I wonder, can birds get dementia?
Today, I saw a gull forget it could fly. It was fighting two crows, and they bumped it off the roof, and it fell nearly two storeys before it remembered to flap. It was too late by then, and it hit like a lawn-dart, beak-first in the grass.
Now, here’s the sad part: the gull got back up. It surveyed the street, like okay. No-one saw. But then it remembered the crows, and they’d definitely seen. They were chortling and bouncing like a pair of smug fucks, so the gull steamed back in for revenge. It spread its wings, caught an updraft…and smacked into the eaves and dropped straight back down. The crows were just dancing, and the gull hung its head. It slunk round the side and it hid in a bush, and it stood in disgrace with its shoulders bunched up. It was almost as embarrassing as that time Donald Trump Photoshopped his head onto Sylvester Stallone’s body, but not quite—the gull knew it looked daft.
(I don’t know. Maybe he’s laying the groundwork for some…post-White House return to TV. Ex-Presidential Jell-O wrestling, or…Who Wants to Slap-Fight a Millionaire?)
Anyway, back to the gull. It waited in the bush till the crows had cleared off, and then it went back to the roof. It puffed itself up and did a lap, squawking all the way. It’s still up there now, standing sentinel on the AC box. The crows are in their tree. There might be another fight later: that rooftop’s contested. They’re always squabbling over it, the gulls and the crows, but the gulls nest up there. They always come back, and the crows go to their tree.
Maybe it’s a game for them, something to pass the time. Maybe there’s a league, with scores and prizes, and a fantasy league off that league, and gulls across Vancouver just struck that one off their rolls.
They should do a mockumentary about that, like The Office, but birds—
I mean, I suppose you could call it an own-goal. I did smack that roof pretty hard, just…I did not stick that landing. But it’s the whole season, y’know? Everyone’s memeing me now, but what about last week, when I shat on Jon’s head? I was like yeet, and he was…are you laughing? Stop—hey! STOP MAKING FAIL GIFS! IT’S NOT 2009!
How would I want to be remembered? You don’t get to choose, do you? That’s sort of the point. But if folks could look back, if they’d see my FAIL gif and go ‘those were the days,’ I guess I’d be pleased.