two
The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.
Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.
Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.
Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.
“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.
Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.
I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.
(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)
Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.
Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)
My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.
The Imposition of an Introduction
It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.
Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.
While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.
Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.
She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.
This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.
He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.
(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)
It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.
It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.
As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.
Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”
A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”
He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.
“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.
The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.
(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)
Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.
One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”
Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.
It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.
An Arrival
It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.
Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)
He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.
Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.
As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.
The Colonel
Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.
Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.
He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.
Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.
Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.
He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.
“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.
A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.
Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”
The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.
Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”
He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”
Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”
The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”
Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”
This quite animated the badger. New recruits!
He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.
(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)
Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.
As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.
He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.
The Seeds of Change
All in all, life in the house was unfolding with a degree of civility that had been missing for many years, and all who lived there were really quite content. Dugal ingratiated himself in the neighbourhood by wondering around on spring mornings, passing on his mother’s gardening tips on raising roses, tulips and politicians with the neighbours.
Naturally entropy insisted that this could not last.
On one auspicious day, Miss Zita arrived - this time to stay. She had been a visitor to the house for quite a long time, but as to actually residing there; well as you can imagine it rather perturbed the Pigs, who at first behaved themselves even when no one was looking. The Dragon Dragoons became rather withdrawn and the Colonel waited, and began a new book on JEB Stewart.
One of the very first things Zita did on arriving was to find room for all her TeddyBear companions along the far wall of the front bedroom. Unfortunately, within hours of their embarkation they began sticking out their tongues and making rude hand gestures at the Queen’s Own Pigs - who lived on, and in the bookshelf on the other side of the bed.
As you may well imagine the TeddyBears were very nervous about being dislocated. They were quite as confused at moving into Craig’s house - as the others were at their arrival. This accounted for their rather shabby behaviour, and the resulting escalation.
When the TeddyBears would stick out their tongues, the Pigs would write rude quotations in Gaelic on paper aeroplanes - and hurl them across the room. As time passed it just got worse.
The Queen’s Own became especially fond of mocking a small TeddyBear with green checked feet. This TeddyBear was a recent addition, having only recently emigrated with Zita from the County Meath, and was, as a result feeling quite fragile, and more than a bit shy. Most of the Pigs found his checkered green feet and matching bow tie, quite provincial, and very comical. They laughed at him a lot, which understandably embarrassed, and hurt his feelings. This caused him to hide all day long under the window shade at the head of the bed.
As could be expected, this made all the other TeddyBears furious, and as a result the whole bedroom was very unsettled.
One day while all of this was going on; tongues sticking out and obscure Gaelic curses floating through the room, both the Colonel, who naturally had the Gaelic, and Zita entered the room. They were shocked! Dugal ordered the Pigs to attention, and Zita had the TeddyBears turned around facing the wall.
Zita said “Thank goodness that they could not understand what the Pigs were saying or it would have turned into a series of ill judged donnybrooks just like that.”
The Colonel was astonished. He asked “Achhh nu, you’ll be excusing me your ladyship, but would it be that you have the Gaelic?”
She replied “Of course. I’m from Ireland can’t you tell? See the shamrock stains behind my ear.”
The Colonel was pleased; as were all of the Queen’s Own Pigs. They had someone to talk to in their own language. Not even Craiglellachie could speak Gaelic - though some said it was better then his French.
He asked “And what should we be calling yourself, your ladyship?”
“Why back home in Dublin I am called Zita NíChaomhaigh.” she said with a degree of contentment, - you see she did not have the opportunity to speak Irish very often either. All of them - the Queen’s Own Pigs, the TeddyBears and the Colonel thought it to be a very good name, and more importantly, very proper indeed.
Colonel Blackthorn-Badger went downstairs leaving her to sort out the Pigs and TeddyBears. He informed the Dragoons that everything was back to normal, well as normal as it ever got in this house, he supposed. Before he retired for the evening he announced they should mind, the appearance of a bonny wee lass was not going to turn his head. He was never going to drink Irish Whisky; as long as some of the Real Stuff was available! He wondered off to read about Stonewall Jackson. The Dragons went back to sleep, content. Actually they both preferred Billy Bishop’s biography anyway.
New Names, Some New Companions, and An Old Car
It was sunny out, and the young Rhinosasauris desperately wanted to get away from the confines of the house; away from his brother, away from his studies - away from it all.
All in all it had been a very hard couple of months, what with his first year’s final exams from the correspondence school arriving on Tuesday, and then the very next day his brother announcing that they really should have new names; names everyone could pronounce. It all had been very hard on him. Up till now his life had been almost sedate.
Well, sedate for a Rhinosasauris anyway. He had to admit that his brother’s rescue from the terrorist bookstore, had certainly stirred up all the companions who lived with him in the house on Holmwood.
Now he really needed to get out in the fresh air for a while. That was why he wanted to ask Craig if they could go for a ride. Maybe they could use the Blue Car, take the roof off and drive fast playing loud music. That would take his mind off his exams and the long list of names that his brother kept leaving on top of the stereo receiver where they slept. He needed to get away for a while, and maybe even have fresh blueberry milkshakes.
To tell the truth he had been thinking about the new names for some while. He knew that no one could pronounce a Rhinosasauris name. They were mostly grumbles, a precise foot stomping and a rather delicate twist of their tails, so he knew that he would have to find a new name sooner or later, though just at this moment later seemed quite the attractive alternative.”
Like all Rhinosasaurises who dealt with Peoples, his brother had taken a Gaelic Nom de Peoples. This ancient lyric language seemed to almost roll off their tongues, and with a rather nice vanilla flavour. Also it could not be ignored, that his brother’s old crony; Colonel Dugal, had said that the ancient Celtic language was Magic, and that the name of everything was very important and very powerful, but he could not seem to find a name that sounded much like himself.
His brother had, after much soul searching, and listening to himself on Zita’s walkman, settled on the euphonic Haemish-Mór. He now wanted it embroidered over his jacket pocket.
The Colonel wore his Brigade of Guards badge sewn his sporran - and looked very official and consequential.
Haemish, having recently retired - with a pension - from the Mossad, sorely regretted not been able to wear his campaign medals or his smartly tailored paratroop uniform, but that was the promise he had made when he left that service, and a promise is a promise, especially to the Mossad, and especially from a Rhinosasauris.
Still, he considerably envied Dugal’s Imperial look.
Actually Queen Victoria herself would have been envious to see the way Colonel, The Honourable Dugal Blackthorn-Badger; 79th. Regiment of Foot, 51st. Highland Division, (S.A.S), (Ret.) GCMG, OBE, MC, DSO, and the coveted - Red and Black Order of Faisal The Bloody Minded, turned out each night to inspect his “Dragon Dragoon Guards” before they went on duty; after which he retired to his accustomed place in the dining room, with his big brass mug, a dram or two of his currently favorite Scotch, and one of his many large leather bound books.
Because of this slight feeling of being under turned-out, Haemish had asked Zita, very politely - if sometime - when she was not at all too busy - if she could put his new name on the collars of all his jackets, the inside of his best pith helmet, and perhaps embroider a small badge of a Rhinosasauris rampant on the front, if it was not too much trouble, ‘cause it would make him very happy and much more presentable and significant.
Ms. Kavanagh said that she would be only too happy to oblige Mister Haemish-Mór, if he would only draw her a picture of this proposed badge.
Which was how his little brother left him, lying on the bed watching Much Music, with piles of drawing paper all around him trying to design a badge based on an old photo of their great-uncle and Chinese Gordon, taken during the ill-famed defense of Khartomb.
As he walked down the hall he mused that at least his big brother had a real name, all he had were suggestions. Ranald, Fergus, Colin, Jamie. So many names, and if it was as important as Dugal said, he would have to think very carefully about it; especially since when he had passed all his exams and could put Dr. at the beginning.
He hopped down off the bookshelf, onto the bed, avoiding the drawing paper, jumped down on to the floor and ran out into hall. He did up the belt on his jacket, re-seated his helmet, and descended the stairs so that he would be available the next time a car ride was in the offing.
In the living room, the dragons were asleep; one leaning against the blue chair, the other was curled up under the small table, shaded by the left speaker. The Rhinosasauris waved at them anyway, because he had been brought up to be polite. He climbed over the sofa, along the bookshelf, and on to the big sideboard where all the stereo equipment and the Colonel lived.
Dugal was looking at the new version of “The Pines of Rome” that Craig had bought the week before. He was exceedingly glad to see the Little Rhinosasauris as now that Haemish’s little brother could push the “open” button while he dropped the little disc in to the tray, and then he could settle back for a quiet snooze in the Italian country side.
“Could use a hand here.” he said to the little Rhinosasauris and between them they put things to right. After all this exercise the Colonel asked what was one of the Clan Rhinosasauri doing downstairs, as they, the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own Pigs usually stayed upstairs; except when the refrigerator called or an adventure was in the offing.
The Rhinosasauris looked around before replying, “I want to get away from things for a while, perhaps go for a ride in the Blue car. I have had a lot to think about you see.”
Colonel Dugal did not usually pry into others private affairs, and contented himself with saying that he had heard Craiglellachie-liath was going shopping after lunch, so maybe he should sit on the dining room table where he could not fail to be noticed. The Rhinosasauris thought this was an excellent hint and he scrambled up onto the dining room table and promptly fell asleep on his hat, with the wind gently blowing along the Appian Way in the background.
Asleep he faintly heard the familiar sound of a tub of ice cream being opened, and realized it was time to awake. As he rolled over he caught his hat on his horn so that when he sat up all he could see was the inside of his hat. He was mortified and it took several seconds to get it on properly, and straighten up his jacket. When he looked around Craig was lying on the sofa with his feet in his chair reading a book, Zita was on the other side of the room looking through her newspaper. Both had empty bowls of ice-cream in their laps.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said Craig “but if you must sleep through out lunch, the ice-cream usually disappears without a spoonful being left.” He looked over towards the brown chair.
“He’s already a little chubby, even for a Rhinosasauris, if you ask Me.” said Zita, with a hint of guilt in her voice. The Rhinosasauris was still far too embarrassed about his struggle with his hat to notice the comments about his waistline.
While he had been asleep the Colonel had mentioned that “The wee lad” wanted to go for a ride, because something was on his mind. Craig and Zita had decided that when he awoke, Craig would suggest that the two of them go for a ride in the country.
“I have to go out and test the new tires, would you like to come along?” he asked.
“Why yes that would be quit nice, as long as you are sure I would be no bother.” he said. So Craig got into his blue chair and helped the Rhinosasauris off the dining room table, grabbed his wallet and his best driving gloves and moments later the two were off to explore the world, at least a few hours of it.
The Car Ride
The younger Rhinosasauris always had liked the Blue Car, although why it had a large gold bird on the hood, he could not understand. It never sounded like a bird. It usually sounded like the hubbub that usually followed the regular Bear argument as to the role of the World Bank and the WTO in the development of non-partisan exploitation of the world’s honey resources.
Since even the largest Rhinosasauri are not too big, Craig folded a blanket into a square, so that his accomplice could sit on it, look out the window and still use the seat belt. They took the roof panels off and put them in the back seat along with the chair, rummaged in the glove compartment for some driving around music - settling on Warren Zevon and then they set off into the warm summer afternoon, music blaring and exhaust rumbling.
The Rhinosasauris found Zita’s sun glasses stuck in the sun visor and put them on, did up his chin strap, adjusted the seat, and sat back to enjoy the sights.
They went down Bank Street, past the used stereo store. They surprised a BMW going up the entrance ramp onto the Queensway. The Rhinosasauris thumbed his horn, said some awful things in German at it, and chortled to itself as he remembered the drubbing his old Ferrari used to hand out to all those smart-alack Mercedes’ and Auto Unions; but that was a long time ago, before he had reluctantly stored the car in the smaller stable on Mme. Deneuve’s estate in far Province. Anyway they were off to see the country and to experience new things in the wilds. Well not the very wild - the land around Ottawa was not like his parent’s home in Vale of Haut Blu, but at least he could smell the countryside and that was enough for now.
Most of his time was usually spent reading his books and practicing his writing, so he could do exceptionally well in the Doctor by Mail correspondence school, run by the Royal Rhinosasauris School of Medicine. Unfortunately the school trustees in Ottawa had never ever heard of the Rhinosasauris, and therefore didn’t believe in integrating them in the schools. This had been very disappointing for him. He had gone to school in Tanganyika, Paris, Cairo and Istanbul while traveling, but somehow the Peoples in North America couldn’t allow themselves believe in a small rhinoceros that could speak (Which is what a Rhinosasauris is - for those of you who didn’t know or had somehow forgotten), or Imperial Badgers from the SAS or Dragons or even that TeddyBears have feelings and are very musical (many being Celt, you see), or that most of the Plush Pigs in the world are Scots and speak Gaelic (though not very good Gaelic, mind you) - There was not a smidgen of imagination left.
Well, he made an exception for Craiglellachie - but no one ever suggested that he wasn’t a bit strange. The Pigs said that it was growing up in the sixties that did it. According to them his mind was filled with the most peculiar things - Maps of Trafalgar and Culloden, amplifiers with pointy feet, tubes, tanks, and Angus-Ög, just to shave the surface.
Funny pieces of electronic equipment always littered the house and needed to be guarded by the Colonel’s Dragon Dragoon Guards (Airmobile), or so they claimed.
There had also been some discrete discussion amongst all the Animeaux as to why he wasn’t able to walk so very well. The Colonel said that Craiglellachie-liath had thought about so many difficult things for so long that he forgotten how to walk and that’s why he needed the blue chair. But the Colonel and the Dragons had been with him a long time and were inclined to be just a bit romantic about some things, he had heard.
And well, as for Zita - she was too young to know any better and anyway she was of the Gael and therefore was Magic, or so said all the Pigs. And they would know.
While the Rhinosasaurises was quietly thinking about all these things, they got off the Queensway and headed towards Carleton Place. Now he knew where they were going! To Mac’s old house. Well this would be fun he thought, he wondered if Mac made any kind of blueberry milkshakes. They rumbled up in front of the old log house parked the car and went around the side into the back yard.
The big Apple-green International four-by-four was in the drive, so they knew that Mac was home. When they looked around they saw the small hill of canoes growing beside the little barn, so they wandered down and peeked in. Mac was there looking at the size of the room and the lengths of the canoes.
Craig said “Might as well stop now, they won’t shrink no matter how long you stare at them”.
Mac said, “Yes they will - I have been staring at them for two weeks and they are much shorter now - do I get introduced to your friend?”
Craig replied “Oh, I am sorry, Of course; Mister Robert Grant MacPherson, this is my friend the younger Rhinosasauris.”
All of a sudden the Rhinosasauris said “I do have a real name you know!” and proceeded to make several snorts and three grunts, while at the same time stomping the ground in time with his rear leg, giving a quick whirl of his tail he sat down.
Craig said, “Well I have never seen you do THAT before.”
The Rhinosasauris replied that he had never been formally introduced to anyone before, and then big tears started to trickle down behind the sun glasses, “But no one can ever pronounce our names, and it is not very genteel to be called the Younger Rhinosasauris all the time, especially when I do have a name and it’s not my fault that you Peoples can’t say it.” His tears rolled down his nose and hit the ground. They left little muddy spots in the dust as he walked back and forth with his hands clasped in front of him. He felt quite alone for the first time since arriving at the house on Holmwood.
Mac asked if they would like to go for a walk down to the river and over the bridge and see if they together all three of them could find an answer to this problem. (Mr. Mac had been a parole officer and was used to tricky situations you see.)
The Rhinosasauris lifted the sun glasses and wiped his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else had seen the tears. Even if they were not great in size the Rhinosasauris were all very great in dignity.
On the way down the hill he said “My brother has decided to become “Mister Haemish-Mór”, which is a Celtic name, you see. Celtic names are most always used when we are out of the Far-World. Dugal says that they are quite the most appropriate names for us; but I am having the devil’s own time finding a proper and fitting one for myself.”
Both David Craig Taylor and Robert Grant MacPherson agreed with the Colonel that Gaelic was the very best of languages for names.
Mac said that he had just finished an exciting book where the hero was a brave defender of lost causes, either the Stewart Kings or a reasonable tax policy, he could not remember which. This hero’s name was Callum McCallum.
“Callum McCallum!” The little Rhinosasauris said quite abruptly. He repeated it to himself as he walked down to the other end of the bridge. He sang it to the wind and shouted it into the rushing water. He wrote it on the ground with his toe. He sat on the railing and copied it into his pocket diary several times. After all this, he skipped back to where Craig and Mac were sitting on the edge of the bridge. He said that it sounded just wonderful - and so very much like his actual name, though neither Craig or Mac could hear the similarity. He took off his pith helmet and threw it high into the air and cheered “Hooray!”
Mac caught it just before it flew into the river, and said “I got some fresh blueberries in. How about we go back to the house and make up some milkshakes?”
As they strolled back to the house they could hear the occasional small tear falling from the Rhinosasauris Callum McCallum, but he was reciting “Scots W’hae Wi’Wallace Bled”, and “Young Lochinvar” and hopping from one foot to the other so they figured everything was really quite alright.
Winter Develops a Southern Accent
It was only a few weeks after their trip to the country, when Zita was out, Craig was working on the computer, and everyone else was upstairs in the den watching “Zulu”, when the door bell rang. Craig answered it. It was The Police. The two Dragons sprinted for the rear door, everyone else rushed to conceal their duplicate passports and bearer bonds. Except for Dugal, who being an old hand at this, had long ago hid his bags of plastic explosives, and several casks of perhaps slightly under taxed scotch.
Downstairs Craig had opened the door and while his friend Staff Sergeant Bill did his best to ignore the incriminating commotion, and asked “Where’s the coffee? Any doughnuts?”
Craig replied, “What are you doing here? Too boring just driving around turning on the siren and being a nuisance? There’s coffee in the kitchen, I think.”
“Thanks - Is it fresh? - Though I am actually here on official business.”
Craig said “Great. You wouldn’t recognize fresh coffee if it was poured in your ears. When did you get so picky? Anyway I thought I had all those parking tickets paid up.”
“Look I’ve got some sort of refugee in the car, we picked it up at the train station, hiding in the lost luggage room - won’t talk, well not to us anyway, but he had a note pinned to the inside of his hat - your address. It was written on the stationary of some lawyer in New Orleans - know anyone down there?”
In truth, Craig’s old friend Bonnie was a lawyer in New Orleans, but he had not heard from her in months. She was running afoul of the current politicians down there the last time he had been talking her. He hoped everything was alright.
“Why yes I do, which is of course irrelevant; come on Bill let’s see exactly what you have out there.”
Sergeant Bill reached back and opened the screen door a little wider, and a rather spiffily attired lion strolled in. He was tall, wearing a tightly tailored, bright red shooting jacket, and highly polished riding boots. Incongruously he had a train engineer’s stripped hat on at a jaunty angle. He looked around quite slowly, walked over and got up on the sofa. He had not yet uttered a word.
“Can I see the note?” Craig asked. Bill handed over the torn and much crumpled piece of paper. The address on the top of the page was Canal Street, “Well it seems as if it must be Miss Bonnie who sent him.” he thought aloud.
Bill nodded and said that he would call back in a couple of days, if Craig would take responsibility for the stranger. He left with a pocket full of cookies, and a cup of coffee, both of which he promised to return.
Craig sat down on the sofa and looked at the new arrival. He cut quite a figure in the bright jacket and CNR hat, his blonde mane peeking out, all askew. He offered the stranger a cup of coffee, and received only a quick nod in response. He went to the kitchen to pour him the last cup, and to find the small tin of chocolate biscuits Zita kept in reserve for such occasions. After they had finished their snack in silence Craig suggested that the guest meet the remainder of the household, and brought the lion upstairs to the den where the other Animeaux had gathered for the nightly cinema-fest, and attempted to introduce him.
This proved a bit difficult; as “Zulu” had reached a very exciting point and it made the formalities seem a bit much, so he said “Listen, my friend Bonnie has sent this gentleman up here for a visit, so make him comfortable.”
Everyone moved over a bit on the sofa and Callum put the bowel of curried popcorn into their centre - none had said a word. Craig shook his head and went back down stairs.
When Zita got home from the fashion show, he said, “We seem to have a new house guest upstairs. A visitor from Louisiana. Don’t know his name and he won’t, or can’t talk. He had our address written on some of Bonnie’s letterhead. I’ve tried calling her but there has been no answer.
He is up watching a movie with the rest of them. Perhaps Callum or Haemish can figure out what’s going on.”
The Secret of Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon
Later, when they retired to bed they noticed that the lion was sharing the shelf with Callum and Haemish, and was fast asleep.
“Well do either of you know what is going on?” Craig asked.
Callum said “He has not uttered a word, aside from please; thank-you; and pass the cocoa. He does have a pronounced southern accent and appears to be unusually neat and tidy in his habits.”
Zita said that this was a worthwhile trait that some could copy with success. Craig and the Animeaux ignored this comment.
The TeddyBear with the Red Toque said, “I asked him where he got his spiffy engineer’s hat. He told me that he had traded it for his Fedora somewhere around Wawa - Though I don’t know where that is myself. He said that he was never going back home and wanted to look more “Native”, but nobody had any Montreal Canadien’s hockey sweaters that they would trade, but he thought the hat would do until he could join the Royal North West-Mounted Police—that’s why he bought the red jacket you see. I think he was disappointed that Staff Sergeant Bill had a car instead of a horse, but he realized that perhaps the cars were warmer in winter. It seems that your friend Bonnie told him that this would be a good place for him to stay until things cooled down in Baton Rouge.”
“Why do things have to cool off in Baton Rouge?” Haemish asked.
“I don’t know if I can be sure of what I heard, he was talking very softly, and as the rest of you were whooping it up, it was quite noisy.”
He turned to Zita and said, “One of those Pigs was trying to copy Michael Cain’s accent, without much success I must say, and everyone else was singing “We’re Soldiers of the Queen” but I think there had been a duel. Some sort of an affair of honour he said.”
Both Haemish and Callum were only too well aware of affairs of honour, being Rhinosasaurises. They pulled out one of their better plaid blankets from under the stereo, and wrapped it around the sleeping lion’s shoulders.
“It must have been very hard on him to leave his home - I wonder if she was just very beautiful or simply overwhelming? Said Callum.
Zita asked “Why must you two always assume that anything to do with honour has to refer to a woman?”
“If it is an affair of honour its always, always over a woman.” said Callum.
Haemish Harrumphed, and Callum quickly said “Well some times, but very, very rarely its over a case of fine vintage port.”, another harrumph flooded the room, “ - or a bent intake valve on ones Ferrari Cabriolet could be considered sufficient cause for a minor duel, I guess.” said Callum rather guiltily.
(As has been said the Rhinosasaurises had a finely tuned sense of honour and it appeared that either Callum or Haemish had been rather rigorous in its’ application at one time or another.)
“Why don’t all of you Animeaux try to put him at ease and find out why Bonnie sent him here.” said Craig as they settled down to watch the National News.
A few days had passed when one evening while Craig was reading the “Cheap and Excellent Automobiles for sale” section of the paper they all came sliding down the banister; each doing a back flip dismount just before the newel post brought them up short - or at least shorter than they already were.
The lion stepped forward and made a half bow, “I am pleasured to make your acquaintance. I am very grateful to you for offering me this sanctuary, while the forces of evil and despair are being taken care of by my avocat. Mizz Bonnie assured me that you were very hospitable, but she neglected to inform me that you already had several charming house guests. I am afraid that all of this has taken me quite by surprise and I must surely apologize for my perhaps taciturn behaviour of the other night.”
At this, he swept off his hat bowed towards Craig and Dugal and then turned, walked over bowed and kissed Zita’s hand.
“Beauregard Clayton-Lyon at your service. If I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call on me or mine - though unfortunately at the moment I am rather at a disadvantage since my dear mother’s half of my family is rather put out with me. But my other side - the Savannah Claytons - have assured me of their full and undying support until this, this, ‘disorder’ is all over, or until my blackguard cousin Montague chokes on his own bile and expires to the relief of most of three parishes.”
All the rest of the Animeaux applauded and went looking for chairs so they could get into the freezer.
As they trooped into the kitchen Craig asked, “Might I be as bold as to ask what small matter of honour has brought you all the way up here?”
Beauregard replied “Well it is quite delicate matter. The reputation of a married woman is at stake.”
Craig said he was really quite familiar with the reputations of married women, and that he was unlikely to be shaken by any revelations Mister Beauregard might make.
Beauregard looked around the room before replying “I shan’t go into needless detail, but suffice it to say that Miss Therese is from an old Cajun family and has a rather casual attitude to bathing costumes. But regardless of how it looked, Cousin Montague had no cause to make the accusations he did. ‘Specially as he couldn’t fence his way through a cotton field, and anyway he won’t really need his right arm as he is mostly left handed—the other wounds will probably heal in a year or two - if he is lucky and does not go to his quack brother for treatment - I would have more faith in Mister Callum, and he has only finished the first year of his correspondence school. Now it seems that the judicial authorities take a dim view of dueling nowadays. That’s what Mizz Bonnie D’Avocat suggested before she told me that a fair trial was unlikely and I should make myself scarce for a while.
I also heard that Miss Therese’s 12 older brothers have finally seen through my cousin’s cruel charade, and intend to give him a thorough thrashing or a lynching - depending on the weather that day. Mizz Bonnie thought that I should be out of the country while all this settles itself out.”
Craig said all things considered that perhaps this was the most sensible suggestion and that Beauregard was welcome to stay for as long as he wanted.
By this time all the others had stood shoulder on shoulder until they got the freezer door open and rummaged around until they found the ice cream, where Zita had hidden it, and were looking for the chunky peanut butter - to make their world famous peach-ripple ice-cream and peanut butter on rye sandwiches. Beauregard hearing the commotion excused himself, as he wanted to write down the recipe - at home he was noted as something of a chef, he said as he rushed into the kitchen.
Summer Wishes - Winter Cars
A few moments later Haemish walked into the living room, sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap, and said, “We really must do something about planning for winter. We don’t want to be caught unprepared. Just look what happened to Dugal’s friends in the Khyber Pass back in the 80s. All lost for the want of a little planning. We mustn’t be caught unprepared. The winds are blowing from the north, and the far wound in my leg has been troubling me at night. I am sure that we shall have snow before the turning of the moon.”
The fact that it was nearly October made this forecast just a bit redundant, but Craig held his tongue and asked what spiffy ideas the Animeaux had been hatching to resolve the predicament of a long, boring winter.
“Sure we are working at it.” came the ominous reply. Craig shuddered.
It was but a few weeks later when the Animeaux began their schemes for overcoming the onset of onerous winter. The newly proclaimed Callum McCallum announced that he wanted to perfect his downhill style. Dugal saw winter as a fine excuse for his preference of sitting in front of the fire with a good book, a brass mug and his private brand of scotch, listening to the wind howl. All the TeddyBears said that they fully intended to take up cross country skiing this year. The Dragons hated winter because their wings always iced up. Craig was on their side; he disliked winter and felt it should be fought on all fronts, and at all costs. He also felt that in spite of their protestations the TeddyBears were far more interested in the fashion side of the sport as they seemed to spend many more hours thumbing through “Vogue” and “Elle” than “Sports Illustrated”.
Haemish-Mór seemed to discover his renewed interest in downhill skiing about the same time he discovered that his Miss Tanya had moved to Ottawa, and fully intended to continue to spend her winter hours getting quite cold - but looking great - on skis. Zita was not impressed. She also thought all of this was just an excuse for everyone of them to put in an order for new and trendy winter clothes.
The thought of winter brought on a lengthy discussion about the Blue Car. After overhearing the recreational plans, it had stated, that it was not a station wagon, and had no intention of spending its winter traipsing about, carrying one and all from one cold, snowy place to another. It didn’t much like the snow and anyway Craig had promised it a winter vacation.
It’s attitude was not in the least surprising, as its big engine and the snow seemed always to be at odds, and to be entirely truthful the Car was rather out of its element and became duly embarrassed when it would spin its tires unintentionally, or slide around corners. It would always make the corners but with a certain lack of style and precision that aggravated it and terrified on-lookers.
The TeddyBears had also quietly pointed out that there was not a great deal of extra room in the Blue Car especially since the trunk could not hold any of their skis. The emerging view was that it should get to spend the winter in well earned repose, and they should get a different automobile for the winter toils. The Animeaux offered a combined three dollars and thirty seven cents, apiece to help pay for this, which was, all things considered, generous of them.
So Craig and Zita continued to look for cars, big ones and medium ones, tiny and little one were excluded since they would be unable to take all the skis, down jackets, and Spandex pants that the entire household seemed to be requiring before approaching the slopes.
(In spite of these efforts no suitable vehicle appeared. By now it had turned into November and the Blue Car was seeing its vacation float away with the fall leaves.)
BT-McG makes His Appearance
It was three days before the end of the month, while Craig was unsuccessfully trying to light a log fire, that he felt a presence behind him. He glanced to the side and noticed that most all the Animeaux were standing around him in a large semicircle. Haemish handed him some dry kindling, and Callum suggested a quick dash of kerosene then said, “We had a meeting, and all think that you need our help finding a winter omnibus. We have come down to have dessert with you, and brought along some suggestions. Monsieur Beauregard owned several cars before his present ‘difficulties’ and he said that if he could borrow your tools we could check out the condition of any potential bargains ourselves.”
Haemish said, “We have received a very kind offer of assistance from Big TeddyBear McGruph. His second uncle used to sell cars “up t’valley”. Though which valley I am not too sure. He says we should buy a ‘Mar’can car, since they are in plentiful supply, and can be maintained with a number two screw driver and strong tape. Now actually he seems to favour cars manufactured by some military gentleman with the rather odd family name of Motors - Though I must say I have never seen him on the retired list. - He said his second cousin, on his mother’s side, has a niece who has a friend who has an elderly Nova that is looking for a new home. Now I a not at all familiar with Mister McGruph’s family, though the TeddyBears seem to trust him without question, and he has been a big help getting Monsieur Beauregard settled.”
Craig looked up from his attempt to re-ignite the logs, and said “Big TeddyBear McGruph, I don’t remember any Big TeddyBear McGruph staying here?”
Haemish called out “BT-McG - would you have the time to come over here for a moment.”
From amidst the mass of Animeaux stepped a medium to large, very furry, dark-chocolate brown TeddyBear, wearing a beige pith helmet with a red hat band and a regimental badge affixed to it’s front. The helmet was nearly identical to those always worn by Haemish and Callum McCallum. His black eyes were deep set, almost invisible behind the ruff of opulent fur. There was a bright red silk sash running from his shoulder to his hip. A small Canadian flag was pinned to it.
He stopped in front of Craig and extended his paw; after wiping all traces of ice cream from it. There was a rough leather patch on the inside of his fore-arm.
“G’day, pleased to meet ch’er. Nice day eh”
“Well I suppose so.” said Craig, “And I am pleased to meet you, though you do seem to have the advantage of me. I understand that we have been neighbours for a while and I apparently did not notice it.”
“No hard feelin’s.” said BT-McG, “T’be honest, should have introduced my self weeks ago, but y’know how one t’ing leads t’nother.... and getting TeddyBears ship shape and Bristol fashion was tak’ng all of my attentions.”
“I didn’t realize that some thing was wrong with the TeddyBears. I thought that Dugal had straightened everything out with them and the Pigs?” said Craig with some surprise and concern in his voice.
“Nut’en to worry yerr-own-self ‘bout. They was just a bit home sick. D’Colonel phoned the War Office looking for someone wit’ some ‘perience wit’ TBears, ‘pecially Irish ones. Well t’ought of me right away. I served along side many Irish troopers when I was Regimental Sergeant Major of our own Princess Pats. I spent many pleasant hours hiding out in cellars wit’ them in d’Peace Maken Forces in Bosnia. Now unhappily I’am bit at loose ends, livin’ wit’ the family ‘up the Prior’ since my arm was mashed-in some, far over there, and I had to retire. I jumped at a chance to do somet’en interestin’. Had a meet’ng here one night ‘while back, but you and the wife were ‘way for the week-end. ‘Guess it slipped our minds. They suggested I sign up as tutor t’the TeddyBears - the little one with green feet, other with the Red Tuque and d’BigWhite one who don’t talk much. Really don’t need a tutor ya’ know, just kind of suitable companion, but t’ings are working out just fine - eh?.
Now ‘bout the winter car I was speaken’ to Mr Haemish of. It’s a nice blue Nova. Now, to be sure it’s not the newest and it does have some bits painted primer, but beauty is only skin deep eh, and there’s plenty of room for all the skis, lunches and us in the back seat. I t’ink we can get it for only $950 - Let’s all off and pay a visit?”
(It had been far too much in one day for Craig, so he did not even bother to argue, so got his cheque book and jacket. He then called Zita.)
They all piled in the Blue Car, and drove up highway 7, which passed through the Ottawa Valley, until they reached the small town where BT-McG’s somewhat friend’s car was parked.
They all got out and had a long look. It had passed with some grace into middle age, and showed the evidence of attention to the normal rigors of car life in a cold climate. The rust spots had been filled and sprayed, here and there, with the white primer over the original blue paint. The interior was quite clean, though the tires were not of the first quality. It tried hard to look as dignified as it could.
Craig talked to the owner - while the Blue Car visited with the Nova.
In a few minutes they had agreed to a price of $800, but before he wrote the cheque he returned to the Blue car to find out what it had learned. He sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the radio and just listened...
“It has lived 60,000 rather hard miles, and is more then a little tired. Its battery and alternator should be retired, and it feels a little unsteady on its feet as its front springs are careworn, and its tires are, well shall we say, they are not what they could be, but it would be happy to spend its last few years being useful. You know how much we all hate having to become useless. All the guys and I think it would try its very best.”
Craig said “Well what more could anyone want from anything but for it to try its best.” and turned off the radio. Moments later he signed the cheque.
The Nova started up and Zita drove it back to town, accompanied by Haemish and Callum and all the Queen’s Own. Beauregard and BT-McG stayed with Craig in the Blue Car. On the ride home they all talked about things that were important to them. The spread of parliamentary democracy, the new fur fashions from Germany, the scandalous price of good wines and nice houses, and the present state of the North American car industry.
(Both of them had been deeply concerned that Craig might have bought a foreign car, putting many of their friends in GM out of work, and perhaps adversely affecting their own stock portfolios. As the city approached they hummed and harrumphed for a while, commented on the state of the road and the Colour of the evening sky; then taking their courage in their hands they quietly admitted to having cut out of the newspaper all the advertisements for Honda, Peugeot and Aston-Martin, so he would not be tempted. The Blue Car was completely in agreement and launched into a rather convoluted—and not particular accurate lecture on the world auto trade. By the time the city’s traffic began to intrude they all thought themselves quite clever and very patriotic. Naturally they were also very satisfied with themselves — which was the normal state for all Animeaux.)
When they got home they left the Nova at the service station where they changed all the worn parts. The next day they all went to Commercial Tire where they bought four new snow tires.
When this had been accomplished they drove over Craig’s Mother’s place. She had kindly offered her garage to the Blue Car for the winter. After it had been parked, Zita covered it with a soft knit cover, and then they all wished it a good vacation. BT-McG left the last two years of Road&Track on the dash, for it to digest; then whole gang got into the Nova and drove off home.
The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.
Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.
Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.
Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.
“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.
Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.
I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.
(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)
Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.
Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)
My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.
Chapter Five
The Imposition of an Introduction
It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.
Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.
While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.
Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.
She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.
This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.
He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.
(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)
It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.
It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.
As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.
Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”
A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”
He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.
“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.
The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.
(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)
Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.
One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”
Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.
It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.
An Arrival
It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.
Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)
He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.
Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.
As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.
The Colonel
Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.
Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.
He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.
Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.
Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.
He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.
“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.
A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.
Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”
The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.
Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”
He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”
Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”
The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”
Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”
This quite animated the badger. New recruits!
He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.
(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)
Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.
As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.
He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.
Chapter Six
The Seeds of Change
All in all, life in the house was unfolding with a degree of civility that had been missing for many years, and all who lived there were really quite content. Dugal ingratiated himself in the neighbourhood by wondering around on spring mornings, passing on his mother’s gardening tips on raising roses, tulips and politicians with the neighbours.
Naturally entropy insisted that this could not last.
On one auspicious day, Miss Zita arrived - this time to stay. She had been a visitor to the house for quite a long time, but as to actually residing there; well as you can imagine it rather perturbed the Pigs, who at first behaved themselves even when no one was looking. The Dragon Dragoons became rather withdrawn and the Colonel waited, and began a new book on JEB Stewart.
One of the very first things Zita did on arriving was to find room for all her TeddyBear companions along the far wall of the front bedroom. Unfortunately, within hours of their embarkation they began sticking out their tongues and making rude hand gestures at the Queen’s Own Pigs - who lived on, and in the bookshelf on the other side of the bed.
As you may well imagine the TeddyBears were very nervous about being dislocated. They were quite as confused at moving into Craig’s house - as the others were at their arrival. This accounted for their rather shabby behaviour, and the resulting escalation.
When the TeddyBears would stick out their tongues, the Pigs would write rude quotations in Gaelic on paper aeroplanes - and hurl them across the room. As time passed it just got worse.
The Queen’s Own became especially fond of mocking a small TeddyBear with green checked feet. This TeddyBear was a recent addition, having only recently emigrated with Zita from the County Meath, and was, as a result feeling quite fragile, and more than a bit shy. Most of the Pigs found his checkered green feet and matching bow tie, quite provincial, and very comical. They laughed at him a lot, which understandably embarrassed, and hurt his feelings. This caused him to hide all day long under the window shade at the head of the bed.
As could be expected, this made all the other TeddyBears furious, and as a result the whole bedroom was very unsettled.
One day while all of this was going on; tongues sticking out and obscure Gaelic curses floating through the room, both the Colonel, who naturally had the Gaelic, and Zita entered the room. They were shocked! Dugal ordered the Pigs to attention, and Zita had the TeddyBears turned around facing the wall.
Zita said “Thank goodness that they could not understand what the Pigs were saying or it would have turned into a series of ill judged donnybrooks just like that.”
The Colonel was astonished. He asked “Achhh nu, you’ll be excusing me your ladyship, but would it be that you have the Gaelic?”
She replied “Of course. I’m from Ireland can’t you tell? See the shamrock stains behind my ear.”
The Colonel was pleased; as were all of the Queen’s Own Pigs. They had someone to talk to in their own language. Not even Craiglellachie could speak Gaelic - though some said it was better then his French.
He asked “And what should we be calling yourself, your ladyship?”
“Why back home in Dublin I am called Zita NíChaomhaigh.” she said with a degree of contentment, - you see she did not have the opportunity to speak Irish very often either. All of them - the Queen’s Own Pigs, the TeddyBears and the Colonel thought it to be a very good name, and more importantly, very proper indeed.
Colonel Blackthorn-Badger went downstairs leaving her to sort out the Pigs and TeddyBears. He informed the Dragoons that everything was back to normal, well as normal as it ever got in this house, he supposed. Before he retired for the evening he announced they should mind, the appearance of a bonny wee lass was not going to turn his head. He was never going to drink Irish Whisky; as long as some of the Real Stuff was available! He wondered off to read about Stonewall Jackson. The Dragons went back to sleep, content. Actually they both preferred Billy Bishop’s biography anyway.
Chapter Seven
New Names, Some New Companions, and An Old Car
It was sunny out, and the young Rhinosasauris desperately wanted to get away from the confines of the house; away from his brother, away from his studies - away from it all.
All in all it had been a very hard couple of months, what with his first year’s final exams from the correspondence school arriving on Tuesday, and then the very next day his brother announcing that they really should have new names; names everyone could pronounce. It all had been very hard on him. Up till now his life had been almost sedate.
Well, sedate for a Rhinosasauris anyway. He had to admit that his brother’s rescue from the terrorist bookstore, had certainly stirred up all the companions who lived with him in the house on Holmwood.
Now he really needed to get out in the fresh air for a while. That was why he wanted to ask Craig if they could go for a ride. Maybe they could use the Blue Car, take the roof off and drive fast playing loud music. That would take his mind off his exams and the long list of names that his brother kept leaving on top of the stereo receiver where they slept. He needed to get away for a while, and maybe even have fresh blueberry milkshakes.
To tell the truth he had been thinking about the new names for some while. He knew that no one could pronounce a Rhinosasauris name. They were mostly grumbles, a precise foot stomping and a rather delicate twist of their tails, so he knew that he would have to find a new name sooner or later, though just at this moment later seemed quite the attractive alternative.”
Like all Rhinosasaurises who dealt with Peoples, his brother had taken a Gaelic Nom de Peoples. This ancient lyric language seemed to almost roll off their tongues, and with a rather nice vanilla flavour. Also it could not be ignored, that his brother’s old crony; Colonel Dugal, had said that the ancient Celtic language was Magic, and that the name of everything was very important and very powerful, but he could not seem to find a name that sounded much like himself.
His brother had, after much soul searching, and listening to himself on Zita’s walkman, settled on the euphonic Haemish-Mór. He now wanted it embroidered over his jacket pocket.
The Colonel wore his Brigade of Guards badge sewn his sporran - and looked very official and consequential.
Haemish, having recently retired - with a pension - from the Mossad, sorely regretted not been able to wear his campaign medals or his smartly tailored paratroop uniform, but that was the promise he had made when he left that service, and a promise is a promise, especially to the Mossad, and especially from a Rhinosasauris.
Still, he considerably envied Dugal’s Imperial look.
Actually Queen Victoria herself would have been envious to see the way Colonel, The Honourable Dugal Blackthorn-Badger; 79th. Regiment of Foot, 51st. Highland Division, (S.A.S), (Ret.) GCMG, OBE, MC, DSO, and the coveted - Red and Black Order of Faisal The Bloody Minded, turned out each night to inspect his “Dragon Dragoon Guards” before they went on duty; after which he retired to his accustomed place in the dining room, with his big brass mug, a dram or two of his currently favorite Scotch, and one of his many large leather bound books.
Because of this slight feeling of being under turned-out, Haemish had asked Zita, very politely - if sometime - when she was not at all too busy - if she could put his new name on the collars of all his jackets, the inside of his best pith helmet, and perhaps embroider a small badge of a Rhinosasauris rampant on the front, if it was not too much trouble, ‘cause it would make him very happy and much more presentable and significant.
Ms. Kavanagh said that she would be only too happy to oblige Mister Haemish-Mór, if he would only draw her a picture of this proposed badge.
Which was how his little brother left him, lying on the bed watching Much Music, with piles of drawing paper all around him trying to design a badge based on an old photo of their great-uncle and Chinese Gordon, taken during the ill-famed defense of Khartomb.
As he walked down the hall he mused that at least his big brother had a real name, all he had were suggestions. Ranald, Fergus, Colin, Jamie. So many names, and if it was as important as Dugal said, he would have to think very carefully about it; especially since when he had passed all his exams and could put Dr. at the beginning.
He hopped down off the bookshelf, onto the bed, avoiding the drawing paper, jumped down on to the floor and ran out into hall. He did up the belt on his jacket, re-seated his helmet, and descended the stairs so that he would be available the next time a car ride was in the offing.
In the living room, the dragons were asleep; one leaning against the blue chair, the other was curled up under the small table, shaded by the left speaker. The Rhinosasauris waved at them anyway, because he had been brought up to be polite. He climbed over the sofa, along the bookshelf, and on to the big sideboard where all the stereo equipment and the Colonel lived.
Dugal was looking at the new version of “The Pines of Rome” that Craig had bought the week before. He was exceedingly glad to see the Little Rhinosasauris as now that Haemish’s little brother could push the “open” button while he dropped the little disc in to the tray, and then he could settle back for a quiet snooze in the Italian country side.
“Could use a hand here.” he said to the little Rhinosasauris and between them they put things to right. After all this exercise the Colonel asked what was one of the Clan Rhinosasauri doing downstairs, as they, the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own Pigs usually stayed upstairs; except when the refrigerator called or an adventure was in the offing.
The Rhinosasauris looked around before replying, “I want to get away from things for a while, perhaps go for a ride in the Blue car. I have had a lot to think about you see.”
Colonel Dugal did not usually pry into others private affairs, and contented himself with saying that he had heard Craiglellachie-liath was going shopping after lunch, so maybe he should sit on the dining room table where he could not fail to be noticed. The Rhinosasauris thought this was an excellent hint and he scrambled up onto the dining room table and promptly fell asleep on his hat, with the wind gently blowing along the Appian Way in the background.
Asleep he faintly heard the familiar sound of a tub of ice cream being opened, and realized it was time to awake. As he rolled over he caught his hat on his horn so that when he sat up all he could see was the inside of his hat. He was mortified and it took several seconds to get it on properly, and straighten up his jacket. When he looked around Craig was lying on the sofa with his feet in his chair reading a book, Zita was on the other side of the room looking through her newspaper. Both had empty bowls of ice-cream in their laps.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said Craig “but if you must sleep through out lunch, the ice-cream usually disappears without a spoonful being left.” He looked over towards the brown chair.
“He’s already a little chubby, even for a Rhinosasauris, if you ask Me.” said Zita, with a hint of guilt in her voice. The Rhinosasauris was still far too embarrassed about his struggle with his hat to notice the comments about his waistline.
While he had been asleep the Colonel had mentioned that “The wee lad” wanted to go for a ride, because something was on his mind. Craig and Zita had decided that when he awoke, Craig would suggest that the two of them go for a ride in the country.
“I have to go out and test the new tires, would you like to come along?” he asked.
“Why yes that would be quit nice, as long as you are sure I would be no bother.” he said. So Craig got into his blue chair and helped the Rhinosasauris off the dining room table, grabbed his wallet and his best driving gloves and moments later the two were off to explore the world, at least a few hours of it.
The Car Ride
The younger Rhinosasauris always had liked the Blue Car, although why it had a large gold bird on the hood, he could not understand. It never sounded like a bird. It usually sounded like the hubbub that usually followed the regular Bear argument as to the role of the World Bank and the WTO in the development of non-partisan exploitation of the world’s honey resources.
Since even the largest Rhinosasauri are not too big, Craig folded a blanket into a square, so that his accomplice could sit on it, look out the window and still use the seat belt. They took the roof panels off and put them in the back seat along with the chair, rummaged in the glove compartment for some driving around music - settling on Warren Zevon and then they set off into the warm summer afternoon, music blaring and exhaust rumbling.
The Rhinosasauris found Zita’s sun glasses stuck in the sun visor and put them on, did up his chin strap, adjusted the seat, and sat back to enjoy the sights.
They went down Bank Street, past the used stereo store. They surprised a BMW going up the entrance ramp onto the Queensway. The Rhinosasauris thumbed his horn, said some awful things in German at it, and chortled to itself as he remembered the drubbing his old Ferrari used to hand out to all those smart-alack Mercedes’ and Auto Unions; but that was a long time ago, before he had reluctantly stored the car in the smaller stable on Mme. Deneuve’s estate in far Province. Anyway they were off to see the country and to experience new things in the wilds. Well not the very wild - the land around Ottawa was not like his parent’s home in Vale of Haut Blu, but at least he could smell the countryside and that was enough for now.
Most of his time was usually spent reading his books and practicing his writing, so he could do exceptionally well in the Doctor by Mail correspondence school, run by the Royal Rhinosasauris School of Medicine. Unfortunately the school trustees in Ottawa had never ever heard of the Rhinosasauris, and therefore didn’t believe in integrating them in the schools. This had been very disappointing for him. He had gone to school in Tanganyika, Paris, Cairo and Istanbul while traveling, but somehow the Peoples in North America couldn’t allow themselves believe in a small rhinoceros that could speak (Which is what a Rhinosasauris is - for those of you who didn’t know or had somehow forgotten), or Imperial Badgers from the SAS or Dragons or even that TeddyBears have feelings and are very musical (many being Celt, you see), or that most of the Plush Pigs in the world are Scots and speak Gaelic (though not very good Gaelic, mind you) - There was not a smidgen of imagination left.
Well, he made an exception for Craiglellachie - but no one ever suggested that he wasn’t a bit strange. The Pigs said that it was growing up in the sixties that did it. According to them his mind was filled with the most peculiar things - Maps of Trafalgar and Culloden, amplifiers with pointy feet, tubes, tanks, and Angus-Ög, just to shave the surface.
Funny pieces of electronic equipment always littered the house and needed to be guarded by the Colonel’s Dragon Dragoon Guards (Airmobile), or so they claimed.
There had also been some discrete discussion amongst all the Animeaux as to why he wasn’t able to walk so very well. The Colonel said that Craiglellachie-liath had thought about so many difficult things for so long that he forgotten how to walk and that’s why he needed the blue chair. But the Colonel and the Dragons had been with him a long time and were inclined to be just a bit romantic about some things, he had heard.
And well, as for Zita - she was too young to know any better and anyway she was of the Gael and therefore was Magic, or so said all the Pigs. And they would know.
While the Rhinosasaurises was quietly thinking about all these things, they got off the Queensway and headed towards Carleton Place. Now he knew where they were going! To Mac’s old house. Well this would be fun he thought, he wondered if Mac made any kind of blueberry milkshakes. They rumbled up in front of the old log house parked the car and went around the side into the back yard.
The big Apple-green International four-by-four was in the drive, so they knew that Mac was home. When they looked around they saw the small hill of canoes growing beside the little barn, so they wandered down and peeked in. Mac was there looking at the size of the room and the lengths of the canoes.
Craig said “Might as well stop now, they won’t shrink no matter how long you stare at them”.
Mac said, “Yes they will - I have been staring at them for two weeks and they are much shorter now - do I get introduced to your friend?”
Craig replied “Oh, I am sorry, Of course; Mister Robert Grant MacPherson, this is my friend the younger Rhinosasauris.”
All of a sudden the Rhinosasauris said “I do have a real name you know!” and proceeded to make several snorts and three grunts, while at the same time stomping the ground in time with his rear leg, giving a quick whirl of his tail he sat down.
Craig said, “Well I have never seen you do THAT before.”
The Rhinosasauris replied that he had never been formally introduced to anyone before, and then big tears started to trickle down behind the sun glasses, “But no one can ever pronounce our names, and it is not very genteel to be called the Younger Rhinosasauris all the time, especially when I do have a name and it’s not my fault that you Peoples can’t say it.” His tears rolled down his nose and hit the ground. They left little muddy spots in the dust as he walked back and forth with his hands clasped in front of him. He felt quite alone for the first time since arriving at the house on Holmwood.
Mac asked if they would like to go for a walk down to the river and over the bridge and see if they together all three of them could find an answer to this problem. (Mr. Mac had been a parole officer and was used to tricky situations you see.)
The Rhinosasauris lifted the sun glasses and wiped his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else had seen the tears. Even if they were not great in size the Rhinosasauris were all very great in dignity.
On the way down the hill he said “My brother has decided to become “Mister Haemish-Mór”, which is a Celtic name, you see. Celtic names are most always used when we are out of the Far-World. Dugal says that they are quite the most appropriate names for us; but I am having the devil’s own time finding a proper and fitting one for myself.”
Both David Craig Taylor and Robert Grant MacPherson agreed with the Colonel that Gaelic was the very best of languages for names.
Mac said that he had just finished an exciting book where the hero was a brave defender of lost causes, either the Stewart Kings or a reasonable tax policy, he could not remember which. This hero’s name was Callum McCallum.
“Callum McCallum!” The little Rhinosasauris said quite abruptly. He repeated it to himself as he walked down to the other end of the bridge. He sang it to the wind and shouted it into the rushing water. He wrote it on the ground with his toe. He sat on the railing and copied it into his pocket diary several times. After all this, he skipped back to where Craig and Mac were sitting on the edge of the bridge. He said that it sounded just wonderful - and so very much like his actual name, though neither Craig or Mac could hear the similarity. He took off his pith helmet and threw it high into the air and cheered “Hooray!”
Mac caught it just before it flew into the river, and said “I got some fresh blueberries in. How about we go back to the house and make up some milkshakes?”
As they strolled back to the house they could hear the occasional small tear falling from the Rhinosasauris Callum McCallum, but he was reciting “Scots W’hae Wi’Wallace Bled”, and “Young Lochinvar” and hopping from one foot to the other so they figured everything was really quite alright.
Chapter Eight
Winter Develops a Southern Accent
It was only a few weeks after their trip to the country, when Zita was out, Craig was working on the computer, and everyone else was upstairs in the den watching “Zulu”, when the door bell rang. Craig answered it. It was The Police. The two Dragons sprinted for the rear door, everyone else rushed to conceal their duplicate passports and bearer bonds. Except for Dugal, who being an old hand at this, had long ago hid his bags of plastic explosives, and several casks of perhaps slightly under taxed scotch.
Downstairs Craig had opened the door and while his friend Staff Sergeant Bill did his best to ignore the incriminating commotion, and asked “Where’s the coffee? Any doughnuts?”
Craig replied, “What are you doing here? Too boring just driving around turning on the siren and being a nuisance? There’s coffee in the kitchen, I think.”
“Thanks - Is it fresh? - Though I am actually here on official business.”
Craig said “Great. You wouldn’t recognize fresh coffee if it was poured in your ears. When did you get so picky? Anyway I thought I had all those parking tickets paid up.”
“Look I’ve got some sort of refugee in the car, we picked it up at the train station, hiding in the lost luggage room - won’t talk, well not to us anyway, but he had a note pinned to the inside of his hat - your address. It was written on the stationary of some lawyer in New Orleans - know anyone down there?”
In truth, Craig’s old friend Bonnie was a lawyer in New Orleans, but he had not heard from her in months. She was running afoul of the current politicians down there the last time he had been talking her. He hoped everything was alright.
“Why yes I do, which is of course irrelevant; come on Bill let’s see exactly what you have out there.”
Sergeant Bill reached back and opened the screen door a little wider, and a rather spiffily attired lion strolled in. He was tall, wearing a tightly tailored, bright red shooting jacket, and highly polished riding boots. Incongruously he had a train engineer’s stripped hat on at a jaunty angle. He looked around quite slowly, walked over and got up on the sofa. He had not yet uttered a word.
“Can I see the note?” Craig asked. Bill handed over the torn and much crumpled piece of paper. The address on the top of the page was Canal Street, “Well it seems as if it must be Miss Bonnie who sent him.” he thought aloud.
Bill nodded and said that he would call back in a couple of days, if Craig would take responsibility for the stranger. He left with a pocket full of cookies, and a cup of coffee, both of which he promised to return.
Craig sat down on the sofa and looked at the new arrival. He cut quite a figure in the bright jacket and CNR hat, his blonde mane peeking out, all askew. He offered the stranger a cup of coffee, and received only a quick nod in response. He went to the kitchen to pour him the last cup, and to find the small tin of chocolate biscuits Zita kept in reserve for such occasions. After they had finished their snack in silence Craig suggested that the guest meet the remainder of the household, and brought the lion upstairs to the den where the other Animeaux had gathered for the nightly cinema-fest, and attempted to introduce him.
This proved a bit difficult; as “Zulu” had reached a very exciting point and it made the formalities seem a bit much, so he said “Listen, my friend Bonnie has sent this gentleman up here for a visit, so make him comfortable.”
Everyone moved over a bit on the sofa and Callum put the bowel of curried popcorn into their centre - none had said a word. Craig shook his head and went back down stairs.
When Zita got home from the fashion show, he said, “We seem to have a new house guest upstairs. A visitor from Louisiana. Don’t know his name and he won’t, or can’t talk. He had our address written on some of Bonnie’s letterhead. I’ve tried calling her but there has been no answer.
He is up watching a movie with the rest of them. Perhaps Callum or Haemish can figure out what’s going on.”
The Secret of Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon
Later, when they retired to bed they noticed that the lion was sharing the shelf with Callum and Haemish, and was fast asleep.
“Well do either of you know what is going on?” Craig asked.
Callum said “He has not uttered a word, aside from please; thank-you; and pass the cocoa. He does have a pronounced southern accent and appears to be unusually neat and tidy in his habits.”
Zita said that this was a worthwhile trait that some could copy with success. Craig and the Animeaux ignored this comment.
The TeddyBear with the Red Toque said, “I asked him where he got his spiffy engineer’s hat. He told me that he had traded it for his Fedora somewhere around Wawa - Though I don’t know where that is myself. He said that he was never going back home and wanted to look more “Native”, but nobody had any Montreal Canadien’s hockey sweaters that they would trade, but he thought the hat would do until he could join the Royal North West-Mounted Police—that’s why he bought the red jacket you see. I think he was disappointed that Staff Sergeant Bill had a car instead of a horse, but he realized that perhaps the cars were warmer in winter. It seems that your friend Bonnie told him that this would be a good place for him to stay until things cooled down in Baton Rouge.”
“Why do things have to cool off in Baton Rouge?” Haemish asked.
“I don’t know if I can be sure of what I heard, he was talking very softly, and as the rest of you were whooping it up, it was quite noisy.”
He turned to Zita and said, “One of those Pigs was trying to copy Michael Cain’s accent, without much success I must say, and everyone else was singing “We’re Soldiers of the Queen” but I think there had been a duel. Some sort of an affair of honour he said.”
Both Haemish and Callum were only too well aware of affairs of honour, being Rhinosasaurises. They pulled out one of their better plaid blankets from under the stereo, and wrapped it around the sleeping lion’s shoulders.
“It must have been very hard on him to leave his home - I wonder if she was just very beautiful or simply overwhelming? Said Callum.
Zita asked “Why must you two always assume that anything to do with honour has to refer to a woman?”
“If it is an affair of honour its always, always over a woman.” said Callum.
Haemish Harrumphed, and Callum quickly said “Well some times, but very, very rarely its over a case of fine vintage port.”, another harrumph flooded the room, “ - or a bent intake valve on ones Ferrari Cabriolet could be considered sufficient cause for a minor duel, I guess.” said Callum rather guiltily.
(As has been said the Rhinosasaurises had a finely tuned sense of honour and it appeared that either Callum or Haemish had been rather rigorous in its’ application at one time or another.)
“Why don’t all of you Animeaux try to put him at ease and find out why Bonnie sent him here.” said Craig as they settled down to watch the National News.
A few days had passed when one evening while Craig was reading the “Cheap and Excellent Automobiles for sale” section of the paper they all came sliding down the banister; each doing a back flip dismount just before the newel post brought them up short - or at least shorter than they already were.
The lion stepped forward and made a half bow, “I am pleasured to make your acquaintance. I am very grateful to you for offering me this sanctuary, while the forces of evil and despair are being taken care of by my avocat. Mizz Bonnie assured me that you were very hospitable, but she neglected to inform me that you already had several charming house guests. I am afraid that all of this has taken me quite by surprise and I must surely apologize for my perhaps taciturn behaviour of the other night.”
At this, he swept off his hat bowed towards Craig and Dugal and then turned, walked over bowed and kissed Zita’s hand.
“Beauregard Clayton-Lyon at your service. If I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call on me or mine - though unfortunately at the moment I am rather at a disadvantage since my dear mother’s half of my family is rather put out with me. But my other side - the Savannah Claytons - have assured me of their full and undying support until this, this, ‘disorder’ is all over, or until my blackguard cousin Montague chokes on his own bile and expires to the relief of most of three parishes.”
All the rest of the Animeaux applauded and went looking for chairs so they could get into the freezer.
As they trooped into the kitchen Craig asked, “Might I be as bold as to ask what small matter of honour has brought you all the way up here?”
Beauregard replied “Well it is quite delicate matter. The reputation of a married woman is at stake.”
Craig said he was really quite familiar with the reputations of married women, and that he was unlikely to be shaken by any revelations Mister Beauregard might make.
Beauregard looked around the room before replying “I shan’t go into needless detail, but suffice it to say that Miss Therese is from an old Cajun family and has a rather casual attitude to bathing costumes. But regardless of how it looked, Cousin Montague had no cause to make the accusations he did. ‘Specially as he couldn’t fence his way through a cotton field, and anyway he won’t really need his right arm as he is mostly left handed—the other wounds will probably heal in a year or two - if he is lucky and does not go to his quack brother for treatment - I would have more faith in Mister Callum, and he has only finished the first year of his correspondence school. Now it seems that the judicial authorities take a dim view of dueling nowadays. That’s what Mizz Bonnie D’Avocat suggested before she told me that a fair trial was unlikely and I should make myself scarce for a while.
I also heard that Miss Therese’s 12 older brothers have finally seen through my cousin’s cruel charade, and intend to give him a thorough thrashing or a lynching - depending on the weather that day. Mizz Bonnie thought that I should be out of the country while all this settles itself out.”
Craig said all things considered that perhaps this was the most sensible suggestion and that Beauregard was welcome to stay for as long as he wanted.
By this time all the others had stood shoulder on shoulder until they got the freezer door open and rummaged around until they found the ice cream, where Zita had hidden it, and were looking for the chunky peanut butter - to make their world famous peach-ripple ice-cream and peanut butter on rye sandwiches. Beauregard hearing the commotion excused himself, as he wanted to write down the recipe - at home he was noted as something of a chef, he said as he rushed into the kitchen.
Summer Wishes - Winter Cars
A few moments later Haemish walked into the living room, sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap, and said, “We really must do something about planning for winter. We don’t want to be caught unprepared. Just look what happened to Dugal’s friends in the Khyber Pass back in the 80s. All lost for the want of a little planning. We mustn’t be caught unprepared. The winds are blowing from the north, and the far wound in my leg has been troubling me at night. I am sure that we shall have snow before the turning of the moon.”
The fact that it was nearly October made this forecast just a bit redundant, but Craig held his tongue and asked what spiffy ideas the Animeaux had been hatching to resolve the predicament of a long, boring winter.
“Sure we are working at it.” came the ominous reply. Craig shuddered.
It was but a few weeks later when the Animeaux began their schemes for overcoming the onset of onerous winter. The newly proclaimed Callum McCallum announced that he wanted to perfect his downhill style. Dugal saw winter as a fine excuse for his preference of sitting in front of the fire with a good book, a brass mug and his private brand of scotch, listening to the wind howl. All the TeddyBears said that they fully intended to take up cross country skiing this year. The Dragons hated winter because their wings always iced up. Craig was on their side; he disliked winter and felt it should be fought on all fronts, and at all costs. He also felt that in spite of their protestations the TeddyBears were far more interested in the fashion side of the sport as they seemed to spend many more hours thumbing through “Vogue” and “Elle” than “Sports Illustrated”.
Haemish-Mór seemed to discover his renewed interest in downhill skiing about the same time he discovered that his Miss Tanya had moved to Ottawa, and fully intended to continue to spend her winter hours getting quite cold - but looking great - on skis. Zita was not impressed. She also thought all of this was just an excuse for everyone of them to put in an order for new and trendy winter clothes.
The thought of winter brought on a lengthy discussion about the Blue Car. After overhearing the recreational plans, it had stated, that it was not a station wagon, and had no intention of spending its winter traipsing about, carrying one and all from one cold, snowy place to another. It didn’t much like the snow and anyway Craig had promised it a winter vacation.
It’s attitude was not in the least surprising, as its big engine and the snow seemed always to be at odds, and to be entirely truthful the Car was rather out of its element and became duly embarrassed when it would spin its tires unintentionally, or slide around corners. It would always make the corners but with a certain lack of style and precision that aggravated it and terrified on-lookers.
The TeddyBears had also quietly pointed out that there was not a great deal of extra room in the Blue Car especially since the trunk could not hold any of their skis. The emerging view was that it should get to spend the winter in well earned repose, and they should get a different automobile for the winter toils. The Animeaux offered a combined three dollars and thirty seven cents, apiece to help pay for this, which was, all things considered, generous of them.
So Craig and Zita continued to look for cars, big ones and medium ones, tiny and little one were excluded since they would be unable to take all the skis, down jackets, and Spandex pants that the entire household seemed to be requiring before approaching the slopes.
(In spite of these efforts no suitable vehicle appeared. By now it had turned into November and the Blue Car was seeing its vacation float away with the fall leaves.)
BT-McG makes His Appearance
It was three days before the end of the month, while Craig was unsuccessfully trying to light a log fire, that he felt a presence behind him. He glanced to the side and noticed that most all the Animeaux were standing around him in a large semicircle. Haemish handed him some dry kindling, and Callum suggested a quick dash of kerosene then said, “We had a meeting, and all think that you need our help finding a winter omnibus. We have come down to have dessert with you, and brought along some suggestions. Monsieur Beauregard owned several cars before his present ‘difficulties’ and he said that if he could borrow your tools we could check out the condition of any potential bargains ourselves.”
Haemish said, “We have received a very kind offer of assistance from Big TeddyBear McGruph. His second uncle used to sell cars “up t’valley”. Though which valley I am not too sure. He says we should buy a ‘Mar’can car, since they are in plentiful supply, and can be maintained with a number two screw driver and strong tape. Now actually he seems to favour cars manufactured by some military gentleman with the rather odd family name of Motors - Though I must say I have never seen him on the retired list. - He said his second cousin, on his mother’s side, has a niece who has a friend who has an elderly Nova that is looking for a new home. Now I a not at all familiar with Mister McGruph’s family, though the TeddyBears seem to trust him without question, and he has been a big help getting Monsieur Beauregard settled.”
Craig looked up from his attempt to re-ignite the logs, and said “Big TeddyBear McGruph, I don’t remember any Big TeddyBear McGruph staying here?”
Haemish called out “BT-McG - would you have the time to come over here for a moment.”
From amidst the mass of Animeaux stepped a medium to large, very furry, dark-chocolate brown TeddyBear, wearing a beige pith helmet with a red hat band and a regimental badge affixed to it’s front. The helmet was nearly identical to those always worn by Haemish and Callum McCallum. His black eyes were deep set, almost invisible behind the ruff of opulent fur. There was a bright red silk sash running from his shoulder to his hip. A small Canadian flag was pinned to it.
He stopped in front of Craig and extended his paw; after wiping all traces of ice cream from it. There was a rough leather patch on the inside of his fore-arm.
“G’day, pleased to meet ch’er. Nice day eh”
“Well I suppose so.” said Craig, “And I am pleased to meet you, though you do seem to have the advantage of me. I understand that we have been neighbours for a while and I apparently did not notice it.”
“No hard feelin’s.” said BT-McG, “T’be honest, should have introduced my self weeks ago, but y’know how one t’ing leads t’nother.... and getting TeddyBears ship shape and Bristol fashion was tak’ng all of my attentions.”
“I didn’t realize that some thing was wrong with the TeddyBears. I thought that Dugal had straightened everything out with them and the Pigs?” said Craig with some surprise and concern in his voice.
“Nut’en to worry yerr-own-self ‘bout. They was just a bit home sick. D’Colonel phoned the War Office looking for someone wit’ some ‘perience wit’ TBears, ‘pecially Irish ones. Well t’ought of me right away. I served along side many Irish troopers when I was Regimental Sergeant Major of our own Princess Pats. I spent many pleasant hours hiding out in cellars wit’ them in d’Peace Maken Forces in Bosnia. Now unhappily I’am bit at loose ends, livin’ wit’ the family ‘up the Prior’ since my arm was mashed-in some, far over there, and I had to retire. I jumped at a chance to do somet’en interestin’. Had a meet’ng here one night ‘while back, but you and the wife were ‘way for the week-end. ‘Guess it slipped our minds. They suggested I sign up as tutor t’the TeddyBears - the little one with green feet, other with the Red Tuque and d’BigWhite one who don’t talk much. Really don’t need a tutor ya’ know, just kind of suitable companion, but t’ings are working out just fine - eh?.
Now ‘bout the winter car I was speaken’ to Mr Haemish of. It’s a nice blue Nova. Now, to be sure it’s not the newest and it does have some bits painted primer, but beauty is only skin deep eh, and there’s plenty of room for all the skis, lunches and us in the back seat. I t’ink we can get it for only $950 - Let’s all off and pay a visit?”
(It had been far too much in one day for Craig, so he did not even bother to argue, so got his cheque book and jacket. He then called Zita.)
They all piled in the Blue Car, and drove up highway 7, which passed through the Ottawa Valley, until they reached the small town where BT-McG’s somewhat friend’s car was parked.
They all got out and had a long look. It had passed with some grace into middle age, and showed the evidence of attention to the normal rigors of car life in a cold climate. The rust spots had been filled and sprayed, here and there, with the white primer over the original blue paint. The interior was quite clean, though the tires were not of the first quality. It tried hard to look as dignified as it could.
Craig talked to the owner - while the Blue Car visited with the Nova.
In a few minutes they had agreed to a price of $800, but before he wrote the cheque he returned to the Blue car to find out what it had learned. He sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the radio and just listened...
“It has lived 60,000 rather hard miles, and is more then a little tired. Its battery and alternator should be retired, and it feels a little unsteady on its feet as its front springs are careworn, and its tires are, well shall we say, they are not what they could be, but it would be happy to spend its last few years being useful. You know how much we all hate having to become useless. All the guys and I think it would try its very best.”
Craig said “Well what more could anyone want from anything but for it to try its best.” and turned off the radio. Moments later he signed the cheque.
The Nova started up and Zita drove it back to town, accompanied by Haemish and Callum and all the Queen’s Own. Beauregard and BT-McG stayed with Craig in the Blue Car. On the ride home they all talked about things that were important to them. The spread of parliamentary democracy, the new fur fashions from Germany, the scandalous price of good wines and nice houses, and the present state of the North American car industry.
(Both of them had been deeply concerned that Craig might have bought a foreign car, putting many of their friends in GM out of work, and perhaps adversely affecting their own stock portfolios. As the city approached they hummed and harrumphed for a while, commented on the state of the road and the Colour of the evening sky; then taking their courage in their hands they quietly admitted to having cut out of the newspaper all the advertisements for Honda, Peugeot and Aston-Martin, so he would not be tempted. The Blue Car was completely in agreement and launched into a rather convoluted—and not particular accurate lecture on the world auto trade. By the time the city’s traffic began to intrude they all thought themselves quite clever and very patriotic. Naturally they were also very satisfied with themselves — which was the normal state for all Animeaux.)
When they got home they left the Nova at the service station where they changed all the worn parts. The next day they all went to Commercial Tire where they bought four new snow tires.
When this had been accomplished they drove over Craig’s Mother’s place. She had kindly offered her garage to the Blue Car for the winter. After it had been parked, Zita covered it with a soft knit cover, and then they all wished it a good vacation. BT-McG left the last two years of Road&Track on the dash, for it to digest; then whole gang got into the Nova and drove off home.
Note:
Master Emmet has graduated. Ontario scholar, Honour Roll and the award for the highest marks in History in the school. Three cheers and a Tiger!
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Les Animeaux
LES ANIMEAUX
by
D. Craig Taylor
Thursday, June 28, 2012
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE PEOPLE
Craig Taylor
Zita Taylor
All of Craig and Zita’s Friends and a very few of their Relatives
The entire membership of the SAS Flight Attendants Union
THE ANIMEAUX
Colonel, The Honourable, Dugal Blackthorn-Badger, 79th Foot (Ret.)
Haemish-Mór - RRRR (Ret.)
Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon - An Exile
Albert Grator Esq.
Callum McCallum - Haemish’s younger brother
RSM Bruin Theodore McGruph - late of The PPCLI.
Tutk - A Great FuryBear
THE IMPERIOUS TEDDYBEAR ZOUAVES
Allywishes Bear
Le Duc Douglas Louis D’Orleans DeBellevu Furbanques
L.L. Bear
Mr. Bearkowski
Osgoode Small (QC)
Roncivales Navigator (Captain RN. Ret.)
Seamus “Slugger” O’Toole
The BigWhite Bear
The Lady that’s Known as Lou
The TeddyBear with GreenFeet
The TeddyBear with The-Red-Toque
THE QUEEN’S OWN PIG IRREGULARS
ArchiBold McOinqle (of That Ilk)
Maes Howe (PH.D.)
F-X McGurq (PH.D.)
L.B, “Spike” Pig (PH.D.) Esq.
Winston Hog’Inn Däs (Oxon.)
THE FEARSOME FIRST FENCIBLES
Alexsandair Grant of Freuchie
Festis Grant of Glenmoriston
Angus SteadFastt
BatmanBear - Dugal’s soldier servant
Halvadar-Major Rupert Palantine Finehorn RRRR
Horatio ‘Potomus
Mr. Springfield Buffalo (Late of Lord Strathcona’s Horse)
T.T. McGruph
Tim The Bear
THE FIRST DRAGON DRAGOON GUARDS
Rhome Clay Esq.
Tre’r Ceiri The Sliver Dragon
The TeddyBear with the damaged arms (A Most Honourary Dragon)
MINDERS AND WATCHERS
Mr. Ajax
Mr. Achilles
Mr. Exeter
Mr. Brun
Mr. Blanc
PYRATES
By their Nefarious Billions......
Chapter One
Story One
The Beginnings - One of Many Possible
It was a deep gray depressing October afternoon. Winter was busy forecasting itself overhead. To hide from its onset he had been browsing, as was his habit, in some of Ottawa
As he meandered his way past mashed cardboard boxes of obscure Macedonian poetry, and frayed Saskatchewan
From their battered and disheveled appearance he knew at once that they were some unfortunates captured by the increasingly desperate and despicable Pyrates, and interned in that infamous “L’Animeaux Perdu” depot, in French South-by-North East Africa.
Fortuitously he was quite knowledgeable where Animeaux were concerned, having witnessed the endless extravagances of “Dragon Dragoon Guards”, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars”; a rather motley crew of Bears, and Colonel Blackthorn-Badger for several years now. Therefore it was with an abiding sadness that he looked across the deeply bowed and grimy shelves at the small huddled and dejected group. He would consult with the Colonel and the Dragoon Guards as soon as he got home. Perhaps together they could right this all too common scandal.
That night, over dinner, he told Zita about the small herd of hostage Animeaux. Naturally she was appalled. As she had often said, “Living amid shelves of tawdry third-rate romances and worse biographies was a poor fate for any self-respecting Animeaux.”
(And all the Animeaux that they were acquainted with, were quite respectable, -- well most of the time anyway, and that was usually all that could be said for anyone of us.)
As they continued with their dessert, Colonel Dugal arrived. He had just climbed the stairs from the basement, where he had been checking on the state of his “supplies”. He stopped by the dining room doorway and listened intently.
Now Dugal was usually found with his long black nose pushed far into some new book; trying to re-fight Gettysburg or defend the lost residence in Kabul
After a few silent moments, he strode into the dining room, and took to one of the side chairs and said, “Craiglellachie, we must have a powwow. I seem to have misplaced an old friend of mine. Careless I know; but did you perhaps see a tolerably stocky, closely cropped, rather natty looking Rhinosasauris in that crowd of unfortunates?”
Craig said “Well no. Actually I don’t know what a Rhinosasauris is. A relative of the rhinoceros I assume?”
The Colonel was appalled. He grasped his walking stick and gasped, “By the Great Gods in all the Heavens. Ahhh.... No wonder the wee Animeaux are disappearing at such a rate, when not even fine Peoples like you ken The Rhinosasauri! ‘Is no right. No right t’all!”
He rocked back and forth for a few moments, bracing himself on his graying tail. He stopped and looked off into the distance and said, “Now whist a while and listen to your betters for a change; for your information The Rhinosasauri are one of the most majestic creatures on the once beautiful Earth. Along with Badgers – naturally - the formidable Great FuryBears, the Vainful Lions, the Whimsical Wolves, and their extremely dangerous friends, the Worrisome Wolverines, Various sundry Whales and some of our very peculiar Porcine friends, and, and.... well Others!”
Dugal shook his head several times, and then turned away and looked out the dining room window with a sad, wistful and slightly older look on his checkered face.
“Oh, I am sorry. I really didn’t know.” Craig said softly, not wishing to upset his old friend any further. Then Zita said that she would be off work the following day, and would risk sneaking into the bookstore to see if there were any Rhinosasauris matching Dugal’s description held captive.
He thanked her, and using his ever-present briar walking stick slowly got down from the chair, climbed over the sofa and onto the walnut cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment until he found one of his discs of “The Tannahall Weavers”. With some difficulty he placed the headphones atop of his ears and then withdrew into the familiar pipes and Bodhrán of his Caledonian home.
Craig and Zita were more than a little distressed, and a bit ashamed that they had let their old friend down. They decided to not let this happen again, if it was at all possible.
Chapter Two
The Rhinosasauri Appear
The very next night Zita arrived home, loaded down with her regular accumulation of parcels. Pounds of silk from here, bolts of cotton from there, a lump of velvet found somewhere, in addition, peeking out over her shoulder, from inside her knapsack, was, what could only have been a Rhinosasauris; looking a bit bedraggled, and perhaps just a tad apprehensive.
It was dressed in a much smudged, creased turquoise safari jacket, and had an often dented pith helmet tied onto its head with short pieces of frayed, knotted twine. Zita gently lowered the knapsack on to the living room floor.
The Colonel dropped his newest acquisition - a not too used copy of McPherson’s “Battle Cry of Freedom” and quickly climbed down from his chair.
“Damnation! - This here’s only a bairn. Great Goodness what is happening over there?” He shook his head in a fashion that suggested that the fall of The Empire was not altogether an advance for either Animeaux or Peoples, the hiding his concern behind regimental formality, he picked up his walking stick and marching into the living room, rested against the wicker end table.
“And now wha’s been happening t’ya laddie?” he asked in his best official voice.
(The Rhinosasauris had long since climbed out of the knapsack a stood fore-square facing the household. He was not overly large, but like all of his kind he was wonderfully graceful. He had a rather silvery gray coat and most specifically blue eyes; his two horns were a complementary muted blue-gray, a short tail protruded from under his jacket; it seemed to wave in tempo with his conversation. All-in-all the Rhinosasauris cut quite a stylish figure, though it was clear to all that even with the assistance of extremely well-tailored ensembles, he would always be described as “robust”.)
He stood up straight, stretched his arms, shook both legs, straightened out his jacket (as best he could), and adjusted the rake of his hat.
Rubbing his eyes he looked around at the multitude who had gathered in the living room. He held up his head and turning towards the question, replied, “And now who might be asking?”
Dugal stepped back, bowed slightly, “I say. Do beg your pardon. ‘Most forgot myself. Silly of me. The name’s Dugal; of the Blackthorn-Badgers of fair Glenfinnan. Up north of Loch Eil,”
He reached out his hand, “....and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I welcome you to our domicile. First Dragon Dragoons and The Pig Irregulars over there.” He said with a wide sweep of his knobby walking stick in their general direction. The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars all promptly nodded, while the Dragons brushed the air with their wings in the traditional Dragoon welcome.
“The two Peoples here are our friends; Mister Craiglellachie and the lady of the house, Ms. NíChaomhaigh. To be sure it was herself who ransomed you from that decidedly common retail outlet.”
Zita interrupted, “In spite of all the Colonel’s hopes, I am really not that formal, and I’d be pleased if you would call me Zita, or Mrs. Taylor if you must.”
She leaned over to Craig and whispered, “When I got to the book store all were gone, except for this one. He was lying just under the shambles of the Third World Revolutionary Diets section. I guess he was overlooked. To say the least, his condition is a bit rough, but he is cute - in sort of a blocky way. I am afraid that they were only asking $14.29, which is a bit of a disgrace, but I didn’t tell him so. I’m sorry I missed the others.”
Craig went over to their guest and extended his hand, “I’m pleased to meet you, and glad that we could be of help. Naturally any colleague of Dugal’s is welcome here. Everyone, aside from the Colonel, just calls me Craig; I really wish you’d do the same.”
The Rhinosasauris, with some difficulty, undid various knots and removed his helmet. He shook Craig’s hand and bowed to all four corners of the room.
“I would most certainly like to thank you for my rescue. The last several months have all been a terrible bout of confusion, and I must ask for your forgiveness if I have misplaced some of my manners, you see I really don’t know where I am, or actually how I got here.”
Zita was horrified and promptly went off to the kitchen to make him some weak tea, while he continued with his story.
“You see, one foul day, I don’t really know how long ago, while I was tarrying at the Ritz-intercontinental, making my annual visit to the crusader castles in the vicinity of Amman
“Ahhh.... well. I suspect someone unknown put a sleeping drought in my good-morning Coca-Cola float. The next thing I knew I was tied to the top of a huge bookshelf, in a rather grimy book store; where I didn’t know anybody or recognize anything.”
He suddenly placed his hand against the wall to brace himself. Craig said, “Quick, get him some porridge!” Two of the Queen’s Own rushed into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later he was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, munching on a tremendous mound of cheese Ritz, warming his hands on the cup of tea. (Zita had cancelled the porridge.) He was explaining that throughout this adventure, though he was sometimes very confused and often even quite upset, we should all understand that he was never in the least bit frightened. (He had been brought up properly and Rhinosasaurises were never, ever frightened.)
Zita said she was sure that he was not in the least bit afraid, but perhaps he would like to have a bit more to eat and then a small sleep. We could discuss it all in the morning, giving a pointed glance at Dugal.
“Why yes thank you. That would be really quite nice; as long as it does not put any of you to any trouble.” As he said this, he toppled over quite asleep and was carried upstairs to the den by the two Dragons. One of the better behaved of the Queen’s Own was asked to keep watch over him, just in case he awoke and could not remember where he was.
Zita then asked the TeddyBears to have someone bring down the Safari Jacket so that she could wash and mend it before their guest awoke.
(All Animeaux are very neat and tidy, and since they have never been known to go out visiting in un-pressed clothes or less than perfect socks, they all realized that the new guest would be needlessly agitated if he had to appear for breakfast in the disheveled state he had arrived in. As a small aid The Queen’s Own had left some of their favourite French bath talc, a lint brush, some new red and green argyle socks, a mirror and the Dust Buster - on the floor beside the sofa.)
The Tale of The Rhinosasauri
Downstairs Craig and Dugal were lounging in the living room. The Colonel had put one of his Edgar discs on the stereo and brought out some vintage Tonic Water for Craig. He had poured himself a large dram of his currently favoured layaway. They were about to discuss Rhinosasauri.
“They are a noble nation, The Rhinosasauri. ‘Patently they live somewhere up ‘round Lake Tanganyika; hidden far up the reaches of the Blue Nile . Been there since them Angles painted themselves blue. The family first ran into them when they captured a full brigade of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers - some little time after Victoria was crowned - must have been somewhere round the late 40’s, I would hazard for a guess. Now by the time the Rhinosasauri released them poor buggers, the silly Book-Wallahs in high command had given them all up for lost; but one day, marching down Cairo High Street, comes the whole covey of them - singing what was later to become the Triumphal March from Aida.
It was quite a sight to be sure, albeit just a tad strange. It seems that their Colonel had promised the King of the Rhinosasauri the freedom of the Empire - in the name of the young Queen. What was to be done? Couldn’t let the side down ya’see. So there we were, treaty bound to a Nation who looked like rhinoceroses, spoke like a cold dawn in the Kirk, had more pride then a stew of Highland chefs, and were more stubborn then a bag full of hammers.”
Dugal leaned back and loosened his shoes, “Grandfather used to talk about these happenings all the time - when the distaff side was out opening the summer fêtes. He said that he was damned if they didn’t take to wearing our service pith helmets, and carrying on like so many members of The Lords on bath day. Made a real nuisance of themselves for a while. Great-grand Uncle Austin, who was in command of the Scots Grays at the time, ran off with twin gyppo belly dancers just to have some peace and quiet. Well, as I understand, they finally left Cairo
Can’t ‘member how many times we heard the story ‘bout how they showed up at the very last moment - and with a quick flanking charge, drove off those Zulu fellows, saving all those poor buggers at Rourke’s Drift. Part of their old bargain with the Welsh they said. Never did take any credit for it. That’s the Rhinosasauri for you though; just get on with it, and don’t say it ‘gain.
Took terrible casualties at the Somme and Verdun
At this point Dugal poured some more of his Glenmorangie into his big brass cup, and Craig got a couple more pillows. It always took Dugal a while to tell his stories.
“Years later; in the next war, they ended up bored to tears in Alex. They and some crazy New Zealanders. Now it has often troubled me, how does one really know if an Australian is crazy or is really a New Zealander. Ahhh... we spent many an hour in the Mess over that one. Where was I? Oh yes! ....all of them, and that mad man Bagnold started racing round and round in their little trucks, generally making a prime nuisance of themselves, but I’ll tell you, them Rhinosasauri knew the Libyan Desert as well as any heathen, so they played bloody hell with the Boche supply lines. ‘Named them the Long Range Dessert Group - generally made more trouble for Jerry then for us. Though the Royal Nursing Corps might have argued the point. Ahhh well.... A wee bit later they all up and followed that terrible lunatic fellow Stirling when he ‘cided to form up a bunch of the lads for a spot of danger, cheap thrills, and worse scotch. Y’see I was his 2-I-C at the time. Called us the Special Air Services. ‘Parently some silly bugger in White Hall thought that it might do some good if we were confused with the Scandinavian Airline Services from time to time. From then on the Rhinosasauri have always had a few of their fellows assigned to the regiment. Great success they made of themselves from one end of the big red map to’other.”
Dugal paused and looked around, “To tell the truth, they seem to have got it all mixed up. Always seemed to be off having assignations with Scandinavians. They ‘peared to think it was part of their duties. No matter how often we tried to explain that The S.A.S. and the SAS were completely different organizations, the Rhinosasauri kept showing up at regimental dances draped with tall blonde stewardesses, named Brijit and Sonja or Ingrid. Sort of a tradition with them by then I would think. Ahhh well.
Those were the.... Ahhh…. Away away…. it was at one of these regimental dances, up in Cromarty, where I met my friend the Commander Rhinosasauris and his “friend” - Miss Tanya. Now you see we never could pronounce the Rhinosasauri names, so we called them by rank; Sergeant-Major Rhinosasauris, Commodore Rhinosasauris etc, etc.... Worked fine, never more than a couple of dozen in at a time Y’see. Well we, the Commander and I, were out together - doing some extended sunbathing in The Malay campaign - also in that unpleasantness out in Aden
He hick-upped as he laughed and apologized, “They were very good times don’t you know, me the Commander and - well others - Last time I heard of him he had got himself into a spot of trouble in the near east - doing a bit of liaison work with the Mossad. He was lent to them after that dashed unfortunate episode with his brother-in-law the Crown Prince. I’m sure you heard of it. Was in all the papers. Now I have had word that he has been trapped and interned by some of the scoundrels that seem to thrive over there. ‘Should like to help if we could - ‘know both the Dragon Dragoons and the Queen’s Own are ready to volunteer.”
“Ahh Ha!” thought Craig. Dugal wants permission to rescue his old friend, and has been buttering me up for the last couple of hours.
“Well....” he said, “you don’t know where your friend is at the moment do you?”
“Achhh well - not yet; but if you give me leave, I’ll make some discrete phone calls, and we will find him soon; if it is not already too late.” Dugal said looking sadly off into the distance.
What could he do? The chances of finding this Rhinosasauris were rather small so he might as well give the Colonel permission. It would be easier in the long run he guessed.
“Well Dugal, I’ll write out the orders tonight, and don’t worry about the phone bill. We might as well do it right. If by some mischance you happen to tell Zita, make a point of saying it’s a rescue mission. She is not partial to military endeavours you know, what with all the fuss in the Post Office, not to overlook the guns hidden under her gran’dad’s front hall, The Twelve Apostles and all.”
“Mums The Word” said Dugal as he went to get paper and pen.
Chapter Three
The Rescue Mission
It was a wonderfully sunny Saturday, and the young Rhinosasauris was still half asleep when he arrived downstairs.
Everyone else was spread around the living room, knee deep in bagels, coffee, raspberry jam and several newspapers. The Dragons were over by the window, practicing signing their names by holding a pen in their coiled tails. They were going to apply for American Express cards they said.
Hearing the hubbub the Rhinosasauris slowly stuck his head around the corner and peered into the living room. ArchiBold McOinqle nudged Zita’s leg. She looked up and asked their latest guest if he wanted anything special for breakfast, “A small cup of black coffee would be quite nice, and the bagels look quite scrumptious.” he said.
“Well if you go into the kitchen and pick out a coffee cup for yourself you will find the coffee maker is on the counter the cream is in the fridge, make yourself at home.” said Craig.
He returned with a large mug with a big handle - Rhinosasauris don’t have small dainty hands as you might have guessed. When he was settled and the tray of bagels had been passed round several times, introductions were made all round.
When Dugal was introduced Colonel, The Honourable, Dugal Blackthorn-Badger, late of the 79th Regiment of Foot, the small Rhinosasauris said, “Oh you must be THE Blackthorn-Badger - who single-handedly cleaned out the old bazaar in upper Aden
“Why of course I remember him, big laddie. Quite a nice fellow, a fine sense of humour, could throw a grenade sixty feet while doing his daily practice on The Pipes. Haven’t heard from him in a while. Have you?”
The young Rhinosasauris took a long sip of his coffee and said quite softly, but with certain resolution, “I am very sorry to have to be the one to tell you this - my brother has been held captive for near two years now, by the most despicable sort of Burbary Pyrates. I have tracked down their address, in Algeciras
The Colonel stomped over and tapped the Rhinosasauris’s knee with his walking stick and said softly, “Hardly strangers laddie. Hardly Strangers. I’ve known your big brother near on 50 years and Craiglellachie-liath (The Colonel always called everyone by their Gaelic name, if they were fortunate enough to have one), has already given me permission to mount a rescue mission”
A RESCUE MISSION MISSION MISSION
Oh dear God! thought Craig.
Much fervent discussion and two tubs of Hagan Däs “Swiss Vanilla Burnt-Almond” later they settled on a strategy; the Colonel would call on all his bygone colleagues to get some facts about exactly where his old friend, the Rhinosasauris might be held and what were the chances of changing the situation.
Zita kept muttering about flying columns, Michael Collins, her great uncle Joe, and the Black and Tans, but it was to no avail.
Chapter Four
The Book Store Assault
Two weeks later Dugal carefully strolled into the living room. He looked behind the chairs and under the end tables. He reached up and plucked a small paper note which had been tucked under the brim of his tam and said in his softest voice, “Andreis NicoNikolovitch has given me the code, and we have sent a counterfeit telegram to that address the wee lad gave us. They will soon be transferring him to that grimy bookstore with the trashy novels.”
(If the truth were to be told, for the previous few weeks Colonel Dugal had been very difficult to live with and Craig did not even want to guess who Andreis NicoNikolovitch was, or where he came from; much less why he gave Dugal any codes, much less secret ones.)
A few days later while on the highway, coming home from the Research Centre in Montreal
“My brother has arrived! And he is locked-up in that dreadful bookstore! The staff is getting very suspicious, as they have no record of his being ordered and the seven dollars of duty and the GST on him has yet to be paid!
Now the Colonel and the Queen’s Own Pigs are planning to conduct a cutting-out raid this very evening, after evensong.; while I don’t really want to express my apprehension; some of them really have not had much experience in this sort of work before - though to their great credit, they have studiously watched all your John Wayne movies, and read each of the Hornblower books - twice - to just see how it should be carried out, but I am just a wee bit concerned, the Colonel has been retired for some years now, you know.”
He knew only too well, “Pass on these orders please. Take all The Queen’s Own and establish a forward picket in the upstairs porch. Stock up on the ice cream and cold Tonic Water, better add some Scotch for the Colonel I guess. Boil some water and make bandages—and don’t rip up any of the sheets or it will take more than his friends in the GRU to save Dugal from Zita. Wait for further orders” and he hung up.
Craig lay down the phone. “I should have listened to Zita and contracted all of this foolishness out to her relatives.” he thought to himself. He told the Blue Car to keep a close lookout for the Provincial Police, and wondered why General Motors thought if the speedometer only went up to 140km. you would stop there, after all there was lots of room left on the tachometer - but not for long.
He reached the terrorist’s bookstore ten minutes before closing. His great uncle Austin’s pistol felt suddenly inconsequential in his jacket’s pocket, but it would never have bothered “The Duke” so he mentally re-played the all the important bits from “She Wore A Yellow Ribbon”. Buoyed-up he entered the store. He carried the cardboard box of Esso receipts he kept in the car - at 14 miles to the gallon there were many of them.
Approaching the front counter, with his back to the staff he fired twice into big front windows - as they shattered and crashed to the floor he threw the box of receipts on the counter.
“Oh my God! The despicable capitalist swine are trying to sell all my complimentary tickets to The Kamsack National Ukrainian Folk Dancing Festival and Plenary Rally - for a profit! Help me!”
Their training held true. The staff immediately began to eat the pieces of paper. Craig raced for the Harlequin Romance section. There tethered to a box of publishers clearances was a large, rather bedraggled and bewildered Rhinosasauris. In spite of his condition, he was furiously trying to saw through his shackles with the rough edge of his belt buckle. His pith helmet, was planted precisely four square on his head. (You see Rhinosasauri are all very well brought up, and never have been known to give up hope, or neglect their personal appearance.)
Craig shouted “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger has sent me! Stand back please!” The gun fired twice more; the chains crumbled.
“Jump!” he cried and the Rhinosasauris sort of staggered over the ledge and rather inelegantly fell to the floor. The two raced for the far doors. As they turned down the corner to freedom, three ex-librarian types tried to stop them, but he yelled “Bankers are Xeroxing the dictionary in the back room.”
The hulks screamed “Copyright!”, grabbed fire axes and raced to the rear.
The Blue Car was waiting, exhaust rumbling, transmission in low, door open, and Stan Rogers in the tape deck. Craig helped the stumbling Rhinosasauris through the open roof and scrambled in after him.
The scene behind them was apocalyptic - axe brandishing turncoat bibliophiles marching down the street, advancing on the Royal Bank Headquarters - being met by hoards of grim faced accountants - fresh from evicting Saskatchewan
By the time they reached home, all was quite calm - aside from the roar of the fire engines and the noise the RCMP’s Musical Ride made as they rushed to quell the riot downtown.
They pulled into the back yard, to be greeted by the entire Animeaux population, carrying “Welcome To The Royal Ottawa Winter Fair” and “God Save Good King George” banners. (It was all they could find on such short notice.) There was a babble of conversation, in English, Gaelic, and Rhini.
Profuse thanks were delivered and not a few tears shed. Dugal and his old comrade stood apart and fondly shook hands. Two glasses of the Colonel’s “Special Reserve Stock” appeared, and a toast to “True Friends and Far Places” was drunk. (The glasses were not thrown into the fireplace. Dugal being a Scot, and the glasses were his great-uncle Angus’s after all.)
(The two Rhinosasaurises phoned home – collect - to tell their parents that the rescue had come off without a hitch, and to request that their Stately Security Service should be informed and should take the appropriate measures against the cowardly fiends who had initiated the shabby scheme - and by the way if they wouldn’t mind just giving a quick call to inform the Second Cultural Attaché at the Israeli embassy of their safe return.)
The Dragons and the Queen’s Own, and the entire company of TeddyBears were all introduced, and hands shaken all around. There was a fair amount of stammering and “Might you like a fresh dish of ice cream? or, Would you like to borrow my nearly best tartan dressing gown?” going on.
Obviously there had never been a real knock-em-down, shoot-em-up rescue conducted by the household before, and there was no real precedent for either Craig or the Animeaux to fall back on. So they decided to celebrate the glorious occasion by the issuing of Honours. Craig called for order (many times), and presided over the handing out of Courageous Campaign Commendations and the dishing out of more ice cream. Everyone got medals, even more got ice cream.
When Zita arrived home she was introduced to the new Rhinosasauris, while the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own tried in vain to clean up the living room.
Later while sitting around the living room they all decided to order out to Mrs. Mitzi’s for Chinese food, except for the Queen’s Own who wanted to go to McDonalds for triple McHagis Burgers. Zita stopped the argument in its tracks. She closed the kitchen door behind her, removed the thermos of tea from under her arm, “No one is leaving the house until I know what is going on - or I run out of tea....” (If this had been a soap opera - a commercial would have now have begun.)
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