Gullsville: Episode II—Attack of the Drones

(~7 minutes to read)

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece that was inspired by a news report that a gull had been rescued from a discarded tray of curry. A few weeks prior, I’d written something that was inspired by reports that the Finnish Postal Service was offering a lawn mowing service.

The other day, I spotted a report about a mail carrier being prevented from delivering to some houses because of “swooping attacks” by seagulls. “There must be a link” I thought.

This piece is it. You may want to read Gullsville Episode I—The Phantom Masala and Pushing the Envelope before reading this piece.

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Mrs. Gull had just finished clearing away the guano from the previous night’s keg party when Mr. Gull appeared at the entrance to their pied-à-landfill.

“Your timing’s perfect,” she said scornfully. “A couple of minutes earlier and you could have helped me tidy the drum—after all, it was you and your buddies that made the mess. But no, you’ve come home just in time to wreck the place again. Great!”

“Oh shut your beak, woman,” returned Mr. Gull. (It should be noted that Mr. Gull was no black-headed gull or yellow-legged gull, but a red-necked gull.) “D’you hear me whining about having to forage for food for you and the eggs?”

“Actually, yes; all the time!” squawked Mrs. Gull. “Anyway, where have you been?”

“You’ll never believe it…” said Mr. Gull gleefully.

“I rarely believe anything that comes out of your beak,” returned Mrs. G. “But try anyway.”

“You remember some bloody do-gooder pulled me out of that tray of chicken tikka masala a few weeks ago?”

“How can I forget? You took me back there for a sunrise breakfast, and then had your way with me on the way home. Hence the eggs.” She flapped her starboard wing in the general direction of the trio of greenish ovoids in the corner of the drum.

“Curry always makes me frisky,” said Mr. Gull defensively.

“Curry, big macs, chips, chow mien, pizza… they all make you frisky. Eating, flying, waddling, foraging for worms, taunting the terns… they all make you frisky. Reading bloody obituaries makes you frisky. Basically, you breathe; therefore you frisk.”

“What can I say,” said Mr. Gull cockily. “Anyway, now we’ve reminisced about how we became expectant parents again, can I get back to my story?”

“Does it involve you having your way with me?”

“Might do,” replied Mr. Gull. “After all, I’m breathing, aren’t I?”

“That can be remedied.”

“Anyway… the story. So I was flying around down by the sea wall, and I spotted that bloody do-gooder that pulled me out of the curry. You’ll never guess what she does for a living?”

“Bird rescuer?” said Mrs. Gull blithely. “Curry purifier? Rubbish Inspector?”

“She’s a postie!” squawked Mr. G. “A mail carrier. A postwoman. A letter deliverer…”

“Yeah, yeah yeah; I know what a postie is,” said Mrs. Gull. “Why should I care?”

“Well, apart from being great for target practice—I aim for the centre of the postmark—posties get in big trouble from the addressees if they don’t deliver the mail and don’t have a good reason.”

“And…” prompted Mrs. Gull, anxious to get the story and ensuing friskiness over and done with so she could return to sitting on her eggs.

“And I stopped her from delivering mail to an entire street!”

“How?” She paused. “Don’t tell me; you told her one of your long, pointless stories then tried to have your way with her.”

“Don’t be so stupid, woman!” cried Mr. Gull. “I swooped down on her. I must’ve done it fifty times or more. Climb up to thirty metres or so, then plummet until I’m a few feet away from her face and then flap my wings, do my loudest laughing call, and fly over her about two inches from her head. The look on her face; priceless!” He cackled at the memory.

“When will you grow up? What if she’d hit you with a stick or something? Those poor eggs would be fatherless.”

“Stick Schmick! It was a right laugh, I tell ya!”

“You’ll laugh on the other side of your face one day—you mark my words!” said Mrs. Gull with a mixture of malice and melancholy.

“Whatever,” said Mr. Gull. “Anyway, fancy a worm or two for dinner? There’s a lawn being aerated down Gligmorton Road. Always brings the worms to the surface does that. I’ll go and grab a few when the gardener’s finished aerating.”

Mr. Gull waddled to the open end of the drum, freshened up his territory markings, then flew off in the direction of Gligmorton Road.

That was the last that Mrs. Gull saw of her husband.

A few days later, a handsome Kittiwake appeared at the drum entrance, a sand eel in his beak. He asked for and was granted permission to enter.

“I thought you might appreciate some food,” said the Kittiwake, dropping the sand eel on the floor. “I know your husband hasn’t been home for a while, and you’re stuck with the eggs.”

“That’s kind of you,” replied Mrs. Gull a little weakly. “He’s always doing this. He goes out for food, meets his buddies, and then goes out on a bender with them. I’ll bloody kill him when he gets home!”

“No need,” said Kyle (for that was his name—conveniently alliterative, kind-sounding (due to its similarity to the word “kind”), and fashionable).

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. G., a little alarmed, but mostly curious.

“Well… I suppose you’ve heard about the postal workers offering a lawn mowing service?”

“Yes… sort of…” said Mrs. G., lying through her beak.

“There was a postwoman working in Gligmorton Road the other day. The house owner had aerated the lawn, and the postwoman dropped by at the end of her delivery round to cut the grass. Your husband was there with a couple of his drinking buddies. He was trying to catch worms, but he was also showing off to his buddies by playing chicken with the woman and her lawnmower.”

Mrs. Gull signalled for Kyle to stop. “You don’t happen to know if she’s the postwoman who delivers to the houses down by the sea wall, do you?”

“Actually yes, I think she is,” replied Kyle. Why?”

“He got her in trouble that morning for not delivering mail. He scared her off by repeatedly swooping down on her.”

Kyle grinned. “Then I guess she got her revenge.”

“You don’t mean to say…”

“Yep. She mowed him down. Feathers and flesh everywhere.”

“Oh my…” said Mrs. Gull, shocked. “Did he suffer?”

“It wasn’t instant, if that’s what you mean,” replied Kyle gently.

“Y-e-e-e-s-s-s! That immature, arrogant, red-necked… gull finally got his!”

“Not the reaction I expected,” said Kyle, “but I’m okay with that.”

He paused.

“I’m not sure if I should tell you this or not, but when the postie was finished cutting the grass, I checked out Mr. Gull’s remains.”

He smiled. “Tasted a bit like chicken.”

He paused to reconsider. “Actually, he tasted more like chicken curry.”

Mrs. Gull looked Kyle up and down, wondering if common gulls and kittiwakes could “get along”.

“So you have a bit of my husband in you, eh?” “Yep,” replied Kyle, sensing a score.

“So he’s kind of here, partly in body and partly in spirit,” she said.

She paused.

“What are your thoughts on step-fatherhood?”

“All for it. Can’t have gulls growing up with no father figure.”

“Are you a drinker or a gambler or a womanizer?”

“No, no, and strictly a window-shopper.”

“Would you be okay depositing the remains of Mr. Gull’s remains on the shelf over there when the time comes?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“When can you move in?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? What else do I need?”

And so Kyle moved in and helped Mrs. G. raise her eggs. But for evermore, the ghost of Mr. Gull made his presence felt in the cosy little drum.

And whenever Mrs. G smelled curry, she swore that she could hear her late husband cursing her for shacking up with a kittiwake.