Horatio Rat

[Stephen Whiteside]

Horatio Rat

© Stephen Whiteside 11.10.2011

A long time ago, on a planet far away, lived a rat called ‘Horatio’.

His parents chose to call him that, of course. They could have chosen a more common name, like Bill or Ted or Jason or Akmad or Wei Sing. But they didn’t. They chose Horatio, because they thought it sounded heroic, and they wanted their son to be heroic.

Now, you might think it could be a burden for a young rat to grow up with a name like that, a distinctive, slightly ridiculous name like that, especially with all the expectation it held that he would be heroic. But he didn’t. Not a bit of it. He loved his name. It made him feel a bit special.

Heroism to Horatio meant excitement. Danger, yes, but always associated with ultimate triumph. Pain, perhaps, but only temporary. Wounds, but only superficial. Glory, always glory at the end.

Horatio Rat dressed for the part. In his right hand he held a large circular shield. On his left he held a sword. On his head he wore a spiked helmet. On his feet he wore heavy boots. A maroon sash started on his right shoulder, travelled down over his ample tummy to his left hip, then made its way up his back to his shoulder again. He didn’t need clothes, of course, because of his covering of thick fur. It grew thicker in the winter, and thinned again every summer. Except for a patch of bare skin where the sash rubbed on his shoulder, which had slowly developed over the years.

Why boots, but no clothes, you might ask? After all, the soles of his feet were as tough as nails. Truth be told, it was mostly for appearances. And again, with all those years of being protected, the soles of his feet had softened considerably, so that now he really did need his boots. If you are starting to get the impression that Horatio was something of a vain rat well, you’d be right. Did he actually DO anything especially heroic, or did he just play the part?

Well, yes and no. Horatio’s parents had been quite old when he was born, and it wasn’t long before they were both in nursing homes. Now, as you can probably imagine, it is not much fun being in a nursing home. It is lonely, and boring. If you are demented, you are probably one of the lucky ones, because most of the inmates are, and you’re going to feel very much the odd man out if you’re not. And if you are, well, you probably won’t know it.


Unfortunately for Horatio’s parents, though, they were not demented. They were just infirm. This was sad for them, because they knew exactly what was going on. To make matters worse, it was a very strict, old fashioned nursing home, organised on gender lines. This meant that Horatio’s father was in the Male wing and his mother in the Female wing. As a result, they never saw each other. This, after living together for nearly twelve years. (Rats don’t live nearly as long as people. Twelve years for a rat is a very long time indeed.) Theoretically, they could have met each other during the day time, but they didn’t have the strength for that.

Horatio visited them every day. This was rather heroic, don’t you think? He also brought them extra nibbles, because the nursing home food was pretty awful. He spent time with his father, and then with his mother. Sometimes, it was the other way around. Horatio dreamed of bringing his parents together for a time during each day, but wheelchairs hadn’t been invented, and he was not strong enough to carry them. Skype. Facebook. Twitter. Even telephones. None of them existed. They could read and write, though, so they would write little messages to each other, and Horatio would carry them. The difficulty with this, though, was that because they never spent any time together, it grew harder and harder for them to think of anything to say, and the messages got shorter and shorter.

They were sad that their son was spending so much time with them. They imagined that he would be spending his life doing all sorts of heroic things, but instead he was feeding them soup and pieces of cheese for most of his day. Well, not most of his day, perhaps, but enough of it to prevent him getting any other major projects underway. And he certainly could not travel. And their home town was rather small and staid, and didn’t call much for heroes. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. So they felt guilty. And Horatio felt frustrated. And everybody was unhappy.

Not that they showed it to each other. They all put on a happy face, because they were that sort of people, but underneath they were all utterly miserable. If they’d been able to admit their true feelings to each other, they probably would have felt a lot happier, but sadly, they didn’t understand this. Besides, they were frightened. Frightened of change. Things were already bad, but at least they were managing. Who knows, if anything changed, they might get worse! Then they might not be able to cope.

The nursing home did employ pastoral staff, but they worked along primitive lines. Strict religious views rather than any more scientific psychological principles. So they weren’t much use. If anything, they only made things worse.

When Horatio first started visiting, he made a point of continuing to carry his shield and sword, and wear his spiked helmet, because he felt it was part of his personality, even if it served no obvious purpose. In time, though, he developed the habit of leaving his sword and shield at home. This left his hands free to carry the food and extra clothing for his parents. After whacking the spike of his helmet against the top of the door jambs on a number of occasions, that stayed at home, too. He then discovered that his sash was starting to smell from all the soup stains, so he took it off.

Only his boots remained, and these only because his feet were now so soft that he simply could not do without them. So poor old Horatio looked very unheroic, and even faintly ridiculous, naked except for boots, with a bald patch of skin on his right shoulder. Yet, he had probably never been more heroic in his life.

Then one day, a wonderful thing happened. Perhaps you will think it wrong of me to call it wonderful. Perhaps it was not wonderful, really, but to Horatio it felt wonderful. His father died. Not only that, but his mother began to develop dementia. She no longer recognised Horatio. He began to realise that it was futile for him to continue to visit her every day. It was completely unappreciated. He would continue to take her food and clothing, but that could be done once or twice a week. She had a cupboard in her room that could be kept well stocked, and the staff could take a little out for her every day. It had a good lock on it, so the mice could not get at it. (They were big mice on that planet, too! They probably weren’t any bigger than any mice, but they seemed pretty big to a rat!)

Suddenly, Horatio had a lot of time on his hands. He began to realise that he was free. Well, almost. Now that he could put his helmet and sash and sword and shield on again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He quite liked being naked. He even toyed with the idea of removing his boots and allowing his feet to toughen up. He bought some Friar’s Balsam to rub into the soles. He realised that, freed of his parents’ expectations, he was finally able to discover who he really was! Horatio had never felt so exhilarated!

[william williams]

Stephen why did you not put it in the childrens section my two grand kids liked it

Bill the old Battler

[Stephen Whiteside]

Well, I wasn't sure it was a story for children, william, but thanks for the feedback.

[Maureen K Clifford]

and then along came Bob

Agree with the philosophy of Horatios parents - if you give a child something to aspire to they will, the same reasoning I use behind naming all of my dogs. Dogs and animals that have been abused need a beautiful name to make up for the ugliness that life has already shown them. Sadly this story smacks of truth. Can't imagine anything worse than being in a nursing home with all your marbles and every one else in lala land..Think I would rather take a bait. And then as in many humans the enthusiasm flags with little Horatio and once dad had gone and Mum became doolally it all seemed a bit pointless. Sad but true


Cheers

Maureen