Sir Henry Thumblefoot Writes a Letter by Rae Iolene

Sir Henry Thumblefoot Writes a Letter

This is what I am. A guinea pig, say you not? 

I see you there. Judging me. 

Wheek. Wheek. Wheek. How rude. 

My name is Sir Henry Thumblefoot, if you must, and I was forced all the way from Lima, Peru, in 1850. I was seasick for ages until we stumbled upon an island some call London, England. 

All it does is rain. 

I hate it. 

Where’s the sun? The wallowing in the long grasses, foraging and burrowing.

I am talking to you, you know. 

You, with the silver spectacles, always scribbling away in your notebook about me.

I know this because I’ve seen drawings. All my orange, black, and white spots visualized on parchment paper.

I am not called Sir Henry Thumblefoot on this page. 

I am Cavia porcellus! A wizard, or one of those talking guinea pigs from G-Force you endlessly rave about.

In the end, London isn’t so bad.

I get to run around the flat and eat my weight in blueberries. 

Well, hey.

It beats scavenging for three miles a day. 

Until next time, freaks. 

XOXO, Sir H. T. 

The first immortal guinea pig

xx. Rae Iolene

9 April 2026