Death of a Gull

Walking the dog from the office, with the late sun temperate after a day of rain, and the air light with bugs, we rounded a bend in the road along the train tracks of Railtown. I was not planning to walk this way as I was parked the opposite direction, yet the weather compelled me to take the scenic route and tease out a poop from the boy—which is so often on my mind when we walk. Across the street grumbled a shirtless man, having made a home under the shade of a small tree and accompanying brush, with clothing, treasures, and who knows what hung along the fenceline, drying off. My attention was on him, still somewhat straight of the fentanyl fold so common in this part of town, that I did not clock the seagull ahead in the grass on my side of the road. Not close, not far, just bouncing about searching for treasures of its own. Cyclists rode by in spandex or cotton, in helmet or hat, at speed or at slow, in pairs and singles, of all shapes and sizes enjoying the even weather. I paid no real mind to it all, however idyllic, mostly patiently fantasizing about the fecal delivery of my now senior pup.

Then Copper traipsed and shimmied into his pooping stance, lowered his hips and lifted his tail to deliver the goods. A swift pinch of a plastic bag and the warm swirl was all but mine. Two steps more and I see the seagull hop onto the grass as a cyclist approaches, neck and neck with a sedan about to pass it on the road. As wings spread and thumped the bird into the air, it turned hard toward them both. Perhaps it was blinded by the sun, flying directly into it, and attempting to split the cyclist and car to safety, not realizing, or in fact seeing, the vehicle’s roof rack protruding over the passenger side window—though even then it was flying close to the tooth as it were—when it collided with the outrigged aluminum just above the wing and just below the head, taking the full brunt of the bar to the neck. I audibly swore at the sight! The cyclist silently flinched. The vehicle drove on without a brake light...

Though I couldn’t gauge their headspace in this moment, the action of the driver read rather cold. The cyclist slowed and considered turning around, but I was soon stepping into the street to attend the bird and they thought better of making it their problem, deciding instead to ride on. The poor thing was gasping on the pavement, eyes openly confused, neck twisted at an angle, not grotesquely so, and at first looked only stunned. I thought it prudent to remove it from traffic, gingerly picking it up like a football with its wings tucked into either hand, nervous it may try to bite me if it were to awaken from its brief knock of the brain. Its head drooped beyond my view, and still wary of a pecking, I carried it low, close to the ground in case it were to bite. But it did no such thing. In fact, it did very little but gasp for breath over the next few minutes.

I laid it in the grass close to Copper, whom I had tied around my backpack to keep at bay. His interest was that of curiosity, not of blood, and as I kneeled and spoke to the gull, I was at a loss. It was clear its body was not able to move, and yet I tried to comfort it with pets. It was clear its sharp breaths were that of dying, yet I tried to find a heartbeat or clear lung position to feel it breathing. A woman walked by on the phone, a Railtown type, in fashion or the like, with green nails and a green phone case, reminding me of Charli XCX. Copper must have glanced at her in the cute way he does, the trap he sets for so many, as mid-call, she stepped toward him for what I could only imagine was a friendly pet, forcing me to stand and distract him with a treat. He growled and she side-stepped without breaking stride in her conversation. Another woman was just behind and noticed the bird in the grass mere feet from the sidewalk and made the kind of noise we all make when seeing something sad. Copper was much more gracious with her. We both knelt to the bird to decide what to do as I instinctively pet it and spoke to it, including it in our conversation about its future. Should animal services be called? Will they only put it out of its misery? Should I put it out of its misery? Or perhaps, because neither of us wanted to do, or see, such barbarism: maybe it is indeed only stunned?

Before we had a chance to answer any of our queries, the bird shook its neck as though to wake from its daze, prompting in both human bystanders the smallest inkling of hope—then stopped breathing and closed its eyes. A somber moment passed as we allowed the inevitable to wash over us, for the understanding to settle in, to be silent as a living soul fled for much bluer skies. I couldn’t help but pet it once more and wish it good travels. We then both stood, having shared a rather beautiful reminder of mortality, and went our separate ways. I decided to move the bird to the brambles on the other side of the street, mostly out of decency, to give the dead its privacy, but secretly hoping it will wake up in safety and fly off once more. I didn’t want to leave it, I felt that way, but what else was I to do? I still had a bag of shit to deal with.