I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
This morning’s headline: Yogurt-eating mice found to have larger testicles.
A few questions: Who left the yogurt out and then who first noticed a mouse run by and commented, “Look at the set on that guy. Holy mackerel!”
To liven up the story, these are elderly mice. So, these old guys are chowing down on yogurt and literally, growing a pair.
Which begs one more query: When you see a mouse, can you tell its age immediately? Does an old one have grey hair, bald patches and a belly? Does it have trouble hearing the cat sneak up on it?
This is all too much for me except for the uncomfortable feeling that my taxes are paying somebody to figure all this out. Somebody who spends his days running along behind old yogurt-eating mice to see how much their balls are growing.
My 18-year-old cat Mario lost his twin brother Luigi a while back and he’s been affected in various ways by the loss. He developed an eating disorder, for one thing, and needs a lot more human attention than he ever wanted before.
Mario and Luigi, over their long lives together, never really put it together that they were two cats and not one. When you’d walk by a comfy chair where they were sleeping, you’d be seeing what could only be described as a pile o’ cat. Legs, tails, ears sticking out all over. It was hard to see where one animal started and the other ended.
So, in some ways, I have been an oversized Luigi since that great guy left this world. My claws aren’t as sharp and my whiskers not as long and Luigi didn’t wear glasses, but Mario seems to think I make an alright substitute. Several times a day, and even in the middle of the night sometimes, Mario and I snuggle in the same comfy chair he and his brother shared so many naps in.
And Mario loves just about anything I decide to do with his body but his favourite thing is to have his jawline pressed against my knuckles. There doesn’t seem to be any point where I can push too hard on that area of his face. In fact, he does a major part of the pressing.
In a way, it takes me back to my days in a one-room country schoolhouse where one of my classmates used to press his knuckles against my jawline on a pretty regular basis. And like Mario, I loved it. But to make things more fun, I would often try to run away when I saw Billy heading my way and hide behind a tree or a bush, but he was very determined and good at finding me and my “four eyes.” Billy was more mini bulldozer than boy and he liked to make my life brighter every day.
But there is a benefit to everything we experience in life and my frequent attempts to run away from Billy led me to take up track and field when I got to high school, and left the bulldozer behind. I would imagine Billy was gaining on me and I’d quicken my pace. However, I soon discovered that I was not the speediest runner in the world which explained how Billy could always catch me. So I switched to cross country running and was actually kind of good at that as there were lots of trees, creeks and bushes to run around even if I wasn’t being chased.
After a good snuggle that can last upwards of 20 minutes or so, Mario jumps down from my lap and crawls under a comfy chair with a big blanket over it which gives him total privacy. And he goes to sleep. I can’t read the mind of a cat, but my guess is, he misses Luigi.
As for me, it might sound strange, but I don’t miss Billy at all.
I am voting for the Rhinoceros party in the next federal election in Canada for various reasons. First off, unlike the other parties, they have a 1,000-year plan and I admire people who look ahead. And they have history on their side. They have been around since 1963.
Rhinoceronians have smart, sensible ideas. If elected, they will move Canada’s capital from Ottawa to Kapuskasing because it is the geographical centre point of the nation. They will privatize Canada’s armed forces and nationalize Tim Hortons. They lean Marxist-Lennonist in their approach (Groucho Marx and John Lennon).
Some members of the party favour the return of capital punishment with one leader saying, “If it was good enough for my grandfather, it’s good enough for me.”
One ambitious plan the party has had was to tow Antarctica to the Arctic Circle. This would give Canada a monopoly on cold temperatures and a big advantage if a Cold War ever breaks out again.
During an election campaign in 1984, the party planned to eliminate big businesses and allow only small businesses which employ less than one worker.
Other smart ideas were to repeal the law of gravity, lower the boiling point of water, make Illiteracy the third official language of Canada and tear down the Rocky Mountains so Albertans could see the B.C. sunsets.
They would also abolish the environment because it takes up too much space and is too hard to keep clean. And they would end crime by abolishing all laws.
Other neat ideas include making the two-lane Trans Canada Highway a one-way road. And if elected, they would count the Thousand Islands to see if the Americans have stolen any.
I went to bed feeling down last night and I am still not my usual bubbly self today.
Last evening, I hauled two big trash cans to the street for pickup this morning and inside one of those cans was a treasure I was finally persuaded to part with. That exalted item was a brand new bike helmet that I bought and its only sin was that it was left outside. Rain, snow, hurricanes – it had seen it all.
Still, it looked as good as the day I bought it. It was a big, round, white affair, not unlike the kind astronauts wear. It had a variety of straps and velcro pads and was about the ultimate in modern head protection. Alas, however, maybe because I don’t have a modern head, I never wore it. Still it was not something I was ready to part with but I was outvoted at a Summit Meeting of the Family Council, so into the garbage it went.
A couple of times during the night, I resisted going out to the street, bringing my helmet back in and hiding it in the shed. However, I live in fear of sanctions from the Family Council.
Morning came, and it was gone.
Those heartless individuals lined up against me at the Summit Meeting made the point that I don’t actually own a bike. They argued that not having a bike pretty much cancelled the need to have a bike helmet. But I couldn’t follow their reasoning.
This afternoon I sat staring at the place the helmet used to sit, and got a bit emotional.
“Goodbye, old friend,” I whispered. “I tried to save you.”
Like always, I save my emotions for the important things.
An Australian man has been hailed a “hero” after repeatedly punching a shark until it released his wife’s leg.
And while I do agree that punching a 10-foot-long, great white shark to save his wife is a pretty gutsy thing to do, lesser known heroes such as I go unheralded and that has me sort of steamed.
My wife and I have swam together in many bodies of water over the years including the Atlantic Ocean, and my fearsome demeanour all by itself has kept every shark in the area from even approaching us, let alone attacking. Yes, I did no punching but punching isn’t needed when the sharks are too intimidated to come near.
But the puncher can have all the glory if he needs it. Personally, I like to keep a low profile.
Not to brag, but we have also strolled through forests without once having been attacked by wolves, cougars, coyotes, wild dogs, bobcats, snakes and bears. Never been bitten by a wolverine, a mongoose or a wildebeest. However, I did have a close encounter with a fearsome wild turkey in my backyard this summer but after taking one look at me as I was running full speed into the garage, he took off.
When the shark puncher can successfully deal with a wild turkey in his yard, I will be suitably impressed.
Australia has one of the world’s highest incidences of shark attacks and there have been five fatal ones in the country so far this year.
Another reason I think I deserve at least a little bit of credit for not moving to Australia and having no plans to ever do so.
Some anonymous guy phoned our house last week with a short announcement, and then hung up.
“You’re an idiot,” said the caller. And that was that.
Except it wasn’t that. The character assessment conveyed by our telephone hero got me wondering whether or not I am, in fact, an idiot.
So, I signed up for a $1,000 online 12-week course entitled, “How to Identify an Idiot.”
Right off the bat, when taking my first lesson, I was a little discouraged to read that anyone who would pay $1,000 for an Internet course to confirm whether or not he is an idiot, is, in fact, an idiot.
But then I felt a little better when the presenter went on to describe how almost all human beings are idiots from time to time. With most people, however, their idiotic moments are brief and few. A true idiot, however, carries his idiocy with him all day long wherever he goes.
Our assignment for this week is to be on the lookout for idiots in our midst and having seen one, bring a description of that person to the next session.
It didn’t take long for me to recognize my first suspect. I was going through the drivethrough at a fast-food restaurant but before I could get to the window, a 40s-something man got out of his parked car and walked up to the window. He had in his hand the largest container for pop ever made and he started arguing with the attendant behind the window.
He appeared to want a refill and he kept trying to hand the young woman his huge cup. She would not take it. It seemed as though this guy thought this was about the biggest outrage anyone had ever experienced. He flailed his arms and shrugged his shoulders, obviously mocking the woman behind the glass.
But, despite being a jerk, he sort of got his way, as he seemed to have been instructed to head into the restaurant which he did.
I am expecting a solid A in class next week for my eagle eye spotting of this idiot.
But a look at the course description suggests there is more to this offering than I at first thought.
Besides exploring the whole concept of idiocy, in future classes we will be looking at many first cousins of the idiot such as the moron, the lamebrain, the fool, and the dumbass.
I am looking forward to learning all about the dumbass, as apparently it is possible to be a dumbass and a smartass at the same time. I have no idea how that could ever be explained. But a picture of Texas Senator Ted Cruz accompanies this topic heading so maybe there is a hint in that.
I am not sure how learning all there is to know about idiocy will help prepare me for the rest of my life, but my hope is, if that guy who told me I’m an idiot ever calls again, I will be able to offer him a devastating retort such as …
“I know you are but what am I?”
My big worry is that only an idiot would not be able to explain what that saying means.
I hope you know what it means because I don’t and never have.
I take my little poodle Toby for a walk up and down our street twice a day. And before we leave, I call to him and say, “Come on, Toby. Let’s go yell at the neighbours.”
And we do, although I leave almost all the yelling to the little sparkplug at my feet. He always leads the way, something I have discovered 14 years too late you should never let a dog do, and barks his head off at strangers and most other dogs.
Toby is a known feature of our street now, and in spite of his crusty exterior, those who know the little dickens get a kick out of him. I always point out that while he is yelling his head off, his tail is wagging up a storm, so he is not angry. He just has a lot of announcements to make.
I have tried to think of something to compare these little adventures to. The best I can come up with is it is like walking down the street with a live “weed whacker” in your hand. We have one of those things. It weighs about the same as the dog, is just as noisy and sometimes has a mind of its own, and will go where it wants to go if you don’t hang onto it just right.
Fourteen years is a long time to carry a weed whacker down the street twice a day and there are times I would rather stay in my rocking chair. But I know the day is coming, and I know it will come too soon, when the whacker will be out of gas and will stop running for good.
Coincidentally, that will be the exact same time my overactive tear factory will open its doors and who knows when they will close again.
And after a month or two in my rocking chair, I will start strolling down the street again, the loneliest guy in my town.
I don’t know if it’s normal to worry about the birds that gather in our backyard every day but when you are a worrier (I’ve been told I was born with a worried look on my face) I guess it was probably inevitable that our birds would be the targets of my anxiety eventually.
I am especially concerned about our many mourning doves who, while they do drink from our water sources now and then, hardly ever take a bath. This can’t be good for their coats. They should look for inspiration from the grackles who thrash away so vigorously in the bath that they practically create a wave pool out of it. Their bodies are black and blue and shiny and they look good.
However, they crap big time in the birdbath and I am afraid the other birds who drink from it might become contaminated though none of them seem put off by it so far.
Also very concerning are the sparrows who never, from one month to the next, bathe at all, although that might be a good thing as I fear they are so tiny, they could drown if they were ever to plunge right in.
And while I admire the fact that these little buggers don’t seem to be afraid of any other flying creature – they march right up to birds 10 times their size and kick them in their knees – I can’t help but wonder if they will pay for their boldness someday soon.
I am concerned about some of the robins who seem to me to be too chunky for their own good. One day I saw what looked like two robins taking a bath at the same time and was shocked to discover that all the splashing about was being made by only one red-breasted behemoth. These guys need to get more exercise or cut back on the worms. Their cholesterol levels must be sky high, pun intended.
I love to look at the cardinals and blue jays but I wonder how their colourful wings, bodies and heads don’t easily attract whatever predators they might be trying to stay away from. (We all have our predators. Mine use our doorbell and landline.) They seem almost to be sitting ducks, though we don’t actually have any sitting ducks at the moment. We do have a couple in the front yard every spring when Fred and Ginger show up for a day or two of waddling around.
The cowbirds have been around a lot this summer and the silly brown things walk everywhere. I worry if they keep doing that they will forget how to fly. Also, they are not suitably afraid of other creatures such as squirrels, rabbits and grackles and even humans. I have almost bumped into them from time to time.
And of the grackles, we used to have 20 of them till a month ago when they all disappeared. So, I worried about what might have happened to them till 10 of them reappeared last week, hungry and obnoxious as ever. Where are the other 10, I fretted. And when the 10 we have now returned, they brought a flock of starlings with them. The starlings are a very rambunctious gang and I worry about our grackles getting mixed up with them and the bad effects that might have on their attitudes.
But maybe my bird fears are misplaced. It’s been a long time since I found a dead one anywhere. And they do seem to have their own lifesaving medics. One day, I happened on a big bird of some sort that was sitting on an arm of one of our lawnchairs, obviously badly stunned. Sometimes birds will fly headfirst into our windows which cramps their style. I could have reached out and grabbed this guy but I kept on walking. A few minutes later, a second bird of the same species landed on the first guy’s back and proceeded to use its wings to beat the hell out of it. I thought it was performing a mercy killing. In fact, it was more akin to CPR. After the assaulter flew off, the one in a coma came to life, shook itself a time or two and took off after its physiotherapist, good as new.
In the end, of course, I don’t know what the future holds for the birds or for me, but if I come back as a winged creature someday, I hope I am a bold little sparrow.
Six months ago, my eye doctor announced that I would be taking a field vision test in August. Six months is the ideal time frame for me to whip myself into a high state of anxiety about a trip to the doctor – any doctor.
Most of my worry came from my ignorance regarding what exactly a field vision test might be. I didn’t have the courage to ask the doctor or the energy to consult the Internet, so my lack of knowledge on the subject underpinned my jittery nerves.
Would I be driven out to a field south of the city and told to count the number of corn stalks I could see in a sixty-second period? Would I be shown aerial photos of a number of different fields and commanded to identify which one was the sharpest?
So many possibilities, so many dangers. Failure to pass the field vision test could obviously lead to my eyeballs being removed and used as doorstops.
I couldn’t even share my concern with anyone else as there was nobody I knew who had ever taken a field vision test.
Tuesday, the night before the test, I felt like Tom Dooley awaiting to ascend the scaffold the next day. I tossed and turned. Slept very little. And showed up wearily on time for the test.
At the eye clinic, I was led into a room with all sorts of fancy hardware. I was seated in a chair and a pirate’s eyepatch was installed over my left eye. I rested my chin on a metal chinrest and the room went dark. I was handed a little joystick and told to press a button every time I saw a little burst of light. Those bursts appeared randomly all over the screen.
I nailed it.
The eyepatch was switched to my left eye and the process repeated. But this time, due I suppose to my poor night’s sleep, I nodded off three times in the middle of the test. It is hard to identify brief flashing lights on a screen when you are asleep. To all future test takers, I would recommend drinking three energy drinks in a row before grabbing that joystick.
I mentioned to the doctor that I had slipped into unconsciousness three times during the test but he seemed unconcerned. Said I had passed with flying colours.
Which now has me worrying at the value of a test which you can pass while sound asleep.
All I know is I am getting new glasses. Whether I will be able to see a flea on a buffalo’s back at 500 paces or not able to see the end of my nose, I have no idea.
I just hope I can still count the corn stalks in the fields south of the city as this is a practice that has always brought me peace.
I remember the day we were married. I especially recall how well-behaved both the bride and groom were. We definitely put our best feet forward. I would say we got off to a pretty good start.
But we are polite Canadians, after all. How else could our wedding have gone?
Now had we been from Tennessee, things might have been different.
A case in point, just hours after saying “I do,” a Tennessee bride pulled a 9 mm pistol from her wedding dress, pointed it at her groom and pulled the trigger, according to court documents and media reports.
The gunslinger, 25, of Kenton, Tennessee, faces a charge of aggravated domestic assault. Her husband was not injured in Monday’s incident.
As far as I know, my bride was not concealing a pistol in her wedding dress but if she did, she never produced it. I got off lucky, I think. She is very precise in the things she does. I don’t think she would have missed.
In the Tennessee case, responding officers let the husband know the honeymoon was over and his new wife was going to jail, police said. His bride was still in her wedding dress when she was arrested.
Now, lest you get the idea there was no reason for the shooting, you would be wrong, of course. The incident followed an argument between the loving couple at the Clarion Inn motel near Murfreesboro, according to court documents.
The new wife, at first, pointed the gun at her new husband’s head, and pulled the trigger, but no shot was fired. She then racked a round into the gun chamber and shot it into the air, the court documents show.
So, not only did she have an empty head, but her gun wasn’t loaded either. That is, until she put some bullets in it.
However, when the cops showed up, both bride and groom stuck together and wouldn’t cooperate. Something tells me they’re gonna get along just fine.
