Mammal Resources Dept.

Mom Says:

Well, our Rabbit Writers drive a hard bargain. Here is the deal we finally negotiated with them.

Our subscribers have been paying $0/month for this blog since its inception, with no increase. So now we’re going to double the subscription fee. That way, we can also double the writers’ pay, since all of the subscription funds go directly to their salary anyway. We realize that this means that our subscribers will need to make some sacrifices, but we believe that showing our writers how much we need and appreciate them is important for the ongoing quality production of this blog.

Musashi Sez:

We also throws in a latte masheen an longr carrit brayks. Cuz we ar a Bunnee-Frendlee Employr. Huh.

Cleenin Up Othr Peeplz’ Messiz

MEMO

From: Cheef Writr Rabbit
To: Our Doofus Perdoosrz

Havin ben awae fer the las 3 monfts scoutin locayshunz, vacayshunnin, an cleenin ottrz pro bono, we mus admit our dismae to find the folloin plot messiz:

1. The star is bein held priznr in a baysmint unnr the Paris Agrcultoorul Sho, wift a French pefressr an a ovrgron CIA ajint.

2. The co-stars on locayshun in Paris ar “liayzin” wift the Paris polees (an yu can’t spel “liayzin” wiftout lazy) but they’r getting paid aneewae.

3. Our co-stars in Ejypt ar left hitch-hikin frum Cairo bak to Paris cuz our perdoosrz fergot to put their transport into the budjit.

4. Our egstra in Paris is tryin to steel co-star status (an salree) by singin disco at the Agrcultoorul Sho, an we can’t figgr whether this gud or bad, cuz it goin to add to the budjit, but the Paris polees kinda liks him, an also our Beljian audience is verree fond of him—he has a big fan bayse in Brussels.

So on account of all this, we writr bunneez demand a rayz. Huh.

Brussels Sprouts an Kittee Nip

Mom Says:

Silently Agent 8 slunk forward. Suddenly, just as he approached the last pile of boxes, a strange smell met his nose and then a long, brown, low-slung person stepped around the corner.

They met nose-to-nose. Agent 8 crouched in surprise, but the stranger barked out, “Zut, alors! Eet eez a kittee! Allo, Kittee. Venez avec moi. Come, let us go. Allons-y! Do you not speak?”

Octavian sniffed the odd dog’s snout curiously, wondering about his funny bowtie, but the dog gave him no time.

“Pardon, m’sieur! Je m’appelle Professeur Pierre Sebastian Agincourt. You may call me Prof’soor, as everyone does. Come!”

Bewildered, Octavian followed the waddly little dog around another corner to look up to see a couch, its cushions cast aside. And on that couch lay a grey cat the size of a German shepherd. The purr Octavian had heard before grew loud.

Prof’soor said, wth great apparent satisfaction, “I introduce to you, ‘Panther.’”

“His naym is Panthr?”

“Mais, non! Yu must say eet weeth the marks of quotation, like thees: … ‘Panther.’”

Octavian sat down abruptly, looking up at the overgrown feline person.

“So… ‘Panther,’ yer mom naymd yu wift yer own qwotayshun marks?”

The cat snorted. “No, foolish kitten. I am a spy wift the Amerikan CIA. ‘Panther’ is mai code naym.”

Oh no! The CIA? What had Octavian gotten himself into?

Halpin Cleen Up the Ottr-Cleenr-Upprz!

Musashi Sez:

Well, as yu all noez, our Bunnee Writrz has ben off fer qwit a whil, halpin cleen ottrz in the Golf of Meksiko. This wuz a messee job, an it tayk grayt strength of noz to do it. Cuz it turn out that yu can’t cleen somboddee els whu is that messee wift oil, witfout getting messee yerself.

But now our Bunneez hav fynlee com bak to us. They ar egzawstid an we ar still tryin to git the oil out of their fur. It is verree bad. We eevn had Vetrinarianz com ovr to the stoodio to halp us out. An that is not a pertee ideer, eevn if yu ar not a doggee. Huh.

We think that yu has seen pikchurz of the oil-coverd aminuls befor. Yu has seen the ottrz an the pelicanz, yu has seen the sea-turtlz an the fishiz, an of cors, yu has sended monnee to the conservayshun peeplez whu is halpin wift this HOOMIN PEEPLEZ’ tremendous awful STOOPID mistayk!!!

HOWEVR, if yu hasn’t given som monee to halp the creechurz yer carz an stuff haz halpd to mayk verree sik, or if yu has, but aftr havin seen the ugglee pikchurz of the oil-covrd aminuls, yu has that ick-oog!-whutkinIdooz? feelin agen, then we kin recommend some sorsiz fer halpin out:

ONE is the International Fund For Animal Welfare:

http://www.ifaw.org/ifaw_united_states/join_campaigns/emergency_relief/index.php

They does verree gud stuff all ovr the werld. ANOTHER is the Humane Society of the United States:

http://www.humanesociety.org/news/news/2010/06/gulf_oil_no_end_in_sight.html

All them aminulz an birdeez is tryin to liv an fly an swim an stuff wift all that icky blak oil on them. Yu hoomin peeplez wift thumbz gotta do somthin, if onlee becuz yu got them thumz and we dosn’t. Huh.

Kthx Vreemutch. Bai.

Not Egzaktlee a Dunjeon

Mom Says:

Dieter the Rottweiler carried Agent Eight downstairs to the “dungeon,” a basement filled with large, noisy machines. At the far end, a door opened to reveal a white room filled with big boxes. Dieter tossed Agent Eight inside, slammed the door, and trotted off muttering in German about fur between his teeth. Octavian, no happier about the “annoyin doggee slobbr,” sat down and bathed himself thoroughly before turning to examine his surroundings.

The room was a mountain range of boxes, many marked “This Side Up” with arrows interpreting “up” in creative ways. Octavian’s whiskers twitched. It would be fun to continue examining by leaping from box to box…

But no. This was a sort of dungeon, after all, even if it didn’t look it. Any one of these boxes could be filled with TNT or Gel-Ignite. Or Jack Russell terriers. Or water, even. He’d have to go cautiously.

He padded silently between the boxes, his whiskers forward, all his senses alert. His ears telescoped around at the slightest fall of dust on the grey carpet. And then they swiveled toward the far right of the room and he stopped rigid in a half-squat on his silky black haunches.

A deep regular vibration, like a purr, but not like the purr of any domestic feline on Ceiling cat’s good green earth—too deep, too loud, too—

But it was a purr of sorts. What was back there? A tiger? A lynx? A lioness?

Octavian quivered with anticipation.

Feeld Notz from Command Centrul

Musashi Sez:

Meenwhil, bak at the fansee orinj hotel suite in Paris, Alex wuz “liasing” (his werd. huh.) wift the Frentch polees on one phon and wift M on anothr. Pero wuz in the bedroom wift Alex’s vois-operaytid compyootr, maykin a feeld journl, keeping our noets all correct. Alex’s compyootr is reellee niftee, cuz that gy Q builded it. It has this AutoMatic AngliFier (AMAF) that yu kin “enable” (which is fansee techno langwidj fer “turn it on”). Innerestinlee, the saym programr whu thogted up the LingwaTron collr also thogted up the AMAF. Yu kin kinda tell…

Pero Reportz:

It has been much time since I kept a diary of the field, so don’t have practice. Also, since our rabbit contacts went abroad, everything has gone complicated. First, the mad English cat jumped into the fountain. Then our “opposite numbers” in Germany and Italy informed us of exceptionally large importations of herb of the felines from Turkey, Albania and the former Soviet Union.

Then that annoying Parisian cat of the fountain incident disappeared and her people are sniffing at our extremes and the French police are sniffing at our extremes, and Interpol, that he already knows that our extremes are clean, returns to us asking us for aid… And we still haven’t heard of “G.”

And in the midst of all this, “8” is gone “looking around” at the agricultural show, and I have just known something disorderly will happen!

Probably pronto.

Cairo in Smog

Musashi Sez:

Mai mom—er, I meen, Our Prodoosr—has pointed out that we hav ben needin som seeryus theem myoozic. If yu tayks Jimbond’s song, an mix that wift som of that Peetr Gaybriel fellr’z Last Temptayshun sountrak, cuz it has all that Middul-Eestrn forren-sounding myoozik, an mebbe add a disco backbeet, that migt giv us som yoosful at-mos-pheer-ik inflooens…

Mom Says:

It’s “Cairo in Smog,” Agent 8, not “Cairo in Song…”

Musashi Sez:

I noo that.

I was jus settin up the atmospheerik inflooens fer the chays sceen down the stonee streets of old Cairo, wift a white doggee, hiz eyz hyooj, an a blak an whit kittee on his bak, all clawz out, hissin in verree impolyt Spanish. The skrambul of clawz. Then silens.

Then a hyooj mewlin of a few dozin kitteez, screemin in all kinds of impolit langwidjiz, as they zoom down the saym stonee street.

Angree kitteez evrwher!!!

An then they ar all gon. A few bits of fur fluttr to the ground. Somwher not far off, the sound of the muezzin callz folks to get their carpets an com pray.

But tayk it from me, ther has alreddee ben prayin happinin on this stonee street this mornin, eevn if it dint egzaktlee sound lik it to yu.