Brunswick

Herman’s face was obscured amid the shadows cast by the firelight. He sat deep in his overstuffed wingback chair, a blanket over his lap. 

Andrew settled into the well-worn chair, opposite Herman. He dug into his briefcase and produced a tape recorder and a pen and a pad. He set the recorder on the small table. “Yeah, I guess I will take that drink.” He glanced up at the butler. “Rye. Rocks.”

“Thank you, Benson,” Herman dismissed his butler with the wave of his two-fingered hand.

Benson bowed. He wordlessly poured and served Andrew before excusing himself from the parlor.

Andrew sipped and cleared his throat. He opened his notebook, running his pen along the pages as he turned them until finally settling on a specific one. He took another sip, crossed his legs, and pushed the record button on his recorder. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for seeing me this evening, Lord Sutton.”

“Mmm.” He waved a hand. “You can call me Herman.”

“Herman, thank you.” Andrew smiled, adjusted his glasses and clicked his pen. “Why don’t we start wherever you would like?”

Herman drew a long breath before beginning. 

“I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. A chorus swelled in my chest. Yet, at the same time, I winced at the sting of an off-tune string that peeled a tale of my inevitable and painful demise. I named him Brunswick.

My father swore that my new pet had been discovered and captured deep in the jungles of central Africa and shipped to the UK through eastern Europe, finally landing in a zoo in Toronto. Not the big fancy one.

My uncle agreed that it had indeed ended up in Ontario but disagreed about its origin and path of migration. He claimed it had been discovered in the cavernous temple-ruins of northern Africa. He also agreed that it had indeed been located, although for only a short time, in the UK, but had traveled there through Spain and France.

The one thing they both agreed on was that they had found it sulking in the corner of an unkept habitat, an exhibit-closed sign crookedly festooned across the glass. My father had thrown an offer at a hand and had left with it, a gift for me.

You would be just as hard pressed as both my father, and my uncle were in finding ways to categorize Brunswick.

“It has fur,” my father stated. “It must be a mammal.”

“It may have fur,” my uncle conceded, “but it has laid four eggs in as many days. Mammals don’t lay eggs, and so he must be a coarse-feathered bird. It must belong to the avian family.”

No, no.” My father waved away the notion. “Under the fur there are gills. It must be some sort of desert flying land-fish. It’s a subject for an ichthyologist.”

“Ridiculous.” His brother threw his hands up in frustration. “You’re ignoring the skeletal structure and venom sacks. Clearly the creature is somehow both reptile and insect.”

“Hmm,” my father held a hand to his chin as he considered. After a moment he shrugged. “Seems like there’s a little felis in there, as well.”

“Catus?” His brother nodded. “Definitely.”  

We contracted gilded cages and constructed technologically perfected habitats, and still Brunswick has always preferred his rustic shipping crate he arrived in. 

Discovering his preferred diet was a painful process in which I lost my first finger and our gardener’s face was grotesquely mutilated. It turned out to be simple, meat. He will eat a biscuit, or some root vegetables, but he won’t be happy about it.

Designing his exercise routine was also a long, torrid affair, and the result of the first death at his hands. Although, I know Brunswick didn’t mean to kill her. Just as I know he didn’t mean to take my hand. Proper domestication demands so much, and he just needs to let loose from time to time. Deep down he’s a good boy.

Grooming can be dangerous. Restraints and protective equipment only rile him into a frenzy, and so the best approach is with a calm submissive demeanor. You just need to let him know that you’re doing it for him, and you mean him no harm. Although it can be a thin line to toe. No pun intended, as that’s the way I lost my left foot. 

He can perform a multitude of tricks and tasks. Training him may have, and may still be, the most challenging aspect of his adorable personality, but the time and risk has all been worthwhile. How many pets do you know that can play hide and seek, or charades, or chess for that matter? How many pets can change shape? Not many, I’m willing to wager. 

I would say my favorite times, though, are the slumbering afternoons, or the quiet evenings beside this very hearth. A book accompanied by his melodic coos and chirps and bleats and chittering. He can be such a cozy companion. All he really wants to do is sleep. You’re actually in his usual seat.”

Andrew ran his hand along the arm of the chair, only now, noticing the deep gouges in the leather. He shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses. “Where is Brunswick, Mister Sutton?”

“Andrew, please call me Herman, and Brunswick is right here.” Herman leaned into the light of the fire, pulling the blanket from his lap. He was the grotesque remains of a man. His ear was gone, along with half his nose and an eye. Rows of scars carved paths across his scalp and face. His shoulders were disjointed, crushed and disfigured. His right arm was only a nub where his elbow should have been. His right leg was missing past his knee, replaced with an ornate metal rod, his left foot gone as well.

Herman grinned; his teeth broken. He cast his two-fingered hand toward the wooden crate in the shadows beside his chair. “Would you like to say hello?” 

The crate rattled.

Andrew’s breath caught in his throat.