Just A Gull

Hot and sticky already at 9:45 a.m: I cringed at what was in front of us that day. It was, and would be, the kind of day in which you could be sitting in an air conditioned room and barely notice the difference.

It would be brutal and unforgiving. Nobody's fault, of course, but the world around me would be better off if it ended sooner. Meanwhile, I had an appointment in 15 minutes. I hate being late to anything.

I had plenty of quarters with which to put into the parking meter. I'd had a run-in with some company that ran a cement ceilinged parking garage just two blocks away. Apparently, I thought I had sent them the necessary money to cover expenses, but apparently not. I heard from them a month later, some outfit out of Colorado. I no longer owed them $13.50; the price had now gone up to $55.00.

Miffed, I wrote them a letter. I explained--of course, without proof--that I had been having a difficult time taking the needed photograph to record my presence. A young lady had come to the rescue and had done it for me. From reading the sign, I knew what I had owed them. Without any other sign of having paid it off, I sent them what I believed to be another payment, this one by check for $13.50. As politely as I could, I had added that I would not be utilizing their facility for any reason at any future time.

That wasn't enough. Their rather terse response was that I hadn't proven my good will to their satisfaction. They returned my check and the cost of that lack of proof was still $55. If they were going to send a collection agency for it, they didn't say. Maybe I was supposed to take their return of the check as evidence that they meant business.

It was kind of a pain to come up with the requisite number of quarters to park on the streets of Milwaukee,  especially now in this growing cashless society. But with the reminder that things could be worse, I didn't mind the obeisance all that much.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the change. Suddenly, coming out from between two other parked cars was a gull that obviously had landed from Lake Michigan nearby. It walked oddly in two ways: It had a slight limp in its left leg; and it seemed to casually wander into the middle of the street with no hurry at all concerning getting out of traffic.

I wondered whether it had been hit on the head by something, or it had stunned itself by flying into a business building with windows top to bottom. But two seconds went by that changed everything: During the first, I believed that it needed to get the hell out of the road as soon as possible, and that it would start flying any second now, after being confronted with certain doom by an onrushing car. During the second, that's exactly what happened. Except it didn't fly.

I'd like to give the driver the benefit of the doubt. I wonder if they were glancing toward some building and simply didn't see the gull, or they were conversing with someone either on the phone--look, I know people shouldn't do that, but it's like obeying speed limits; you only stop if you see a cop--with the same result.

What I don't want to think is that, having clearly seen the wayward gull, the driver of that unfortunate (for the gull) next vehicle just simply ran it down on purpose, without stopping or braking or anything. I'd hate to think that someone could be that cruel.

But we're not in that time anymore. We're in a moment when tough luck can easily be tough beans. We don't need to care about that kind of stuff anymore--or, maybe, no one will hold us to account if we don't. We have a whole government like that now. The leader of that government doesn't have to worry about what will happen to him if he breaks the law recklessly or cruelly, whether he cheats us all and hoards money, or whether he hunts people down under flimsy excuses. Nothing, now, will happen to him at all.

So, yes, the gull was run down, not 20 feet from me, as I watched. Get ready for the worst part: It didn't die then. It managed to survive someone's vehicle bearing down on it at 15 or 20 miles an hour.

I have no idea what kind of pain that causes, and of course neither do you, but it tried, through sheer survival instinct I suppose, to absorb it. And, amazingly, it could still walk--but not far. It got to the inner part of that traffic lane, just about on the line, now limping far more noticeably, and put up the kind of defense mechanism that signified either desperation or futile protection or acquiescence to its fate.

There was beauty in it, the kind that birds give off while simply living, which this bird was only trying to do. Maybe it knew it was at its end when it limped closer to the center of the lane and put its left wing over the rest of itself, shielding against its certain end. There was a quiet splendor in that, a graceful acceptance. A defiance, even.

Perhaps I had been too sensitized, or maybe re-sensitized, to the graceful, placid beauty of birds. Just the day before, I had descended back into the big city from the Rhinelander area, where I had shared a week at a cabin with my family. From the shoreline of one of those thousands of inland lakes, we had viewed, for instance, loons piercing the evening quiescence with their haunting calls, and a mother duck which took seven babies past the small dock at just about the same time every night. For no other reason, birds add serenity to our lives if we take but a few moments to enjoy them.

Gulls, understandably, are a bit more annoying. Living maybe a mile from Lake Michigan and renting a parking spot outside my apartment, I suffer the occasional indignity of gulls (I've never actually seen it, but it's a strong guess) dive bombing my car with splats or, nicely aimed, long white streaks on the doors. They are, as I assume you've noticed, hard to get off, too. With the label of aggravation attached, it's difficult to view them as a helpful addition to Mother Nature. Maybe this one was wandering the street after having helped himself picking on someone's garbage; they're known for that, too. Not exactly majestic.

So maybe that was on the mind of whomever chose to run this particular gull down that morning: It's just a gull. There are plenty more around. They don't do much good. And that one won't crap on anybody's hood anymore. 

And yet, and yet: It was a one-way street. It could have been dodged. There was plenty of room on the left. The car didn't even need to stop. Would it have stopped for the mama duck and her seven babies? Nobody would have stood for that first degree murder.

So do we have a phylum of Birds We Can Kill Without Guilt? Consider chickens, which we eat by the millions each day, or fish. It's sometimes easy to forget that we are part animal, part not. The difference is supposed to be that we can show compassion and sensitivity, and that it should come first before all other actions and emotions. But the animal instinct within us fights it, wants to dominate. We have seen the results too often and too frequently. 

Is that also why we feel a twinge of regret even though we need to trap a mouse that's inside our kitchens, but we hate rats so deeply? Is that why there are solicited mails sent to me several times a month trying to save dogs and cats, elephants, even donkeys?

I wanted to run after the offending car and yell at the driver: Do you know what you just did? But if he did, it no longer mattered. If he didn't, it no longer mattered.

I briefly considered lifting the gull out of the street and carrying it to the adjacent park to perish in peace. But, I surmised, that might take hours of torturous pain. Better to leave it where I knew there was a decent chance for some other driver to finish it off. Besides, I hate being late to anything.

I turned to walk to my appointment, in resignation. Having witnessed its injury, I couldn't possibly watch the gull's ultimate demise. When I returned, my wish for it had been granted. It had been completely smashed against the pavement. Maybe someone saw this as a mercy killing; maybe someone saw it like a bug. Maybe it had already died. I was glad and sad.

I pulled out of my parking space and noticed that I could either run over the carcass again, or gently squeeze between it and a pick-up whose fender stuck out a bit too much. I chose the latter.

I couldn't make myself participate in what was then, and especially now, a pointless act. I made one meaningful only to me. Only I had watched it get run over. Only I had witnessed its purposeless execution. Only I had given the creature and its fate more substance than there would have been. Somehow, it mattered.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark