Author: Jim Hagarty

By Jim Hagarty
2006

I was busy just now scribbling down all the benefits of owning cats as house pets and, while l am not known for my lack of imagination, I have been able to come up with only one. In the 16 months since we adopted our two little homewreckers on paws, our mouse population has decreased by five. Cherubic as they can look when they want to, the truth is our cats are cold-blooded murderers. It’s a bit chilling to know you’re sharing your house with two creatures who kill for fun, but as long as they keep sending mice off to the great beyond, I am willing to let them spend as much time in the garage – the scene of most of their crimes – as they want.

So, the score is 5-2: We’ve lost five mice, but gained two cats. Also to be counted are the dozens of insects of every description which have found their way down the gullets of our two wily miscreants. Though entirely finished, our basement has always had its share of earwigs, spiders and those awful, wispy centipede-type thingies that make everyone’s skin crawl (though it is claimed they are somehow beneficial, consuming smaller grubs). Since the arrival of our tag team made up of Mario and Luigi, the bugs have mysteriously disappeared.

So, as pest controllers, our cats are an excellent investment. But they are seriously lacking in their housekeeping skills and seem intent on reducing the abode we took so many years to fix up, to a decrepit shack. This has prompted me, on more than one occasion, to grumble loudly, “They’re not living in a house; we’re living in a barn!”

Declarations such as these (and worse) elicit no sympathy from a family who, perversely, seem to delight in my cat-derived misery. But tell me, how would you like to have to spend an hour on a Sunday night duct-taping the lamps in your rec room to the wooden endtables on which they are supposed to sit because they are continually being knocked over? I’m going to be honest: I can think of better things to do.

Our cats are not large creatures, but in the past year, they have performed acts that seemed to be beyond their abilities to do. Cats are not supposed to be able to knock over coffee tables or shove the cushions off chesterfields and chairs. They can’t knock over stereo speakers that stand almost four feet high and while I can see a small lamp hitting the floor after they fly by it, large lamps, especially free-standing floor lamps, should be too much for them.

Heading to the rec room one afternoon after returning from work, I was concerned that our place might have been broken into and ransacked. Ransacked it was, but not broken into. Our inventory of wrecked household items post cat arrival is a long and sad one. It includes houseplants, library books (one of them a brand new, hardcover volume – one of our guys is a chewer), lampshades, one wooden endtable, one stereo speaker, posters, letters, bank statements, newspapers, magazines and other materials that don’t spring instantly to mind.

General destruction has involved carpeting, upholstery and solid pine doors which now are etched with lengthy cat scratches.

If a couple of thugs broke into our place and left it in shambles, we’d be devastated and would be on the phone to the police and insurance company. Instead, we’ve brought in our own demolition crew and we even haul in hundreds of pounds of food and cat litter to keep them going.

They live their days in luxury, and comfort; if they were human, they’d be serving time behind bars. And I would never visit them.

By Jim Hagarty
2018
Reading the reactions of a lot of people to high school students briefly leaving classes to call for measures to end school shootings reminds me that an awful lot of people hate kids. They despise them. And for some reason, they have no problem publicizing their loathing of young people. What is sadder is that a lot of these haters are parents. Men and women who espouse “tough love.” In my experience, “tough love” is the first cousin to “no love.” A woman once told me, “You can love your kids too much.” Yes, I thought, as I walked away, that is the problem with the world today. Kids are getting too much love from their parents. I really wish the people who think this way would commit to staying childless. They will be happier being free of offspring and the kids they might have had will be spared a childhood where the lovin’ is measured out in miserly, tough amounts and where the kids have to jump through impossible hoops to get any at all.

By Jim Hagarty
1988

As I predicted would happen, the social scientists of this world are running out of things to study.

You know they’re getting close to the bottom of the research pile when they turn their attention to the bully, a creature that’s been around making people miserable since long before Davey got fed up and beaned Goliath on the forehead with a stone. But, there it is – a study saying most childhood bullies lead unhappy lives as adults too. Worse yet, they reproduce and populate the planet with even more bullies.

Personally, I’d hate to have been the researcher who went into the office one fine, sunny morning to be told by his boss that his assignment for the next month would be to a study on bullies. That’s really pulling the short straw as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather live for a year with a family of gorillas in Africa than hike around interviewing bullies. Imagine making your living going up to them and asking, “Pardon me, can you tell me why you’re such a jerk?” Or living with them in their lair for a month to observe their moods.

I suppose this world will be a better place when we get all this bully stuff down on paper and have a look at it. I just think researchers could have saved themselves a lot of time and, money if they’d only called me up before they got started. I’ve been studying bullies all my life, sometimes from over my shoulder as I was running away from them and at other times, head on as I was running after them.

I could have offered the study these 10 useful tips:

1. If a bully wants your baloney sandwich during recess, give it to him. You can get more baloney easier than you can more teeth.

2. Never say derogatory things about a bully’s mother. His sister is also a poor choice for insults.

3. Never make a best friend out of a bully. When he temporarily runs out of people, dogs, cats and frogs to bother, he’ll eventually start on you.

4. Small bullies are more dangerous than big bullies. They can generally run faster and can crawl into the same small places you can. Big bullies can usually get by with just a lot of huffing and puffing and rarely, if ever, do they feel the need to actually blow your house down. But if they do take a notion, I would advise brick as a suitable siding.

5. Lend only to bullies the money you are sure you never want to see again.

6. Never pay attention to a bully. It has the same effect as watering a weed.

7. Do not, under any circumstances, agree to let a bully show you what he learned in karate class last week. Memorize the following statement: “What are you worried about? I won’t hurt you. Honest.” When you hear these words, leave the scene immediately. Better a live chicken than a dead duck.

8. Bullies start out as baseball card extortionists and become tailgaters in their teenage years. Kicking sand in skinny guys’ faces is a skill developed much later.

9. Bullies come in all shapes, sizes and both sexes. Don’t mistake the bully for the guy with tattoos on his forearms and his hair in a pony tail. He might be nicer than you. Probably is. Real bullies rarely look like bullies. Sometimes they wear expensive clothes and smile a lot. Bulliness is a state of mind, not an appearance. It has nothing to do with motorcycles.

10. Bullies want love. They need love. We are all bullies.

By Jim Hagarty
1987

Everybody’s demanding his or her rights these days and I think this is a good thing.

I was considering demanding a few myself but I realized one day I’ve already got pretty well all the rights I can handle and a few I can’t. Besides, most of the people who are out there campaigning for a fairer shake have a big headstart on me. And if they get all the rights they want, I’ll probably lose half of mine.

But somewhere out there in the crowded field of placard-waving malcontents, there surely has to be a little patch of ground available for yet one more marcher. Because there is one cause I’d like to take up. (Actually, there are two causes but society’s shameful discrimination against left-handed people, of which I am one, has already been well publicized by others, though the injustices continue. How’d you like to called a southpaw all your life?)

My gripe is this. Why are bachelors treated so badly in this married persons’ world?

Even the very words used to identify us betray just how much society favours married people. We are called unmarried, unattached, unwed and single, all terms denoting some sort of lack. (Any word beginning with the prefix “un” usually refers to something not so good as in undesirable, unintelligent, unpleasant. Unattached conjures up an image of us being not joined at the joints.) And why are we called single? Married men aren’t called unsingle.

Unflattering stereotypes perpetuated by today’s TV shows portray bachelors as either sex-crazed, demented and dangerous, or awkward, nerdy and hapless. Not since the days of Ben Cartwright and his three noble sons on Bonanza have bachelors been shown to have the least bit of character. Who are our role models today? Hillbilly brothers Larry, Darrell and his other brother Darrell along with dopey handyman George Utley on The Bob Newhart Show. And nutsy detective David Addison on Moonlighting. Married men, on the other hand, are handsome, educated, witty and sensitive. Check out Dr. Cliff Huxtible on The Bill Cosby Show and Steven Keaton on Family Ties.

Married people have most of the children in this world. Single people have very few. Bachelors have none. Parents, then, raise their kids to think all adults should be married like themselves, thus perpetuating the bias against bachelors.

Society believes there’s something wrong with people who are not married by a certain age. This is why their married friends and relatives continuously plot to get them married. Hence the blind date which they themselves never have to go on and never would twice if they ever did once.

Bachelors never get to own station wagons.

Married people get the best tables in restaurants. Bachelors get shuffled off to sit in a corner under the air conditioner or by the washroom doors. On airplanes, bachelors are seated beside either a teenage boy and girl who just discovered the joys of kissing in public or a pots and pans salesman from Toledo who says “Yuhnowatamean?” a lot.

Groceries in supermarkets are usually packaged for married families. Thus, the best prices are on the largest quantities. But a large box of Kleeno laundry detergent can last a bachelor longer than he’ll need his clothes. (Except his best suit, that is.)

Single people pay more income tax than married people. And more insurance.

A bachelor can never be broke – “What have you got to spend your money on?” – or tired – “You’re tired? How’d you like to change kids’ diapers 10 times a day?” – or busy – “You? Busy? Doing what?”

Bachelor apartments have no bedrooms. Why?

Bachelors die six years younger than married men. This is unfair and should be changed.

There are very few bachelors in Canadian politics. Those who make it up the ladder usually hit every rung with their head on the way down. Ask Richard Hatfield. He was toppled by, you guessed it, a married man.

To you, these may sound like idle and empty grievances. And maybe they are. But a lot of equal rights campaigns have been whipped up out of a lot less.

All I want is a station wagon, an apartment with a bedroom, a small box of Kleeno and some tax deductions.

Is that too much too ask?

(Problem solved. Now married with children. Still no station wagon.)

By Jim Hagarty
2014

The best time to be alive is now. There never existed a time that was better than now. That better time is an illusion. For every one wonderful thing about some day in the past that you are yearning for, I will supply you with a dozen things from that time that were not so good. And today’s good day will be replaced by a better day tomorrow, with all the changes that tomorrow brings.

Technology is saving lives and improving lives every day and holds promise for many more advances in the future.

I am looking forward to the day when a robot joins me in the backyard to help me with all my little projects. I will give it the worst jobs; it can clean up the dog poo, for example, and that won’t hurt my feelings at all.

In the 1970s, there was a revival of the woodstove and fireplace. My Dad just laughed and shook his head. He remembered the days on the farm of no central heating and of cutting wood endlessly to feed the stove. He also recalled that the glass of water that sat on his bedside table at night when he was a boy, would have a layer of ice on top when he woke up. One night he awoke to a fire that had broken out in the wall by his bed due to problems with a chimney pipe. When he remembered these things, he wouldn’t have traded his oil furnace for anything.

The best time to be alive is now. Technology has given us the ice bucket challenge for ALS and millions have been raised to help find a cure. When and if that cure is found, technology will have provided a big part of the solution.

I remember the “good old days.” They were OK. But I wouldn’t thank you for a time machine to take me back there.

My good old day is today.

By Jim Hagarty
2007

Don’t try this at home. That’s where I tried it and it was a bit of a disaster. Many disasters have their origins in ideas that pop into people’s heads and this one fell into that category. It put me in mind of a boss I once had who gave me these instructions after I had wandered into his office with an idea. “The next time you bring me an idea, I’m sending you home for three days,” he said, with a smirk. “And if you bring me a good idea, you’re fired!” I thought that was a bit harsh, but now I’m not so sure.

It started with a father-son coffee shop chat about various life issues, ending on a topic of great mutual interest: TV. Specifically, in our case, the state of our old TV which simply refused to die. A good third of the stations we should have been getting simply didn’t come in any more. And the people who appeared in the shows we did get all looked as though they were suffering from first-degree sunburns. On other stations, it appeared as though we’d accidentally tapped into a grainy NASA feed of human activity on the moon. And while, despite all these deficiencies we had been generally happy with the old black box in the corner, the more we discussed its demerits, the unhappier we became.

On our return home, like a sign from beyond, a flyer awaited us, displaying on the first page a photo of a new TV at what seemed like an incredible price. By coincidence, the family had saved up that very amount for a new microwave oven for the kitchen but in our passionate embrace of the TV bargain we saw before us, we just knew the oven could wait. This might help to explain the secrecy behind our plot. Instinct said a tribe-wide discussion revolving around TV/microwave choices might not end in the desired result.

And that’s why we landed on a great idea: Knowing the two females in the house were about to head to the same coffee shop we had recently left, we decided to go buy the TV, bring it home and set it up and be sitting happily watching it when they returned in an hour or so. Wouldn’t they be overjoyed!

I am here now to say that, while impulse buying might have its advantages and drawbacks, making a major purchase in the time some people take to shave can be considered a mistake. The first part went fairly smoothly. We located the right aisle, heaved the boxed TV onto a shopping cart and made it through the checkout. Things got sticky after that. In our haste to get home, the TV jerked off the back seat and fell, face first, onto the floor of the van, a sickening thud that TV lovers the world over never want to hear.

Secondly, combining this idea with another great idea to gas up before going home, we got boxed into a gas pump lineup longer than in a war-torn country, behind a guy whose movements would make a snapping turtle look like a roadrunner.

But we made it home, we ripped and tore, we moved furniture, we plugged in our treasure. Exhausted, we sat and watched our booty as the other family members walked in to two surprises: A new TV and an empty oven-purchase jar.

Sometimes there’s a very good reason for buyer’s remorse.