Lifetime Sentences

One of the great advantages for me in owning a dog is the humour he brings into my life and the fun I bring into his. About the size of a Thanksgiving supper fart, my little poodle Toby has a least a hundred names which I (and other family members) have bestowed upon him over the years and he answers to all of them.

For example, just looking at him today while he sat on the couch hoping I’d give him some of my breakfast, I yelled out, “Hey, Typhoon Bill, here’s a cornflake for ya.” He responded to the new name as though he’d thought of it himself.

And every time he gets a new name, it make me feel good to know that there is no chance that there is another dog in the world with that name. If anyone ever comes across another poodle (or any dog) called Typhoon Bill, please let me know.

Toby’s official name is Chubbly S. Winterborne III (the S. stands for Socrates). Now, that might sound a bit creative but you can’t really consider yourself a serious nicknamer unless you have nicknames for their nicknames. Chubbly S. Winterborne III, is a little too wordy, obviously, so he is called Chubbles and sometimes Chubby, for short. But not for long as there are 99 other names to use on him, such as Tito Burrito, or (nickname for a nickname) My Little Burreet.

But he was also Darlin’ McFarlin, Busterooni, Barfolomew, Junior Spampaloni (Little Spampy), Goofer Hoppy, Dinkus Farinkus …

Don’t even get me started on our cats, Archie and Stretchy McFlinnihan (The terrible McFlinnihan Brothers). They are also known as Shredrick F. Wigglebottom III and Squirmford F. Wigglebottom III. The F. stands for Fartingham, and why wouldn’t it?

In fact, these twin brothers were named Mario and Luigi and that is what they were mostly called after we picked them up as kittens at a local shelter. But it wasn’t long before Mario was Mazee and Mariobee and Luigi went by Eegee.

©2017 Jim Hagarty

I have a terrible habit of ripping off my eyeglasses to get a closer look at the fine print on documents and other things. I recently was going over my Last Will and Testament and was shocked to see that my intention to leave all my riches to “the family of Gordie Howe” had somehow been changed to read “my family”, no mention of Mr. Hockey.

The way my habit causes me trouble is the fact that I often then sit on my glasses, especially when I am lounging on the couch. When I then retrieve my eyewear and replace them on my face, inevitably, they are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, no matter I have never examined the hind legs of dogs to see if the comparison works. This is very frustrating, especially if I am due to be seen in public.

This requires me to visit my eye doctor to set things right. I worry he thinks I am intentionally doing this to provide him with his weekly quota of annoyance.

But I think I have discovered a way out of this dilemma.

A couple of nights ago, I looked in a mirror to discover that either my glasses were crooked or my face was. Given that my face hasn’t been rearranged since my early school days when the bully designated by the teacher to keep me in line used to go all Muhammad Ali on me several times a day.

So, another crooked set of glasses, just another day.

But last night, I sat on them again. After shouting out loud a few of the words I used to confess to my priest in my teenage years, I rushed to a mirror to try them on, fearing the worst. Lo and behold, the second instance of sitting on my specs had straightened them right out. Better than my eye doctor has ever done.

My only conclusion is that, in spite of the age-old warnings handed down, probably by the ancient Chinese …

Two wrongs do make a right.

©2023 Jim Hagarty

Jeff Bezos called in his chief accountant one day recently on what he said was an important issue.

“It looks like we’re going to have a problem again with that guy from Canada,” said the Amazon boss to his underling. “That guy, Hagarty, I believe his name is.”

“Nooooooo!!!!!”, yelled back the accountant in dismay. “Not that guy. Please.”

“That’s the one,” said Bezos. “What a pain in the behind that guy is. We can’t go through anything with him again, after our last encounter.”

“What is it this time?” asked Mr. Figuresadder, the accountant.

“Same as last time,” sighed the multi trillionaire behind the desk. “He says he has been overcharged again.”

“Omigosh,” exclaimed Figuresadder. “Why does this keep happening? Especially with this jerk.”

“Don’t know,” said Bezos. “But let’s not make a big thing of it this time. Hagarty seems to thrive on conflict.”

“What should we do?” asked the accountant.

“Just pay him out,” ordered Bezos. “Cut him off at the knees. We can afford the hit.”

So, with a heavy heart, Mr. Figuresadder went back to his office and spent the next hour making the arrangements.

And there it was. On Hagarty’s next credit card statement. On Dec. 7, 2023, Amazon Marketplace Canada settled the issue with Hagarty before the cantankerous Canuck could get a head of steam on.

On that day, Hagarty’s credit card statement showed a credit from Amazon of 0.01.

Hagarty smiled contentedly to himself as he read the statement, packed the family in the car and took them out for supper. That’s how it’s done when the little guy stands up to the big guy. When the news got out, Hagarty was placed in the running for his country’s coveted Citizen of the Year award.

But even if he doesn’t win that honour, his satisfied smile these days says it all.

In fact, it’s worth every penny (in U.S. funds).

©2024 Jim Hagarty

You learn something new every day.

Please take note. The next time you sing for the residents of a nursing home, do not, I repeat, do not sing a fun (though gritty) song called Seven Old Ladies. Because everyone’s definition of fun is different, I guess.

Up to that point, doing my usual impersonation of a human jukebox, I was doing fantastically well and the audience loved me more than their own sons and daughters. However, as I sang Seven Old Ladies – a little ditty about seven aged senior citizens of the female persuasion who get stuck for a whole week in a public washroom – people in the audience started looking at me as though I was spray painting a box of kittens green.

And there was no getting them back after that. I am setting fire to the lyric sheet as I write.

As well, I am giving up the seniors’ home circuit, as every time I go to leave the building these days, now that I am 73 and look 93 (I was offered my first senior’s discount when I was 48), a staff member inevitably rushes over to stop me, thinking I am a resident trying to break out. Although not part of the home’s population, on that day, it was true I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that more than seven old ladies were chasing me!

©2013 Jim Hagarty

A member of our household went to a store the other day and came home with a small item she had bought. The minute she took it out of the package, it broke. She was a little discouraged but decided to let it go.

The next day, I thought I would surprise her by going back to the store to replace it. That’s what I did. I even took the package with me to make sure I got the right one.

It occurred to me for a few seconds to throw a little fit about the poor quality of the item, but decided, what the heck, for $2.50, it was not worth the grief.

That night, I presented the new item and was thanked profusely for my thoughtfulness. Then I told her how I went to the store and told the guy the first one broke and I would like another one.

“What store did you go to?” I was asked. I supplied the information.

“I didn’t get it there,” she replied and told me the name of the store from where the item had come.

I am not much confused these days. Not long ago, I climbed into a van, same model and colour, to discover the key did not fit in the ignition. Taking a quick look around, I began to realize why. I got out of Dodge (it actually was a Dodge) a lot faster than I got into it.

A hasty retreat is sometimes my only hope.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

I stepped out into my backyard through our garage door very late one night last week, when winter still had us in its grip. There I saw three big male wild rabbits, feasting on the seed I had scattered earlier below our platform bird feeder (an old sheet of plywood on an even older steel post).

These three guys aren’t friendly and I was surprised they didn’t bolt when they saw me. But hunger must have temporarily dulled their caution and they hung in there. I was careful not to make any sudden moves.

Missing from the gang was My Bunny, the sweet little female who is about half the size of the Three Amigos and who behaves as though I am her best pal. In fact, one of the Hardboiled Hares might have been the only one she was able to keep alive during her first season as a mother last summer.

As I was watching the Ravenous Gang of Three make short work of the feed I had put out, I suddenly spied My Bunny out of the corner of my eye. She had ripped around the corner of the shed and hopped right up to me. I thought I understood what was going on. She was too timid to approach the Backyard Bullies but was probably as hungry as they were on this cold night. This was not the first time she had come to me for help.

I knew what I had to do. I talked to her calmly in a sing-songey voice and slipped back into the garage to fetch her some grain. I reappeared and sprinkled a moderate amount on the ground a few feet from me. I knew the Nervous Nellies under the birdfeeder would never make a dash for what I had left my fuzzy little pal, at least not while I was standing there. And even My Bunny, though she had asked for something to eat, stood back a piece after I had dumped her food on the ground. I had to sweet talk the girl into hopping up near me and chowing down. Finally, she gave in and raced up to within a few feet of me and started filling her belly.

Now I knew I was stuck. As cold as it was out and me with no coat, cap or gloves on, I had no choice but to provide security while Bunny got busy gobbling. Fortunately, she filled up fairly quickly and took off again behind the shed.

It is one thing to be seen by a wee rabbit as a reliable source of food, but another to be hired on as a bodyguard.

Or as her bunnyguard, which maybe suits a bit better.

©2023 jim Hagarty

Having been, for many years now, a committed, self-admitted, practising loner and the secretary-treasurer of the Canadian National Association of Hermits, I was disappointed that our convention in April 2020, in Toronto has been cancelled due to the pandemic.

On the other hand, the combined attendance at our last ten conventions has been exactly zero, so the effect on me will be temporary.

Still, on some level, I will miss the non-company of my fellow hermits. I would call some of them on my telephone but then, you know, there’s the whole hermit thing.

©2020 Jim Hagarty

A Wee Bit Moist and Soggy

A young man going to university in Ireland wrote home to his mother in Toronto and gave a weather report: It rained only twice last week, Mom. First for three days and then for four days.

Oh great. Just what I need.

As if it isn’t bad enough that the birds of the world love to crap on my car, a man in the United States has taken to imitating the feathery dung dive bombers, and now that he is receiving publicity for it, I bet it will catch on.

Police in Akron, Ohio are searching for a man who’s come to be known as the “Bowel Movement Bandit.” The man is accused of defecating on as many as 19 cars in residential neighbourhoods. He wears a black beanie cap, a black hoodie and only poops on cars in the early-morning hours, police say.

Things are under control for now, but if this guy ever gets a pilot’s licence and takes to the air I will sell my old buggy and start walking.

©2015 Jim Hagarty

Why I Hate White Chocolate

There are so many wonderful small moments in life. A child laughing, for example. A bunny hopping across your backyard.

Then there is going home with a chocolate bar you just bought in a corner store, peeling back the package, and finding the chocolate has been inside so long it has turned white and hard. This is not, however, enough to put you off eating it, although you do it begrudgingly. And the next time you are in the store, you will forget this little fiasco and buy another bar, completely repeating the process.

Time to go find a laughing baby and cheer up.

©2014 Jim Hagarty

I was never a big fan of the Drive Clean program in Ontario, the Canadian province where I live. I know its intentions were good when it started – to catch automobiles that were belching too many pollutants – but most old clunkers are off the road now and it’s time to retire it.

Since it started, our family has spent almost $1,500 to have our two vehicles checked and never once has a flaw been found, even though they weren’t always the newest of cars. So, every two years, one or other of the vehicles has to be taken in for testing and I dutifully hand over the $45 because I can’t get a new licence plate sticker if I don’t.

But one year in particular I had steam coming out of my ears and maybe I should have been checked for faulty heart valves or something. I went to the licence office with my forms all filled out and the woman said, “Oh Sir, you have to have a Drive Clean test done.”

Now for some crazy reason, I always renew my licence right on my birthday so I couldn’t put this off. So out to auto shop I went with the Oldsmobile and sat in the waiting room for what seemed like an hour before everything was done. Surprise, surprise. Nothing wrong. I handed over my $45 and headed back to the licence store with my certificate showing that the car had passed its test.

“Oh dear,” said the same woman behind the counter when I brandished the document, almost defying her to find fault with it. “You’ve done the Drive Clean on the wrong car, Sir. It’s the Chevy that needs to be done. The Olds will be done next year.” Close to heart attack territory, I inquired if the Drive Clean I had just had performed on the Olds would still be good next year. I was told no, that it would expire the day before my next birthday.

I’m kind of surprised by the fact that I didn’t expire before my next birthday.

I raced home, grabbed the Chevy and back out to the auto shop for my second DC test within an hour. When it was finished, I handed over $45 and told the fellow behind the counter that I would not be back, that I was fresh out of cars.

Someday I will be fresh out of cars for real and Drive Clean Hell will just be but a bad memory.

(Update: The program has been cancelled.)

©2012 Jim Hagarty

I used to like dancing in my younger days. Almost loved it, in fact, and became half decent at it, or so it seemed to me. Others looking on might have thought they were witnessing a crazy man running around a dance floor, but I think those people were wrong, oh so wrong.

However, I have had to give it all up for the sake of my health. I came to that realization after I read about the Dancing Plague of 1518.

In July of that year, almost 500 years ago, Frau Troffea, a resident of Strasbourg (then part of the Holy Roman Empire), suddenly took to dancing on the street. Soon she was joined by others, all dancing uncontrollably. Within a month, 400 people were dancing in the city and many of them died from exhaustion and heart attacks.

The Dancing Plague of 1518, as it came to be known, had completely died down by the mid-17th century. If my math skills aren’t failing me, that means the dancing went on for about 150 years. If there has ever been such a thing as a dance-a-thon, I think that one must hold the record.

Historians can’t figure out whether the dancing was a real illness or a social phenomenon of some kind, but I am taking no chances. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers liked dancing too and how far did that get them? Where are they today?

My point exactly.

©2017 Jim Hagarty