The bastards wake us up before six in the morning
screeching and squawking bloody murder outside the house.
I stagger out of bed and slam shut the bathroom window,
dry-mouthed, head pounding from last night’s overindulgence.
I climb back into bed and close my eyes but the clamorous
cacophony continues, closer, louder, shrill and piercing.
My wife pulls the duvet up over her head and turns to me, pleading
‘You need to do something about these birds, just make it stop.’
Angry now, I jump out of bed, storm to the window and see
dozens of snow-white gulls swarming in the street, fighting like hell
over ice cream residue stuck to the sides of a plastic container. Garbage
is strewn all over the road and seagulls feast in a gluttonous orgy.
I stick my head out the window into pink daylight and crisp morning
air. An alpha-type seagull cranes its neck, looking at me with its
beady narrowed eyes like ‘get back to bed, you meddling fussbudget.’
Its mates swarm and circle overhead, caterwauling tuneless epithets.
It’s way too early for this, garbage in the street and these
goddamn seagulls. I lean out the window to my waist, boisterously
snarling, snapping, barking, bellowing canine fury into the street.
The hellhound hullabaloo act sends the seagulls scattering.
Tranquility is restored to our quiet corner, and mankind’s dominion
over the animal kingdom remains intact for another glorious day.
I close my eyes and join my wife in bed, aching for one more hour,
one more dream, but it’s not happening, it won’t happen after that.
J. Archer Avary
