Seagulls

The seagull looked good through the sight of my air rifle.

  Don’t get me wrong.  I hadn’t reached this decision lightly or without good reason.  I love birds.  I used to be quite the Ornithologist in my youthful days and I could name most species (though not their Latin equivalent).  But these particular gulls had begun to make rather a nuisance of themselves.  They were nesting on my garage roof and had produced three offspring.

  It wasn’t too bad at first.  There was just the occasional clatter of feet and the odd squawk.  It was even interesting to watch the comings and goings of the parent birds from my bedroom window.

  The trouble started when the eggs appeared.

  I knew seagulls could be fiercely protective from the frightening experience of being dive-bombed in the past, so I had always been wary.  It was just with the close proximity of the nest right under my bedroom window, the noise had become horrendous.  I could only guess that the gulls were warning local cats away from the site and in the mornings it sounded like a crazed killer had been let loose in a crèche.

  I had come to hate that sound with a passion.

  But it wasn’t only the incessant cawing.  If I so much as opened my house door – front or back – I was the target of an increasingly determined and vicious assault.  These gulls would not have been out of place amongst a squadron of Stuka dive-bombers.

  You might be thinking – OK, it’s a bit of an inconvenience but just let nature takes its course and once the chicks are grown, they’ll all fly away. 

  Well it’s not as simple as that.  You see, gulls are creatures of habit.  They will return to the same nesting site year after year.  The grown up chicks tend to return to the area to breed, too.

  So you see my problem?

  Do you expect me to be a prisoner in my own home every summer from now on?  Every time I go out am I expected to risk a good pecking or worse?  No, I didn’t think so.

  So, here I am with the male of the species in my sights.  The whole family is here, too.  The chicks are a mottled, drab grey – they appear almost furry and seem larger than their parents.

I pull the trigger.  The rifle makes a little ‘click’ and I see a neat hole in the gull’s neck as it collapses silently on the roof.

I reload.

  The other gulls haven’t been spooked.  After all, the air rifle is quiet.  Had it been a shotgun they would have flown away in a frenzied panic.

  I aim again.  The female goes down with a pellet to the stomach.  Reloading again, I can almost feel the justice – or is it the smug satisfaction of revenge?  I notice the chicks (I say chicks, there’re at the juvenile stage now) move towards their fallen parents.  Do they understand what has happened, I wonder? 

  I aimed and fired for a third time and the first of the youngsters went down.  So far, so good.  I was, however, feeling slight apprehension as the body count grew.  I just didn’t relish the idea of removing five fat squidgey bodies from the roof.  Maybe I could pay the council to do it.  Or would I get into trouble?  Was this legal?  Too late now.

  I fired again.  One gull left.  This was the largest of the chicks.  He seemed agitated now and let out an ear splitting cry that shivered down my spine and prickled my skin.  Was he looking at me?  That sideways stare, with the tiny black eye was unnerving.  I reloaded, my heart racing.  I had to look down at the rifle.  I felt stupid but my hands were shaking and I got that awful feeling you get when all of the hairs on your body stand proud and shout run for your life! 

  It had gone quiet out there now.  I hurriedly finished loading, slid the bolt into place and went to take aim, only to find the gull right up against the window-sill.  It was still and silent, only it’s fluffy feathers stirring in the breeze.  Its black eye blinked once as it stared into my soul.  It was too close to shoot.  It was almost through the window and seemed enormous.

I screamed a scream not unlike a gull’s and fell backwards off my bed and banged onto the floor.  The rifle clattered away somewhere under the bed. 

  I looked towards the window.  The gull wasn’t there.  Before I had time to feel relief, I noticed it perched on my bed looking down at me. 

  It let out the most horrendous cry, spread its wings and dropped onto my chest.  I briefly wished I had just endured the dive-bombings and early morning screeching.

  The warm wetness spreading between my legs felt almost comforting, as sharp pecks burst into my eyeballs.



  A year later as I lay in bed sightless, it was all I could do to remain sane as I listened to the returning gull screaming it’s sadistic laugh on the roof with its new family.