President Hilton sighed. "Alright, so the public believes it to be harmless?" The cougar paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. "Great, thank you for your efforts. We couldn't have pulled it off without you." Another pause. "Sure thing, I'll get in touch with you again later, Mr. Fates."
The cougar hung up the phone. "Whot wos thot about, Meestar Presidant?" inquired the fox, standing by the door.
"Ah, High General, did you enjoy the refreshments?" The cougar offered the seat opposite his desk to the military leader with a chuckle.
"Don't worry, High General Firetail, it was just a small matter I had to attend to."
"And how ees yore, eh, crises, mm?"
"In good paws. Nothing to worry about."
"Eh, speeking of theengs to warry about, hoff you worked owt the affars with theese army exchange?"
Philip Hilton nodded, "It's well underway, but I have a project for you in the meantime if you're interested."
Nikolaus shrugged. "Shore, wot ees it?"
The President smiled. "Do you know of the astronomer Amber Rosé?"
Amber slammed the front door shut, flinging her briefcase onto the hallway table. Andre came to see what the commotion was, standing stiffly and staring when he saw the enraged badger.
"What do you want?" snapped Amber.
"Er, mizzur Richerd left ee gurt rozes fur ee an' a note wi' 'em." The mole scurried off to retrieve them from the kitchen, then returned and held them out to the badger, who snatched the letter and bouquet away. Andre slipped back into the kitchen to prepare dinner while Amber read the note.
"Amber,
I'm sorry I couldn't make the meeting. Work as usual.
I won't be home until late -- don't wait up.
Richerd."
She crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and threw it angrily at her briefcase. Before doing the same with the flowers, Amber stopped, looked at them, then sniffed them. She sighed, sagging her shoulders and put the roses on the table with the paper ball. Amber went into her study, taking the mail from the hall table with her.
The college instructor sat at the dean's desk, the eyes of the bulldog studying his inferior closely. The ferret stared back almost defiantly, yet at the same time expressionless, waiting for the canine to deliver his verdict.
Professor Donald Springsteen was a middle aged ferret, dark beige furred, with sharp facial features, and very tall and lanky. Always wearing a long brown coat over his daily attire no matter what the weather, the ferret posed a somewhat odd figure on campus. His appearance, however, wasn't the most peculiar thing about him: he had a Ph.D. in psychology, yet himself had psychosis and mild schizophrenia.
"We're goin' t' have t' letcha go, Springsteen." The ferret blinked once. "You'll have t' find work elsewhere." The professor blinked once more, furrowing his brow.
"I told you," he said through clenched teeth, "I'm not crazy."
Dean Thomas Collard held up a paw defensively. "Now, I didn't say that you were..."
Professor Springsteen pointed a claw at the bulldog. "But that's what you're implying!" he interrupted.
"...but yet tests did come back negative," the dean continued. "We can't have instructors with mental disorders teachin' our students about their problems."
"I said," repeated the ferret, standing up out of his seat, "I am not crazy!" He lunged at the bulldog across the desk and began throttling him. Within seconds, the dog was dead from suffocation.
"I received your e-mail," was the response Marcus Woodclaw received to his greeting.
"Great, great," the squirrel answered into the phone, "The file's 're okay, right?"
"Yep," replied Amber, "I'm downloading them now."
"They're copies of my star charts and recording," Marcus explained, holding the cordless phone on his shoulder while making repairs on his truck in his garage. "That's what you needed, right?"
"Right," she answered again, "I'll be needing the supporting evidence soon enough." There was a slightly irritated intonation to her voice, the anger remaining from the press conference.
"Hey," said the squirrel, "Speaking of which, I saw you on MNN." Amber stifled a growl before Marcus added, "That Christophe reporter guy was a jerk."
"Mmm," said Amber in agreement, the sound of papers shuffling in the background.
"By the way," the squirrel added, "I forgot to mention it in my message, but I know of an astrophysicist you may be interested in tracking down."
"Really?" Amber asked with sudden interest.
"Yeah. Astrophysics isn't his major though..."
"I can use all the help I can get," said the astronomer reassuringly.
"He's a psych professor at Laye University. His name is Donald Springsteen."