When he left her, she howled in sorrow and frustration. When she saw him, she wagged her five-foot tail like a cocker spaniel, jumped up and down in unrestrained joy, and began to yelp with such enthusiasm and volume that more than one busload of jolly journeyers intending to spend the day (one pound sixpence, tax included) on the grounds of Folkestone Castle, upon hearing this sound, had made a sharp U-turn and sped off whence they had come.
The only way to shut Babykins up, Mr. MacKenzie quickly learned, was to wrestle her to the floor and scratch her belly. And the trouble with that was, of course, that Babykins could be wrestled to the floor only if she wished to be wrestled to the floor. She was just as likely not to wish to be wrestled to the floor, in which case she would knock Mr. MacKenzie to the floor, hold him in place with her right front paw, and demonstrate her unbounded affection for him by wetly licking his face and ears with her large, red, sandpapery tongue.
Babykins’ puppy-like behavior, the dowager duchess announced, would probably end with her maturity. The dowager duchess erred. The only thing that maturity did to Babykins was cause her to leap upon Wee Black Doggie with a new curious glint in her large yellow eyes. She no longer curled her lips back over her teeth at the sight of Wee Black Doggie, sending him racing away in fear for his life. At first it appeared to be mild curiosity, but toward the end of what the dowager duchess referred to with a coy smile as “the courtship,” Babykins became positively flirtatious.
For a while, truth to tell, Mr. MacKenzie had begun to suspect that this last Wee Black Doggie was going to disgrace his stalwart masculine predecessors even more, to the ultimate degree, in other words. But then came the day when Brigadier Fyffe appeared in the ducal apartments to announce, somewhat red-faced, that the reason for the enormous crowd in the formal gardens was that Babykins and Wee Black Doggie were, so to speak, in congress amidst the tulips. Two matrons from Baston-on-Thystle had fainted at the sight.
That business out of the way, Babykins thereafter chased Wee Black Doggie away whenever she saw him and settled down in the nursery of the castle to await the blessed day. She did, as befit an expectant mother, behave with somewhat more decorum during this period. She no longer knocked Mr. MacKenzie to the ground to lick his face, contenting herself with putting her paws on his shoulders to accomplish the same tiling.
Toward the end she would allow no one but Mr. MacKenzie, not even the duchess, in the nursery and would permit the ministrations of the veterinarian only if Mr. MacKenzie stood beside her, scratching her ears and cooing to her comfortingly.
She delivered herself, in due time, of seven wee black doggies. Within a couple of days of the birth, she would permit the duchess into the nursery, to bill and coo over the babies, but not the veterinarian, and certainly not Wee Black Doggie. When Wee Black Doggie stuck an understandably curious nose into the nursery to see his offspring, she flung herself at the door (fortunately closing it against herself in the process) with such rage and fury that Wee Black Doggie fled howling, tail tucked between his legs, to the furthest corner of the Folkestone Castle Ltd. property.
All the pups (five males and two females) survived and prospered. Within a few weeks, they were bounding about the nursery with playful yelps, fighting each other for lunch, so to speak, when they were not gnawing Babykins’ ears, nose, legs and other extremities. It was a touching sight, and the dowager duchess and Mr. MacKenzie, both of whom were childless, spent many happy hours in the nursery vicariously sharing Babykins’ joy of parenthood.
Weaning time arrived. The subject of what to do with Babykins' babies had, of course, been discussed between the dowager duchess and Mr. MacKenzie at some length. Selling the pups was obviously out of the question; they were part of the family. Giving them away was the only answer, and long hours had been consumed discussing who was really entitled to the joy only a three-hundred- pound Scottish wolfhound could bring.
Three such fortunate souls were immediately identified. What better way to express the profound gratitude of the Folkestone family for the kindly medical care they gave to Woody Woodburn-Haverstraw (without even knowing that he was the duke) than to give them one of Babykins' babies? One of the females would go to the Reverend Mother Emeritus Margaret Houlihan Wachauf Wilson. R.N., of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church. Inc., of New Orleans, Louisiana. Male puppies would be sent to Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce and to Dr. John Francis Xavier McIntyre.
The second female pup would go to Esther Flanagan, R.N., also of the Spruce Harbor Medical Center. That left three male pups. One of these, obviously just had to go to Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, the world’s greatest opera singer. Not only was the present duke one of his greatest fans, but during an unfortunate misunderstanding at the time of the late duke’s final rites, he had found himself in a fistfight with Mr. MacKenzie and had fought with such skill (the event was a draw) and enthusiasm that he and Mr. MacKenzie had naturally become rather close friends. Another darling little pup obviously had to go to Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux, president and chairman of the board of the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International, another of the young duke’s new American friends who had also earned Mr. MacKenzie’s profound, and seldom given, respect for efficacy and all-around skill in a streetbrawl situation.
That left one pup. But the solution to that problem could be deferred. There was always one runt of the litter, even with a splendid litter such as Babykins’. Long after his brothers and sisters had taken to taking their sustenance from bowls, one small male, who had come to be called “Wee Black Runt,” was still, so to speak, going home to mother for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Chapter Four
That left only one problem, the solution for which was nowhere in sight. While Babykins seemed willing to accept (indeed, seemed relieved) that most of her family was now taking its meals elsewhere, her maternal instincts were strong.
Her pups could do what they willed, bound around the nursery, playfully tearing up pillows, solid oak furniture, joints of beef and each other, so long as they were not out of her sight for more than ten seconds at a time.
Mr. MacKenzie, from the very beginning, had been allowed to pick up the puppies, and when they were still comparatively tiny (no more than thirty pounds) she extended this privilege to the duchess and to the veterinarian. But when anyone else got even close to her offspring, back would go the lips over the glistening white teeth, up would go the thick bristles of hair from her neck to her tail, and out of her quivering throat would come her vocal expression of disapproval, a growl of a rather unearthly quality at a level of volume which caused the Austrian chandeliers throughout the castle to rattle alarmingly.
Weaning the puppies had posed no problem; the puppies had solved that themselves. Getting the puppies away from Babykins, so that they could be shipped to their new owners, was apparently going to be something of a problem.
Brigadier Fyffe, aware of this problem, was not at all surprised to learn from the upstairs butler that Her Grace and Mr. MacKenzie were in the nursery, trying again to separate Babykins, if only for a few minutes (to sort of get her used to the idea), from her babies.
Since the brigadier made many trips daily to the castle, and since there was sufficient cargo space (where golf clubs would normally have been carried) in the in-grounds transport vehicle, he had naturally fallen into the habit of delivering the puppies’ rations himself. Babykins had come to tolerate him, and when she saw him come into the nursery, although she bared her teeth, she neither growled nor attempted to eat him.
“Good morning, Brigadier,” the dowager duchess greeted him. “Isn’t that sweet? Babykins’ babies are glad to see you!”
Babykins’ babies had, in fact, manifested their affection for the brigadier by knocking him to the ground and by playfully nibbling at his ears, nose, and other extremities, just as they did to their mother. The brigadier, not without effort, succeeded in freeing himself and climbed onto a stout oak banquet table.
“Your
Grace,” he said, dabbing with his handkerchief at the blood leaking from a slight bite on his nose, “Mr. MacKenzie. I fear I am the bearer of bad tidings.”
“And what might they be?” the dowager duchess inquired, somewhat coldly. “Nothing, I trust, that will tend to cause red ink upon the ledger?”
“Worse, I fear, Your Grace,” Brigadier Fyffe replied.
“Out with it, man,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “You old soldiers are forever beating about the bush.”
“Your Grace,” Brigadier Fyffe said, coming to attention atop the oak table, “it is my painful duty to inform you that the black Bengal tigress, Princess, has gone to that great jungle in the sky.”
“I see,” the dowager duchess said, trying without much success to maintain a stiff upper lip. It quivered, in fact, and the duchess put a hand to her eye to wipe away a tear. “Poor thing,” she said.
“And the cubs?” Mr. MacKenzie asked. He blew his nose rather loudly. He too had admired Princess.
“One was stillborn, Mr. MacKenzie,” Brigadier Fyffe said.
“And the other?”
“Alive, sir,” Fyffe replied. “But the veterinary surgeon, I must tell you, offers little hope for his continued existence.”
“Oh, my!” the duchess said and started to sniffle. “The poor little motherless thing!”
“Stop your bloody sniveling,” Mr. MacKenzie said rather curtly. “Where there’s life there’s hope, as I always say.”
“Angus,” the dowager duchess said, “you are always so profound!”
“That I am,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “Well, Brigadier, let’s go have a look at him.”
“Angus,” the duchess said, “you’ll have to go alone. I couldn’t face a situation like that.”
“I understand, Dumplin’,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “Why don’t you go fix yourself a little snort, and I’ll take care of this tragic situation?”
“Oh, snookums, how did I ever get along without you? You’re my own Rock of Gibraltar in time of pain and anguish!”
“Don’t get carried away, old girl,” Mr. MacKenzie said. He turned and started out of the nursery. “Come along, Fyffe.”
“Oh, Angus!” the dowager duchess cried when he had gone no more than fifty feet down the corridor.
“For God’s sake, Florabelle, now what?” Mr. MacKenzie replied.
“Babykins is following you,” the dowager duchess replied. “She doesn’t want you to leave her.”
Babykins had indeed gotten to her feet and was walking after Mr. MacKenzie and Brigadier Fyffe.
“Florabelle,” Angus said, “catch Wee Black Runt.” Wee Black Runt was tagging along after his mother.
“Do I dare?” the dowager duchess replied, somewhat nervously.
“We’ll never know, will we, Florabelle, whether Baykins will bite you for picking up Wee Black Runt until you try, now will we?” MacKenzie replied patiently.
To Brigadier Fyffe’s considerable surprise. Babykins, although she bared her teeth briefly and watched carefully did not attempt to reclaim Wee Black Runt from the dowager duchess, even when the dowager duchess picked the pup up and growled rather convincingly back at him.
“Wee Black Runt,” MacKenzie said, “I hate to tell you this but it would appear that your rations-in-kind have just been shut off.”
Both the duchess and Brigadier Fyffe blushed, and the brigadier said, “You really are a wag, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“I’ve always had a fine sense of humor, now that you mention it,” Mr. MacKenzie replied. “Come along, brigadier.”
They descended the grand staircase and mounted the in-grounds transport vehicle.
“You’re a bad girl!” Mr. MacKenzie said to Babykins as she opened her jaws to have at the tire of the vehicle. “Shame on you!” Babykins closed her jaws, put her ears back and her tail between her legs and looked as if she was about to cry.
Fyffe put the vehicle in gear, and they rolled out of the courtyard and back through the castle grounds, with Babykins loping along behind them, until they reached the Cat House. Fyffe stopped the machine, and he and MacKenzie got off.
“Stay!” Mr. MacKenzie ordered. Babykins, a look of profound hurt on her face, obediently sat on her haunches. But the moment Mr. MacKenzie disappeared inside the Cat House, she raised her head and started to howl. The howl carried through the Cat House. The leopards and smaller felines, such as ocelots and wildcats, immediately disappeared inside their kennels. So did several magnificently maned lions. Only two lionesses apparently possessed the courage to face up to an animal who could make a sound like that. They started howling back.
MacKenzie came running back out, his kilt swinging from side to side.
“You’re a bad girl, Babykins!” he said, shaking his finger in her face. Immediately, Babykins rose on her haunches, draped an enormous paw on each of MacKenzie’s shoulders, and proceeded to kiss him, to show how sorry she was for being a bad girl and how appreciative she was for him not leaving her there all alone.
“Oh, come along with me,” he said. “But try to behave. The last time you were in here, we had a hell of a time getting the lions calmed down.”
Babykins, tail wagging slowly from side to side, wearing what could only be described as a look of smug self-satisfaction on her face, followed her beloved master into the Cat House. Only when he passed the lionesses’ cage did she deign to notice the animals in their cages. But when the larger of the two lionesses growled at her, she growled back. Both lionesses immediately rolled over on their backs, in the traditional gesture of subservience.
In the Cat House office, where a sort of incubator had been set up for the cub, she obediently sat where directed in the corner. The assistant cat keeper reported with regret that he couldn’t get the cub to take any of the formula the veterinary surgeon had prescribed, even though (witness the pitiful little yelps) the cub was obviously hungry.
“Well, keep trying,” MacKenzie said. “That’s all you can do, keep trying.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. MacKenzie,” the assistant cat keeper said.
“We’re all sorry, lad,” Mr. MacKenzie replied. “Brigadier, would you please take me back to the castle?”
Lost in thought, Mr. MacKenzie did not notice that Babykins did not immediately follow him. He had really opened his big mouth and put his foot in it. He had told Lambie-Pie that she shouldn’t give up hope, and now there was no hope. There was no way in the world to keep a brand new tiger cub alive without its mother to feed it. He had no idea how he could phrase this gently for Lambie-Pie; he had really had little experience in his long life in phrasing things gently and delicately.
He got in the in-grounds transport vehicle, and Brigadier Fyffe drove him back slowly to the castle.
Neither of them, in other words, saw what Babykins did. Babykins’ ears had perked up, and she had cocked her head to one side when she heard the pitiful little yelps from the incubator.
She rose from her haunches and made for the incubator
“Get away from there, dog!” the assistant cat keeper had immediately protested, in what must be honestly described as the faintest of whispers. He also made threatening gestures of a sort: he moved the fingers of his left hand ever so slightly at her.
Babykins pushed her nose through the dark blanket covering the incubator. Her head disappeared inside. The pitiful yelping stopped. Babykins withdrew her head from the incubator, growled pro forma at the assistant cat keeper, and then trotted back out of the Cat House, deigning to look neither right nor left at the caged lions, tigers and other felines.
When she was outside, she saw that the in-grounds transport vehicle had already departed; she could see it, the Union Jack proudly flying beside the brigadier’s flag, turning the corner past the Ducal Roller Coaster, near the entrance to the Torture Dungeons Tour. She picked up speed, not running really, but rather loping with a certain grace.
Here and there in her path were guests of the castle, each of whom had paid his or her two shilli
ngs and whom she knew she was not allowed to eat. When they got in her way, she scattered them with a minor (3.2 on a scale of 1 to 10) growl and continued to close the gap between herself and her beloved master, riding disconsolately in the ex-golf cart.
When she had caught up with the vehicle, she slowed her pace and dutifully plodded along behind it until it got to the castle and her master got off. Then she followed him into the castle, down the great hall, and up the great stairway to the ducal apartments.
The dowager duchess was waiting at the head of the stairs.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Dumplin’,” Mr. MacKenzie said to the duchess, deep regret in every syllable.
“Isn’t that darling?" the duchess replied. “Oh, Snookums, I knew you’d be able to do something.”
“I said for you to have one snort, not the whole bloody bottle,” he replied. “What are you gushing over, anyway?”
The dowager duchess pointed down the stairway.
Babykins was coming up the wide steps with at least as much dignity as any member of the nobility. Her tread was sure; her tail swung with a measured dignity; her head was high and held firmly but with exquisite tenderness; and between her massive front teeth was a small, wet black object which gave out piteous mewing noises.
“Jesus H. Kee-rist!” the consort of Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Folkestone said. “Will you look at that?”
“Angus,” the duchess said, “if you don’t mind my saying so, language like that is most inappropriate at a time like this.”
Babykins marched past the dowager duchess and down the corridor to the nursery. She put a paw out and pushed the door open. Her puppies, seeing their mother, rushed to greet her. She gave off a growl from the very depths of her. The puppies skidded to a halt and then fled to a far corner of the nursery, where they huddled together for comfort. Most of them buried their heads under their brothers and sisters. Only Wee Black Runt had the courage (or perhaps the foolhardiness) to raise his head from the squirming pile as his mother resumed her position on an extraordinarily large red goatskin Moroccan hassock which had been brought from that country by the seventh duke (1801-1843) and only recently pressed into service.
MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Page 4