You know, if I didn’t absolutely have to, I don’t think I would ever leave the safety of my home, maybe even my bedroom. Because the avian flu is going to get me. Some crazed chicken’s going to come waddling into my backyard someday and bite me on the ankle when I’m not looking, and I am not usually looking for chickens in my yard. Or, somebody who has been bitten by a chicken – is that possible? – will come and sneeze all over me and I’ll be toes up within the hour. Not enough time even to finish watching the two episodes I’ve still got on tape of my favourite sitcom – “Funny, Funny, Hilarious, and Funny.”
So, okay, somehow, the avian flu passes me by. Chicken won’t cross the road, or something. I’ll be counting my blessings on that one until the day I’m over at the Farmer’s Market looking for some field fresh tomatoes and a guy walks in with bombs strapped to his chest and a hate on for food producers. Not noticing his suspiciously heavy vest, of course, I’ll go over and tell him the joke about the suicide bomb instructor who told his class to pay close attention to his demonstration because he was only going to show them once.
Alright, a terrorist doesn’t get me. l guess I’ll admit the chance might be slim, though it’s there. In fact I read not long ago a report by an expert on terrorism who speculated that London, Ontario, a city I often visit, would be a perfect target for a major strike in Canada, better than Toronto or Ottawa, which are too heavily fortified and where attacks are expected. London also has the good symbolic fortune to have the same name as that other city across the pond that Osama and Company are a little ticked off with these days.
The birds and the bombs pass me by. So far, so good. However, what chance on Earth do I have of surviving the natural disaster that will soon be heading straight down Albert Street as a result of that freakin’ hole in the ozone layer and the warming of the globe? I won the 440-yard race in Grade 9 (it helped that I was the only competitor) and I used to be able to hoof it pretty well (a skill I learned being chased by an angry boyfriend my date had failed to tell me about), but my days of outrunning tornadoes is past me. When the ground separates down the middle of Albert Street during the coming earthquake, what is the proper protocol: Do I dive into the crevice or jump in? These parts of southern Canada, by the way, are not entirely unfamiliar with quakes: My dad often talked about how, when he was a young man, he saw the pictures on the walls of our house suddenly swaying back and forth one day. It was a mild one, but a quake had struck.
Like a cat with nine lives but longer whiskers, I make it through. But what is my long-term prognosis? There’s a mosquito that follows me around whenever I take out the compost and I know he’s got murder in his heart. He’s just waiting for the right moment to needle me with a touch of the West Nile virus. (Mosquitoes, by the way, have killed more people than all wars in history.)
We former farm boys are hardy creatures. A little West Nile is nothing. Good for the immune system to bulldogs like us. However, those smog days are happening more and more, even in winter. If I don’t get mugged, bugged or plugged, I’m sure to get smogged.
The harmful effects of stress? Don’t get me started. Nervous as a cat at a dog show.
All child’s play.
What I’m waiting for is that guy who’s drivin’ his tank down the highway at 200 km/h while talking on his phone, watching a movie on his dashboard DVD player, checking his global positioning system, finishing up his cheeseburger, shaving with his electric razor, reading the business section of The Globe and Mail and having a knockdown, dragout fight with his wife …
To run over me.
When I get home from work tonight, I’m nailing my bedroom door shut.
From the inside.
Right after I chickenproof the house.
©2005 Jim Hagarty
