Author: Jim Hagarty

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.

I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.

Perhaps she’ll die.

This was a popular nursery song when I was a kid and though I thought it was funny, it horrified me on some level. This poor, misguided woman swallowed a spider to catch the fly, a bird to catch the spider, a cat to catch the bird, a dog to catch the cat, a cow to catch the dog and a horse to catch the cow.

Somehow, she survived swallowing all these creatures, except the last one. She died after swallowing the horse.

What was wrong with this woman?

To begin with, who gave her the idea that swallowing a fly might be so life-threatening that she would need to swallow a spider right way to catch the darned thing? She was acting on some pretty lousy information and I maintain that whoever fed her this lie should have been held responsible for it.

But after swallowing the spider, the next five things she swallowed are entirely on her. I can’t imagine anyone advising her to swallow a bird to catch the spider, or a cat to catch the bird, and a dog to catch the cat. But at least those actions have some relation to reality. A bird will catch a spider, a cat will go after a bird and a dog will chase a cat. After that, the woman comes unhinged. Since when would a cow be sent out to catch a dog? Even more bizarre, when has a horse ever caught a cow?

However, I will give this woman a few points on her ability to swallow things and if she had had the good sense to stop after digesting the cow, she might still be with us. But the horse was just a step too far.

I never saw a photo of this woman but I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest that she must have had one hell of a big mouth.

Which is probably how that fly got into her in the first place.

She yawned what would turn out to be a fatal yawn at just the wrong time. The fly went to investigate and soon it was sharing her obviously oversized stomach with a spider, a bird, a cat, a dog, a cow and a horse.

What a tragic series of events. For not only the old lady but all these innocent creatures.

The good news is that, too my knowledge, no human since then has ever repeated such a string of colossal errors.

So, from that point of view, the old lady did us all a great favour by showing us the dangers of having a big mouth and of opening it at the wrong time.

It is sad she had to die but she left the world a better place.

As did the reporter who broke the story.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

Sometimes, inspiration descends on a person from the oddest places.

Yes, it might come from the words you happen to read in a book or that are spoken to you by a friend, sung to you in a song, or even a few lines scribbled on the inside of a greeting card. A scene from a movie. Or sayings that you heard years ago from an elder and which have stayed in your memory.

Or, they might just come from observing the wildlife in your backyard.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a path, a few inches wide, in the fresh snow behind our house. I had no idea what had created this flat mark, but I followed it across the yard, never finding its source. It looked like it might have been made by a beaver’s tail. But we’ve never had any beavers in our yard, so I was stumped. Wild rabbits never leave such a trail. Nor do squirrels, who always flit about with their tails high in the air.

But then a few days later, I noticed a black squirrel gobbling up the seed below one of our bird feeders. It then decided to go for a drink of water from a heated waterbowl we have nearby. I then saw that this poor little creature’s back end was paralyzed. He could only propel himself by his front legs and as he dragged himself along, his dead tail left a broad path in the snow.

So I took to feeding the squirrels on the ground so this little guy wouldn’t have to try to climb up to a platform below our treehouse, where I normally put their sunflower seeds. The next day, there was my little paralyzed friend, up on the platform, eating away. He must have crawled up the treehouse steps and made his way onto the feeding station.

Since then, I have watched for the poor guy several times a day until about ten days ago when I didn’t see him anymore. I took to walking around the yard, looking for his body. I never found it. He had obviously crawled into a bush or some other obscure place where he could breathe his last.

Like the rabbits in our yard, the squirrels have come to recognize me as the source of their food. And when I emerge from the back of the garage, they all head for their feeding places, turn in my direction, and watch me.

Yesterday, a bunch of them, scrambled from all parts of the yard and headed for their feeders when they saw me. One of those, was my little paralytic. But things had changed. While he was still dragging his dormant tail through the snow, he was now able to use his back legs. They were unsteady, and he sort of darted in a crooked line rather than a straight one, but he was recovering. And the strangest thing is, the other squirrels stand back while he’s eating, almost as though they are making allowances for his disability.

Why this inspires me is this.

Since I was a teenager, I have had a wonky back. My Dad had a troublesome back too and even wore a brace to help him meet the demands of farming.

Now and then, every few months, or so, my back “goes out”. The pain, which sometimes comes in spasms, is incredible. It causes me to yell out, like I’d just been shot, even in the middle of the night. I dig out my cane and hobble away. I sleep fitfully in a chair, rather than my bed. I immediately also apply copious amounts of self-pity and embark on a campaign to elicit lots of sympathy from the people I live with. It seems to help.

Today, is my first good day in a week-long episode. I’ve been to a physiotherapist in the past, but even his soothing touch and acupuncture needles, failed to produce any long-lasting relief. It always goes away on its own. I just chalk it up to another visit from the “Hagarty back” and move on. Nothing I ever do seems to bring it on, and only time – a few days usually – chases it away.

This morning, with my cane, I stepped outside to see my brave little squirrel dragging himself through the snow. I know it’s my imagination, but it seems to me he has come to tolerate my presence, almost like he knows I am trying to help him. The other squirrels dash off in a panic if I get too close, but not my “Squirrely”. He kept gobbling away while I was only a few feet away from him.

I am not sure what Squirrely is using in his quest to self-recover. It seems as though he has just decided to do the best he can with what he has left. If he feels sorry for himself, I’ve seen no evidence of it. So he can’t climb the plastic pole to our main birdfeeder anymore. I’ve watched him try and fail at that.

Otherwise, he’s just carrying on!

I’ve ditched my cane.

If Squirrely can do it.

I can too.

P.S. I was given the command this morning to not climb the ladder to fill the bird feeder. And as I stood atop the shaky ladder an hour later, I was reminded of what an idiot I am. When I am confronted later today when the full bird feeder is noticed, I will simply blame my lapse on Squirrely.

©2024 Jim Hagarty

Sometimes, those newspaper columns which offer tips for homeowners with problems, wrap things up just a little too neatly, as far as I’m concerned.

First of all, the cost of implementing the columnists’ solutions is never taken into account by their authors. They feel no remorse at all about sending you out to the shops to spend hundreds of dollars to get the water stains off your ceiling or the dog smell out of your carpet.

Secondly, all handyperson writers assume you are intelligent enough to be able to follow the directions they give in their columns without gassing yourself into brain damage or riveting your arm to the basement floor. This is a self-negating assumption because if the homeowner was smart in any way, he’d be living in an apartment and wouldn’t be a homeowner at all.

But worst of all, newspaper handypersons can always think of solutions for every problem, no matter how severe it may be, and all their solutions sound simple to them, complicated to you. Real, everyday, homeowners, on the other hand, know some questions have no answers when it comes to owning a home and the happy homeowner is not the one who can solve his problems the best, but the one who can ignore them the best.

Take a handy tips column I read just this week. First off all, the writer stated it has been a particularly bad summer for fleas. What he must have meant to say, I’m sure, is that it’s been a bad summer for humans, cats and dogs because it’s been absolutely great for the fleas. There’s millions of them everywhere and they’re just having a ball.

The columnist referred to had lots of expensive suggestions for making your house flea-free including having a vet dip your pets (just before he dips into your wallet), placing special flea-control “bombs” throughout the inside of your house and spraying a liquid flea killer everywhere outside including on fences, the walls of your house, tree trunks, low hanging branches, shrubs, outdoor furniture and anywhere else where fleas might hide including, I presume, on neighbours who happen to be walking by. And this is all to be done once a week. Though costs weren’t stated (they never are), it’s pretty clear this whole operation will set you back many, many days’ pay.

A typical handyperson answer to a homeowner’s question usually goes something like this:

“To solve the problem of the discoloration of the cement on the deck of your front porch, rent a Blurdsen B-42 concrete grinder complete with Size 79-A or 79-C buffer cloth, white only, along with a Chesston AP-25 power-polisher with either medium or heavy duty bristles, nylon only. Alternately grind and buff the porch for 10 to 12 hours, vacuum thoroughly with a Suckelsior 960 power-intake blower and apply a thin coat (.05 millimetres only) of Pioneer’s Cement Clean 920. Repeat operation twice, then let sit for three days.”

Now here comes the simple part:

“After preparation work has thoroughly set, simply wash with an ordinary dish detergent, let dry and presto! Start enjoying your good-as-new front porch.”

As a real, everyday homeowner, I have three pieces of advice, all cost effective.

First: Ignore any householder’s tip that includes the word, presto.

Second: Blow up the front porch and start using the back door.

Third: Check out that apartment available down the street.

©1989 Jim Hagarty

Here’s the situation. A family member walked in the door this afternoon with a big coffee shop donut box and set it down on the coffee table. He then proceeded to eat quite a number of the sweet treats and left. I wandered over, opened the box, and saw that two very tasty looking baked delights remained in the box. A boston cream and a lovely looking cruller of some description. Actually, I don’t know what the second donut was as I was bedazzled by the boston cream.

Now here was my dilemma. Because only two donuts remained, one would definitely be missed if I took it. Had there been six or seven in the box, I might have gotten away with it. I was very tempted but decided against it and carefully closed the box. As an intelligent and caring human being, I could not bring myself to plunder a family member’s sweet treasure. So, I left the living room, with much regret.

A while later, apparently, another individual approached the donut box and also had a look inside. But scruples played no part whatsoever in this family member’s decision making. As quickly as he could, he ate up both donuts. I know this because at supper, the person who bought the donuts asked everyone seated around the table if we knew what had happened to the last two donuts.

No one admitted to pilfering them and as we normally all tell the truth, our stories were believable.

The only possible culprit left was the dog. We all looked at him and he looked at us, and we knew he was as guilty as Jack the Ripper.

This was by far the best day of Toby’s young life and one of the worst of mine. But I learned a good lesson out of all this. It is a dog eat donut world out there and if a guy’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough. He who hesitates is lost.

I really hate being outsmarted by a gobbilly creature that weighs 13 pounds.

©2013 Jim Hagarty

Twice a day, every day, my little dog Toby takes me for a walk around the block. Weighing in at an awesome 12 pounds, the little guy nonetheless can muster up quite a bit of pulling power when he wants to – and he always wants to.

He’s a busy young fella on these strolls, with a lot to accomplish in a short time. There are people’s front porches to inspect and trees to water and the best days are Tuesdays when there are garbage cans and recycling boxes out by the curb, ready for pick up. On those days, a dog’s nose can almost fall off his face with excitement because in those bags and cans are leftovers. Plenty of leftovers.

Of all of life’s little absurdities, sometimes this twice daily ritual strikes me as about as strange as they come. I walk along the sidewalk being dragged along on a leash by what amounts to a fluffy cushion with eyes, ears, nose and mouth. And legs. And more attitude than one of those all-in fighters, you know, the ones who jump into the ring and try to kill their opponent as fast as they can, spilling as much blood as they are able to along the way. Theirs, the others guys. Who cares?

Before we leave the house, I have to dress this little creature in a sweater. He knows the drill now and pokes his head and legs through at the appropriate times. He has two really nice hand-woven sweaters, better than anything I have.

Toby poops and pees on command now, so we’ve come a long way. He knows if he doesn’t produce a couple of little brown logs, there will be no reward when we get home.

My dog is a barker. If he was human, he’d be a yeller. I should have named him Old Yeller, in fact. If the roles were reversed, and it was me being guided along on all fours at the end of the leash, I might accost the neighbours and strangers in much the same manner he does. “Hey Dave,” I’d yell. “Got any treats at your place?” Or, “Frank, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this urine in the snow over here, would you? Smells to me like it could be yours.”

Or, I’d run up against a stranger and ask, “OK, who the hell are you to be walking down my street? Get outta here! NOW!!!” If I saw that dastardly postal carrier coming my way I’d go berserk, of course, and yell, “You drop any more of that silly paper off at my house and I’ll bite your leg.” And then I would.

Of course, some people I wanted to get to know, I’d be a little friendlier to, as I asked them politely if they minded if I sniffed them up and down for a bit for no particular reason. And most of them would agree to the request. With some, I wouldn’t even ask. Just get right up close and personal. “Would it kill you to shower now and then?” I might ask a neighbour after one of my inspections.

Yes, Toby is quite the adventurer and everyone on our street knows him now after the six years he’s lived with us. Some like him, some tolerate him and some cross the street to avoid him – much like they do with his master I’m afraid.

But once in a while a newcomer will happen along, so strange he blows the little dog’s mind. Poodles are crackerjack smart but they do not have the sharpest eyesight of all the dogs in the world and so, the other night, the neighbours were treated to two minutes of wild, wild barking as a child’s snowman was given a good and proper scolding. I would have done the same if I was cruising that low to the ground. Can’t have snow creatures cluttering up the landscape.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

Words have been a big part of my life, as they are with everybody’s. The majority of people, however, don’t count on them to make their living. I do, and I enjoy working with them as a carpenter might revel in the smell of newly sawn lumber.

Lately, for some reason, I’ve been thinking a lot about words and their place in my life. I have no idea what my first ones were, maybe something along the lines of, “Can I have a cookie?” I also have no clue what my last words will be, but they could very well be the same as my first. In fact, an interesting endeavour is to look up (easy on the Internet) the final words of famous people throughout history. Some are sad and touching, some rather funny.

All through my growing up years, words became useful tools, put to work in a variety of ways to avoid responsibility, to exact revenge, to ask questions and learn about the world. The same mouth that could produce words of such beauty they were the linguistic equivalent of a string of pearls, could let loose a volley of cruelty meant to cut down and destroy.

In fact, though I had pretty much heard all the profane words available to me by the time I was 16, it wasn’t until I worked for a summer building a bridge in Kitchener that I learned from two recently immigrated Scottish carpenters how to put them together into very effective sentences. If there were any sort of awards handed out for cussing, the walls of these two feisty guys’ homes would be lined with plaques.

Even today, under great pressure, charged with anger or filled with fear, the teachings of the Scotsmen can still bring themselves forward to my lips.

Other, gentler words, made their appearance in high school, as the interest in girls grew. Of special importance became the phrase: “Can I kiss you?” sometimes followed by the question, “Why not?” Even more awkward: “Would you like to go out with me again?”

Other useful phrases at the time: “Can I bum a cigarette?” “Here’s the money I owe you.” “Can I have an extension on the assignment?”

Words you hear spoken to you in your life are also highly important. In your working years, “Can you start work on Monday?” is a pleasant thing to hear. Not so welcome is, “We expect you to be out of your office by noon tomorrow.”

As you ascend the ladder of success:

“You’ve bought yourself a car.”

“They’ve accepted your offer on the house.”

“Your loan has been approved.”

Of course, being no different from the rest of humanity, “I’m sorry” are two of the hardest words for me to say, though usually the most valuable if I can find the guts to get them out. And “I love you” is still a stickler. Not so hard for your kids. Not so easy for your parents. Sometimes very difficult for your wife.

Why are the most valuable words often the hardest to use?

And why, in a crisis, do the words “God help me!” just come flying out?

I remember years ago reading somewhere that we have about 400,000 different English words available for our use. I’m sure I don’t know a fraction of those, but I know quite a few, I think.

Of all those thousands, what is my favourite one?

Chocolate might rank right up there.

Beatles is a big one for me.

What is the favourite word I have ever had spoken to me?

“Yes” was right up there, after I said the words, “Will you marry me?”

But never have I heard, in my 55 years, a word that even came close to the beauty of this one, especially the first time I heard it directed my way:

“Daddy”.

I will never get tired of hearing it, no matter what future form of it is used to address me. To hear the word “Dadda” spoken to you by a child just before he or she drifts off to sleep in their bed at night, is to experience joy.

Another favourite word.

©2006 Jim Hagarty

When the video camera showed up under our Christmas tree a few weeks ago, there was great excitement all around. Everything instantly became a fitting subject for recording – people walking, people sitting, people making supper, people eating supper, people playing board games, people welcoming in a new year. Basically, boring, everyday life, now captured on videotape and somehow supposedly made interesting between the recording of it and the replaying of it over a colour TV.

But a problem soon became apparent. Once a person gets used to the magic of all this modern technology, he is forced to admit that the humdrum of day-to-day living doesn’t suddenly become an episode of TV sitcom or drama simply because it is being transmitted through the same medium as his favourite shows. And a few hours spent sitting on the couch watching video footage of yourself sitting on the couch, is more than enough to convince you it somehow doesn’t make sense to spend your present life watching your past life unfold in front of your eyes.

In fact, it begs the question: Are you living at all when you’re sitting in front of a box looking at images of things you did while you were living a week ago?

What I’m taking the long way around to say is that, well, the novelty of the video camera wore off in record time. After an initial flurry of activity, the little, black machine finally came to rest on top of the TV where it’s been pretty well ever since.

Soon the wisdom of the investment began to be a nagging question. After all, a potted plant could have sat on the TV just as well at a cost of many hundreds of dollars less.

But all those doubts about the camera disappeared following an incident Tuesday night as once again I am reminded that scientists just invent the gadgets – it’s up to ordinary people to decide how they’ll be used.

Running up a stepladder in the basement of my Home of Perpetual Construction where I am into the eighth year of a multi-phase development project (sounds better than fixing up the cellar), I felt my head come into contact with the extremely sharp corner of a rectangular furnace pipe. (WARNING: Please press the mute button on your remote control for the next minute or so to avoid hearing the sounds which filled the basement following this collision.)

When the fog cleared, I found myself sitting on the basement steps holding a throbbing head which was oozing blood from a gash somewhere on top. Eventually, dabbing it with a pad soaked in alcohol, I sought to discover just how big a cut I had suffered. Should I get back to work, go the hospital for stitches or drive straight to the funeral home? What I needed was to somehow see the extent of my injury. But how?

I think you can pretty well put the rest of this together without my taking up much more of your time. I’ll go over it briefly. Soon I was sitting on the floor in front of my television set, examining a 26-inch-square, colour TV moving picture of the top of my head. Like a doctor looking over X-rays, I was able to point to my recently acquired wound, which looked much bigger as pictured through the camera with its zoom lens.

I also discovered other healed-over marks left by earlier fights I had lost with nails, two-by-fours and floor joists. In fact, I was shocked at the similarity between my cranium and pictures I’ve seen of the lunar landscape although missing at this moment was any sign of the Sea of Tranquility.

And what I learned that night through the wonder of modern technology is that what I really need at this moment in my life is not a high-tech video camera but a low-tech hard hat.

©1993 Jim Hagarty

I got an email last night with the headline, Are You Dead or Alive? Because I was able to read it, I concluded I am alive, but the approach had me intrigued so I read the body of the message.

Apparently, a woman named Julie in Texas has contacted a courier company in California to tell them that a delivery destined to be delivered to me in Ontario, Canada, cannot be delivered because I died in a car accident. Julie is my next-of-kin, or something, and the delivery is now to go to her.

Consequently, the courier company, doing its due diligence, wanted to know if I am alive or dead. If I am alive, I am to write them immediately to tell them that and if they don’t hear from me in two days, they will assume that I am, in fact, dead.

In the event they don’t hear from me, I guess, Julie will be the lucky recipient of the prize that was to be mine. I do not intend to respond to the email but I am now worried that if the courier company does not hear from me, that can only mean I am actually dead. My problem now, is, if I do not reply, will I have a coroner knocking on my door tomorrow followed by a hearse?

This has me so upset, I almost wish I was dead. But, if only to piss off old Julie, I am tempted to declare my aliveness by responding to the email.

I wish the matter of life and death was simple like it used to be before email came along. Now, in the new scheme of things, it’s really hard to know if you are here today or gone tomorrow.

©2022 Jim Hagarty

I have been looking for a new direction in life (and a source of more income) and I believe I have found it. I think, in fact, that all my experiences have led me to this new adventure: I am going to hire myself out as a professional cuddler.

You are saying no such occupation exists but you are wrong. A new business begun last month in Montreal matches cuddly people such as me with those who need some cuddling and believe me, I am excited. Maybe a bit too excited but who wouldn’t be?

I haven’t grasped all the details yet but apparently cuddler and cuddlee get together and do whatever the cuddlee wants, short of actual sex. They can sit on the couch and hold hands, engage in hardy wraparound hugs and even crawl into bed and snuggle up.

Those who know me will agree this is a perfect fit for me. Hugging comes as naturally to me as wing flapping does to a bird. I will hug any creature, human or otherwise, who needs one or many. If I can get my arms around you, you pretty much don’t stand a chance.

Ask Andy, an incredibly large exotic goat on a rare breed farm in Scotland that my wife and I were touring. He was standing in his pen alone and there was a sign in front of his gate which read “petting area”. So, I opened the gate, went up to Andy and threw my arm around his extremely thick neck.

The animal stood as tall as I do and somewhere there is a picture of this cross-species display of affection, me smiling broadly and Andy, with his horns that would make a normal man scream in terror, staring right into the camera but looking confused. I gave him one last squeeze and left the pen. It was then I read the petting sign again and realized that I had missed the arrow which indicated that the petting area was at the top of the hill. Andy was nowhere near that area.

But this is proof of my ability to calm the savage beast using nothing but my loving arms. (To be honest, I was in need of a cuddle myself for a brief time after that.)

I can’t get to Montreal very easily so I am going to start this service here in my hometown near Toronto. Give me a call and I’ll be right over. If you are lucky, I might even take a shower before I head out. Stand back and prepare to be snuggled like you’ve never been snuggled before.

If you think I am exaggerating my abilities to soothe, go ask Andy. I bet getting cuddled by this confused Canadian was one of his happiest ever moments.

And the best part for him was, it was free of charge. But no more. I am monetizing my affection from now on. No more freebies from me. Hugs by Jim and More is going to cost you. The good news is, however, that if you get upset when I present you with my bill, I’ll just squeeze you till you forget all about it.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

It will take some very imaginative, innovative people to come up with ways of leading us all out of the environmental jungle in which we humans have gotten ourselves lost.

But fortunately for the planet and its occupants, many very creative people have set their inventive sights on the problem and are coming up with solutions. Brilliant solutions. Oh, how I wish I could have thought of some of them.

Here are only a few of the amazing answers our best minds have come up with recently to our pressing pollution problems.

The Milk Bottle

In a Vancouver, Canada, neighbourhood, a dairy company is selling thousands of litres of milk daily in (get this), glass bottles. The bottles, when empty, go back to the dairy where they’re washed and refilled and sold again. Drinking milk in that neighbourhood means never having to say you’re sorry for sending dozens of cardboard cartons and/or plastic bags to the landfill site every year.

The Clothes Line

Researchers recently wondered whether or not wet clothing could actually dry without being placed in an electricity-consuming or gas-burning clothes dryer. To test their theory, they stretched a rope tightly between two posts outside their laboratory and hung a shirt over it. Within hours, it was dry. They tried a pair of pants, then a towel and some socks and found the drying process works almost 100 per cent of the time with any kind of textile. An exception, they found, occurs when it is raining outside. They are working on ways around this problem including hanging up wet clothing inside a building. Test results should be revealed soon but early findings seem to hold some promise.

Alternative Transportation Modes

Although research into possible alternatives to the pollution-creating, gasoline-powered automobile is only just beginning, some revolutionary methods of getting from Point A to Point B are being tested. One method involves a person systematically and repetitively placing one foot ahead of the other foot and moving in the direction he or she desires to go. Repeated enough times, this motion, scientists theorize, will eventually propel a person to his or her destination. Other methods being tested include placing people on light, two-wheeled machines with pedals and teaching them to push the pedals, which drive a chain, which, in turn, turns the wheels. Another suggestion is to place a large box on wheels and hook it up to an animal such as a horse, although this idea is having some difficulty catching on. Scientists have some doubts the horses will cooperate.

The Windmill

In the push to find ways of creating energy without generating nuclear waste we can’t dispose of or burning non-renewable fossil fuels or damming up rivers and hurting the wildlife that lives in and around them, some scientists have made the radical suggestion that the wind, which always seems to be blowing around anyway, could be harnessed to generate electricity or to pump water out of wells. According to their theory, a fan of blades, erected high in the air and pointed into the wind would turn, and that motion could turn an electric generator or a water pump. It seems crazy but also on the drawing board are ships that would be pushed along through the sea by wind catching in huge sheets erected above their decks.

The Sweater

Although many Canadians keep their houses as warm as Florida so they can walk around half naked all winter long, some scientists wonder if a human being can survive in less balmy atmospheres. Experiments are being conducted with sweaters, sweatshirts, etc., to find out if keeping the heat we all generate as close to our bodies as possible instead of artificially heating all the space around us so we can watch TV in our underwear will work. Similar experiments are being carried out with extra blankets on beds to see if house temperatures could be lowered overnight.

Startling concepts, perhaps, but where science is concerned, it seems nothing is impossible.

©1990 Jim Hagarty