textfiles/stories/bran

BRANDED
 by John R. Hillman, Jr.

 
  He walked into the pet store as quietly as possible, but the bell 
over the door game him away with its loud ring. The store owner looked 
up from his magazine as the man walked over to the racks containing 
puppies and kittens. When the owner saw the man standing there, hands 
in his coat pockets, he relaxed and went back to the article. The man 
looked at the small animals with longing. He peered out from under the 
brim of his low hat, almost pressed up against the cages. He smiled as 
a kitten hooked the brim of the hat in its needle-like claws and he 
gently released the paw from the felt.

  "May I help you?" the owner asked, putting down the magazine. The man
had been just standing there for too long. Time to buy or leave.

  "I was thinking of getting a pet, maybe a kitten or a puppy. What would
you suggest?" The man turned toward the counter, as the owner stepped out
from behind.

  "Well, do you live in a house or an apartment?" the owner asked.
  
  "A house, out in the country. Plenty of room for a dog to run. But I'm
not sure about letting a cat out all the time."

  "I know what you mean," said the owner. "If you have a barn or some
similar building the cat could live in all the time, that would be
good. But, I don't believe in letting house cats run wild. Too easy 
for them to get hurt or turn feral."

  "Yes, I had considered that."
  
  "Have you ever owned pets before?"
  
  "We had a dog when I was a boy, but I've been moving a lot since then.
It didn't seem fair to keep moving a pet around like that. Now, I'm set
for at least a few years, so I thought it might be time to try having a
friend." The man reached out to touch one of the cages and the puppy
inside licked his fingers eagerly.

  "He certainly likes you. Why don't we get the paperwork out of the 
way, and then we can see which pet suits you best."  The owner walked 
back behind the counter and pulled out the computer keyboard. The man 
was still getting his fingers licked. "Sir, if you could step over here?"

  "Certainly." With a last lick, he pulled his fingers free and walked
over to the counter.

  "Now," the owner said, as he brought the Pet Ownership Application 
form on screen, "your name please?"

  "Richard Nixon."
  
  The owner looked up at the man's face.
  
  "I know, I know. I can't help it if my parents have a weird sense of 
humor." The store owner typed in the information.

  "Address, Date of birth, and your Social Register Number?"
  
  "Why do you need that?" Nixon asked. "I mean my Register Number."
  
  "Ever since the Animal Rights Act was signed into law in '94, we need
to file a complete report on all pet purchases. Can't have any weirdoes
owning helpless animals, now, can we?"

  "I guess not," the man answered slowly. He supplied the needed information.
  
  "Purpose of purchase?"
  
  "Beg pardon?"
  
  "They want to know why you want a pet. I mean, we get some guys in here
who buy small animals just to feed to their larger pets. Can you believe
that, in this day and age?" The owner shook his head. "We'll just put you
down as `for companionship'. Complete past ownership history?"

  "Just the dog we had when I was a child."
  
  "None. Any diseases that might harm a pet?"
  
  "Not that I know of."
  
  "Okay. Are there any small children that might disturb the animal?"
  
  "No, of course not. I live alone."
  
  "Fine. Can't have those little demons pulling ears and biting tails.
By the way, take this list of household chemicals that you need to
check for. There will be an inspector by one month after the purchase
to confirm you have locked all bio and chemical hazards away from the
animal."

  "Jeeze, they take this seriously," Nixon commented.
  
  "Hey, a pet is a big responsibility," the owner said, shaking a finger
at Nixon. "It's not like having a kid, that can take care of itself, you
*know*. That's a whole set of different rules." He typed in a few lines 
of information about the pet shop and hit enter. "Okay, just take off 
your hat for a minute so the computer can get a picture for the 
application file. Stand on the white X please."

  "Is all this really necessary? Nixon asked. "I'm really self-conscious
about having my picture taken."

  "Sorry, it's the law. No picture, no pet!"
  
  Nixon carefully removed the hat and moved over to the X on the floor.
  
  "Just look at the wall in front of you and stay neutral. Okay, fine."
The owner hit a button on the keyboard and there was a multi-colored 
flash from a strobe. Nixon rubbed his eyes from the glare. As he looked 
up at the owner, there was a hissing sound from the printer and the 
computer began to beep. "What the heck?" He looked over at Nixon, and saw 
the skin on his forehead was beginning to smoke. "Why you fraud!" He 
reached over and ripped a section of plastic flesh from Nixon's forehead, 
shredded edges dangled from his face. There, laser tattooed for all to 
see, was a red capital P, the sign of a pet abuser; the special ink 
chemically reacting to the influence of the strobe under the make-up. 

  "I'm sorry," Nixon cried. "I just wanted a little companionship. I 
would have taken good care of it. Really."

  "Not from my shop, you don't," the owner shouted, as he came around 
the counter and grabbed Nixon by an arm. He shoved him roughly out the 
door. "Get out of here and don't ever come back."

  "It was only a goldfish. How was I to know it would jump out of its 
bowl while I was at work." Nixon was sobbing as he dropped to his knees. 
"Please! Let me have a pet. I'll be good to it, I promise."
    
  "Get out of here, you scum," the owner said, as he kicked Nixon in 
the ribs. "You guys are all alike. The law is the law, no matter what. 
No pets for you. Now get away form here." The owner slammed the door and 
flipped his sign to closed. He began to examine all the animals Nixon 
had come near. _Who knew what these crazies would do to a helpless 
animal_, he thought to himself.

  Nixon stood outside the store for a time, looking through the window.
Then, with slumped shoulders, he walked away. People on the street 
stared as he walked by -- a marked man.


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Copyright 1993 John R. Hillman, Jr.
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John is a freelance writer, who has been published in BLOODREAMS, ONCE UPON
A WORLD, and GATEWAYS. He writes a bimonthly SF/F column published in THE 
MAGAZINE of SHAREFICTION, and his book reviews appear in POPULAR FICTION
NEWS. As a contributing editor to ON THE RISK, he keeps track of "life."
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