A while back I got tired of the name Billy Scribbles, which I used to add some personality to the appellation Mister Scribbles.  I took the name Mister Scribbles because it was the first vaguely pencil sketch name Blogger would let me have.  Now I find out the the name I prefer using, Billy D Bunny, inspired by the impotent general in Dr. Strangelove, has been used in one form or the other for quite some time. Billy Bunny, 1954.     https://comicbookplus.com/?dlid=76260      1921.  What the fuck is going on here?  That's a mouse .  I think we're seeing a criminal conspiracy! June, 1954.  Thus Ajax Farrell comics celebrates the fall of Dien Bien Phu.  This would be General Navarre in action. Oh, and Farrell Comics was the first to publish Steve Ditko. This incredibly angst ridden cover is from 1919.  I think this Billy is about to die, and horribly at that. A Billy Bunny from the '50s.  David Cory apparently rode this unt

 Eric Williams Schwartz, Amy The Squirrel.  Early nineties furry. https://youtu.be/T8Yh8_rfTMQ  A sexy furry?  Who would have believed it? Signs of end times, folks. Going to hell in a handbasket.

https://www.instagram.com/sdavis.howdy/

Boris Artzbasheff, 1899 - 1965. Anthropomorphic means having human characteristics.  

 A 1960's leopard girl named after a 1967 song by The Buckinghams~ From sketch~ To painting~ To video~

  Dr. Moreau: What is the law?   Sayer of the Law: Not to eat meat, that is the law. Are we not men? Dr. Moreau: What is the law? Sayer of the Law: Not to go on all fours, that is the law. Are we not men? Dr. Moreau: What is the law? Sayer of the Law: Not to spill blood, that is the law. Are we not men?

  A new character I've been working on, and Hybrid gets to see her before DA does! Meet Amber, ace meerkat reporter. An investigative journalist I'm hoping to have a mix of silly and serious stories with her, she's sort of my Brenda Starr or Lois Lane. For this it is definitely a humorous story. Amber meets a contact in a greasy diner. Hijinks ensue.   Amber, a young meerkat journalist, sat in the last booth of ‘Rod’s Roadside Café.’ A plump coyote waitress ran to and fro into the kitchen behind her.   It was late evening and the sun was quickly fading into night. The woods past the parking lot were turning from a pleasing orange into black. The meerkat, dressed in a skirt and semi casual blouse, reached into her purse and checked her essential items: Recorder? Check. Notepad and pen? Check. Pepper spray? Check. It certainly wasn’t her first choice for meeting a contact, especially considering the scathing review Amber had done on the place back when she wrote for the local