A pair of Seagulls have, for the past three years or so, taken to patrolling the lawn in front of our window. They must be a couple. Well, the way they chatter and squawk at nothing or each other, complain about this or that, is reminiscent; and if something is said or done that offends, the offended party moves away, in "high dudgeon," to stand in an apparent sulk, all the while glancing over its shoulder at the offender. Mrs. Seagull, (I assume it's Mrs.), appears to be constantly searching for things, or maybe it's some particular thing, although as far as I've been able to ascertain she has never found the elusive article. She is forever picking up sticks, usually fallen twigs. A small one she holds easily in her beak as she considers what use she could put it to - when nothing comes, she drops it. A large one she will drag around for a considerable time, cogitating over its possible uses -- only to cast it aside as well. When she has decided she can think of no use for twigs or branches today, she searches for other items: clumps of grassy sod; slippery pieces of sea weed; occasionally a small rock; or a fallen leaf, and once a feather, fallen from an eagle, which she seemed prepared to keep. How tightly she had held it as she strolled (could I say hand in hand?), with hubby, around the entire circumference of the lawn. I thought she'd finally found the treasure she had been seeking all summer, but no sooner had the thought come to me than she let it fall from her large yellow beak, leaving it to lie again, unwanted, upon the grass. I believe Mr. Seagull may have made some unkind remark that caused her to relinquish the feather. He often appears harsh, seeming to criticize everything she does. His anger seems to be connected to her incessant scavenging; each item she picks up, and then discards, is accompanied by him scolding her vociferously, with harsh screeches. Those times, when his anger gets the better of him, he resorts to a petulance that rivals the tantrums of a spoiled child.These tantrums follow a set pattern, never vary; you know what's about to happen to the letter. Scrabbling quickly away from the Mrs., he goes for a running take-off and sails out over the sea, all the while raining squawking invective earthwards. Soon he begins to spiral downwards in ever decreasing circles. Tighter and tighter the circles become as he hurries towards the water, searching for his favorite ocean bound rock. Spotting it, he sets himself regally down.
From this vantage point he rants on, continuously screeching rude remarks at his wife. Finally worn out, having got whatever it was off his chest, he fluffs up his feathers, lifts himself into the air and moments later plunks himself down beside his mate, and together they continue their perambulation. She, used to his moods, continues to pick and drop, considering this and considering that, until, at last, deciding that today was not a good day for shopping, screeches some raucous remark at him and together, as one, they fly out across the rocky shore to settle on a wave -- and in all probability to now argue over where's the best place to have lunch, and what it will be.
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