There comes a point in life, when the yearly anniversary of one's birth, ceases to be a
time to consider the balance of our gains and losses, and becomes more of an annual
reminder of the many goals we had set for ourselves, which we have failed to accomplish.
That is the point at which we try to spend as little time as possible, thinking about our
birthdays, but sometimes our well-meaning friends insist on marking the occasion, with a
good-humored reminder.
Such was the case this morning, when my little friend and sometime model, Horatio H.
Hamster Esq., popped up unexpectedly, dressed like firefighter. He said that he wanted
to wish me a happy birthday, and then remain on hand when I would light the candles on
my birthday cake. He said that having a fireman in attendance was a necessary
precaution, when having such a large number of candles burning at once, because such
a big blaze would create a serious fire hazard for me and for my guests, possibly even
burning down my studio and creating a four alarm fire.
I was amused by his little charade, and I played along with it, even though he got
the birth-date wrong, and even though I also do not eat cake, or bread, when avoidable.
( My apologies to Marie Antoinette. ) So I assured him that, even if I did own that
many candles, I did not know of any cakes in the neighborhood, which would be
large enough to accommodate such a high number, so there was no danger of
creating a four alarm fire.
He seemed pleased that I was going along with his gag, as I began doing a
sketch of him in his new outfit. When I asked him if he had ever had any personal
experience with a four alarm fire, he said that he had not, but that there was an
old family story about an ancestor of his, who had been an eye-witness to the
start of the great Chicago Fire. According to the story, his ancestor had been
living in the barn where Mrs. O'Leary's cow supposedly kicked over the lantern,
which set the barn on fire. But his ancestor, known as Hurricane Hamster, was
of the opinion that a right-wing arsonist started the blaze, to protest Irish cows
taking jobs away from good American cows. I asked if Hurricane had passed
that information on to investigators, but apparently they had never interviewed
him, which Horatio considered to be a clear case of ethnic discrimination.
But on the other hand, Hurricane had probably not stayed around long enough
to say anything. He had acquired his windy-city name, because of his ability
to make quick escapes from the scenes of crimes and disasters.
When I remarked that Horatio seemed to have inherited that talent for
speedy arrivals and departures, he explained that he had to work fast because
he had to wear so many hats, as as an actor, director and producer at the
Quadruped Playhouse. He said that the whole troop was eager to perform
for a live audience again, after the long, Covid lock-down, and he is already
in rehearsal to reprise his pivotal role in their annual, holiday production of
Dickens' Christmas Carol. But he said the whole company was firm in their
decision to permanently ban Donald J. Skunk and his dim-witted, disease-
spreading friends, over in the fox den.
As I was finishing up my sketch, I asked him if he had ever heard any
further stories about his Chicago ancestor, and what had become of him.
He answered that the last time someone had said goodbye to Hurricane,
he had disappeared into the mists of time. Then he offered to give me a
dramatic rendition of such a scene, telling me to give him his cue, by saying
"Goodbye Hurricane!"
So I said, " Goodbye Hurricane!" And before I could lay my pencil down,
he was gone.
Eugene P. McNerney
