Who Tooted?

I was privy to an instance of seagull-on-seagull vindictiveness, this morning. It began when two birds descended on the same breadcrust. The first opted to land a few steps away, and rush the snack on foot. The second went for a pure aerial assault, and scored a clear victory. (I awarded him nine points out of ten for speed, and ten for grace. A real acrobat, that one. I bet he never misses, when he's out to whitewash your head.) He alighted on a nearby skip to enjoy his prize, but the losing gull followed, and snatched it from his beak. The bilked gull stamped his feet indignantly, but it was all over for him.

Well, what are you going to do? I thought at him. These things happen. Rotten luck, what.

The gulls stood side by side, watching the world go by. A dozen pedestrians came and went, and two small clouds fused into one big one. A man trundled past, pushing a dolly piled high with boxes. The boxpile was nearly as tall as he was. The bum I always see rootling through people's dustbins for returnable bottles trundled up, but didn't stop. Three red cars passed in succession. I spotted two song sparrows, and something that might've been a finch or a dead leaf. (It was on the other side of the road, and I didn't have on my specs.) At length, I became aware of a quiet quarrel between the gulls.

"That weren't fair, Ned," said the one. "I had it, fair and square. Where's your sense of sportsmanship? It's not cricket, this sneak-and-snap schtick of yours."

"Pshaw," said the other "--if you weren't so all-fired smug, you wouldn't have to worry about any 'schtick.' It's for eating, you know, not waving about in your beak, all 'Welly-welly, look what I've got!'"

"I wasn't waving, either. I was settling in. There's a difference, you know."

"I waaaasn't waving!"

"Stop that!"

"Staaaawp that!"

"Oh, you think you're funny?"

"Oh, you think you're--PAAAWK!" And the thief flapped off on a lopsided tangent, nearly banging into the gate in his haste.

See, that was when it happened, the act of seagull-on-seagull vindictiveness. The gull that got robbed bit the gull that ate the bread, cutting him off mid-scold. Pinch my breakfast, will you? Mock me and pick at me? I told you it weren't cricket, and it ain't! Take this!--and he bit him right in the throat. I had no idea gulls were so...pugnacious. Maybe it's just these big glaucous-winged fellows. When I first saw one, I thought he was an albatross. Not, of course, that I've ever seen an albatross up close and personal, but you know how it is. You see an enormous seabird, sharp of beak and broad of wing, and you just presume.... Well, not once you've joined the ranks of the backyard birders, you don't, but that was before.

At any rate, the biting bird hung around for a while (basking in the warm glow of vengeance, no doubt). I made a note of his behaviour on the back of an envelope I had in my pocket. It's important to remember these things. That's the best part of birdwatching: noticing the silly tricks birds get up to when they're together. Their social interactions often tend towards the farcical, from a human point of view. They cock their heads at foolish angles, peck each other's tails, rub their greasy faces together--it's like vaudeville on wings.

Speaking of odd social interactions, I've been meaning to tell the story of a funeral I attended some years ago. The deceased was not a friend of mine, or even a friend of a friend--he was an acquaintance thrice-removed, someone I'd hardly known at all. We'd exchanged hellos on a handful of occasions, and commented on our mutual affection for Ratbert. (I had a stuffed Ratbert attached to my bag, in those days. He had--oh, a Ratbert shirt, maybe, or a Ratbert keychain. I don't remember.)

At any rate, his funeral was a solemn affair, and very traditional. The church was packed from stairs to altar with his surviving family. He must've had a thousand great-aunts. Because of the size of the congregation, non-relatives had been consigned to standing room only. We were lined up two and three deep along the edges of the church, and in the area behind the coffin. I was one of those behind the coffin, facing the crowd. And that was how things were when, in a silence intended for prayer, somebody cut the cheese.

I'm sure it was awkward for everyone, that tense post-fart moment, but it was worst for us virtual strangers at the front of the church. I noticed certain mourners covering up laughter with sobs, and smirks with grimaces, but these were proper mourners, heartfelt mourners, people who'd shared more with the deceased than a lukewarm fondness for Ratbert. It's all right for that sort of mourner, when someone blows a fart. They've got their grief to hide behind. For the satellite mourners, the ones whose only duty is to stand and look solemn in black, it's nothing short of disastrous.

I closed my eyes and dipped my mouth into the collar of my turtleneck, hiding an involuntary grin. But I could feel a "khfff!" noise building in my nose, a muffled snort. I'm not ordinarily one to laugh at farts (I used to have a flatmate who did it all the time--pthbbbt, right in front of me--and I never even let on I noticed), but the gravity of the situation made this one extra-funny. Incongruous, sort of thing. I wondered which would be worse: making a laughy nose-noise, or pretending to blow my nose on my sleeve.

Just when it seemed all was lost, some old guy let loose with a chortle. An assortment of barks and titters went round the church, and my discreet nose-noise was lost in the hubbub.

The best...er, worst part came after the ceremonies, though. On my way out the doors, past a knot of outraged aunties, I overheard the following:

"Who tooted? Did you toot? That toot came from right behind me."

"Right behind you? You sure you didn't toot?"

"I didn't toot. Maybe you tooted. It came from right around where we were. I can't believe someone tooted."

They just kept saying "tooted," over and over again. I didn't dare exchange glances with anyone till we were all safely in the car. And then the floodgates broke: "Oh, my God! Who tooted! Did you hear?"

"To my unending embarrassment...."

"Who tooted, Socar? You tooted?"

"Sod off--you tooted!"

"Toot-toot!"

Christ. I can't even remember the guy's name, the one in the coffin. Brandon something, I think, or Brendan. Braden. Bradley. It's no good. I'll never remember that funeral for anything but the tooting.