Carol’s Column

The sad demise of Horace

"THE situation is grave, very grave, I'm afraid to say." His face was grim, his eyes sympathetic.

I noticed a spot of blood on his snow-white coat, shut my eyes and brushed away the tears.

"Will he live?" I asked the silent man beside me. "I want to know the worst. What is the prognosis? I must know everything."

He shook his head slowly.

"He has a severe tonsillitis and possibly pharyngitis. He has an upper respiratory tract infection and an acute otitis."

"Oh my goodness," I shuddered.

"At present he's not responding to treatment at all. He's on a broad spectrum antibiotic — but if there isn't a radical change for the better tomorrow, we'll have to bring in the big guns and operate."

We both turned to look at Horace.

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He looked so small and vulnerable, so terribly frail as he lay there, his eyes shut and his breathing shallow.

Every now and then, a thin wheezing rasp would escape from his half-open mouth.

His usually plump cheeks were sunken and shrunken.

"Perhaps we should try oxygen," I suggested hesitantly, not wanting to intrude upon the hallowed medical domain.

"Unfortunately we have a problem. His nasal passages are too small to take the tubes."

I stroked his cheek gently but he didn't stir.

It was too distressing. I couldn't bear it any longer.

I kissed him gently and left the austere, disinfectant-smelling room.

My husband was waiting for me in the corridor. He gripped my arm.

"What shall I tell the children?" I whispered brokenly.

He gazed into my eyes: "Tell them I'll buy them another Hamster if Horace dies," he answered, deadpan.

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"You're heartless," I spat out in my grief.

His eyes almost popped through his glasses.

"Heartless," he bellowed.

"What other hamster has a police escort to hospital? I mean, did you have to scream 'He's dying, he's dying' when that traffic cop flagged me down for breaking the speed limit?"

"Did you see his face when you got out of the car carrying Horace? Do you know what his parting gesture was?"

He brandished a ticket text cut off in photograph

That was Monday evening.

By Tuesday morning, Horace had made a remarkable recovery. From his almost moribund state, he was well enough to sip a little water and eat half a sunflower seed.

We brought him home two days and R47 later.

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He perked up visibly when he left the hospital.

Hospitals are depressing places at the best of times and his misery had been compounded by the fact that his neighbour was a cat.

It didn't matter that the cat had just undergone a hysterectomy and wasn't in the pink of health — he was considerably relieved to be home.

Barry had redecorated his cage with a chocolate-brown wallpaper, and the visual impact was stunning.

Ralph installed a high-rise de luxe hamster house complete with garden patio and three bedrooms.

He slept on a duck-fluff duvet and we acquired an electronic wheel that revolved silently.

The kids stuffed him with fresh carrots and lettuce and my mother-in-law insisted on feeding him her life-sustaining home-made chicken soup.

He was in his element and by Friday was standing and puffing his cheeks with joy.

Then disaster struck. Yesterday morning, when bringing him his early-morning tot of milk and brandy, Jamie discovered the cage was empty.

Horace had vanished.

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We turned the house upside down, scoured the neighbourhood and called in the Civil Defence.

We advertised in the Press and on the radio.

The response was immediate. Calls came from far and wide.

Someone had seen Horace at the Rosebank municipal library, making his way through the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Yet somebody else swore they'd seen him in a pub in Bloemfontein and then there was the man who'd seen him at Loftus Versfeld nibbling Naas Botha's right boot.

We followed whatever lead we could. But it was hopeless.

Horace was gone.

Until last night when my husband unlocked his filing cabinet and gave a mournful cry.

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For there, among the birth certificates, wills and bonus bonds, lay Horace.

He'd come to the end of the road.

His stomach was taut and his little cheeks full.

We realised immediately how Horace had met his sad demise.

The evidence lay all around him. It was obvious he'd choked over an edition of "Playboy" hidden between the car licence renewal forms and rates and taxes.

"What a way to go," murmured my husband as we buried him with full military honours, wrapped in his last shroud — the half-chewed centre-page-spread of Playboy.

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