The Absolute Last Word on Gullie Sex (Probably)

First of all, I’d like to report a conversation I had, a few weeks ago, with my sister (who doesn’t bird):

Her: There’s an exotic bird place, right near here. You could mark so many birds off your list….
Me: Only, no, because you can only add a bird to your list if you find it yourself, in its natural habitat; it can’t be a captive one. Captives don’t count.
Her: Why? Who says?
Me: I don’t know; the bird people. It’s a rule. It’s like…you have to venture into the wild, hunt that bird down — find it, creep up on it, get a jolly good look — and then, you march back to civilisation, and you tell them “Yep. I birded that bird. I birded the SHIT out of that bird.”
Her: Nice.

I haven’t ventured into the wild, lately. I’ve hardly ventured beyond the garden (shame, shame!). But I think I can safely say I’ve birded the bejesus out of the local gulls. I mean, I’ve BIRDED those buggers! I’ve watched them eat, fight, play, chase birds of prey, catch their own fish, steal fish from ducks, shriek at the callous kids breaking up their nest, boak, preen, sleep, and, well…shag. Oh, how I’ve watched them shag. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I’m not some creepy birding voyeur, or anything. It’s just that they do it so much, and so loudly, and so close to my window (once, directly outside it — at one point, one of their tails was sticking into my bedroom) — I’d really have to work at it, to avoid catching them in action.

So, early this evening, I was out on my balcony, eating an apple, when who should appear but the birdie exhibitionists, themselves. They flumped down maybe fifteen feet from me, and started in with the face-rubs and head-nips and breast-bumps — what passes for affection among gulls. I bit my apple between my teeth, picked up my camera, and recorded the entire event, from foreplay to finish: this is the final photographic word on gullie love! (My final word, anyway. Tomorrow, I’m finding some other bird to watch!)

Usually, when I take a lot of pictures of the same birds, I only expose my favourites to the Internet. But on this, ahem, special occasion, I’m exposing them all, that the viewer with too much time on his hands might behold the entire event in fascinated horror, much as I did. And here they are:

Aww.  Look at them -- they're sweet on each other.  See them wipe their beaks all over one another!  Hear their soft and tender squawks!  Yep.  That's amore.

Aww. Look at them — they’re sweet on each other. See them wipe their beaks all over one another! Hear their soft and tender squawks! Yep. That’s amore.

A little lovebite....  Is this some kind of birdie foreplay, or a considerate helping beak, as her partner finds his balance?  I don't know.  It looks silly.

A little lovebite…. Is this some kind of birdie foreplay, or a considerate helping beak, as her partner finds his balance? I don’t know. It looks silly.

He's whispering sweet nothings in her ear.  Just kidding.  In fact, he was wobbling a bit, at that moment; don't fall off, Casanova!

He’s whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Just kidding. In fact, he was wobbling a bit, at that moment; don’t fall off, Casanova!

There you go.  Flap those wings!  That's better.

There you go. Flap those wings! That’s better.

Aaaaand...he flumps down on her back, quite gracelessly.  Smooth, dude.

Aaaaand…he flumps down on her back, quite gracelessly. Smooth, dude.

This is what one calls the "cloacal kiss."  Most birds haven't got penises (there are exceptions, but gulls are not among them), so what they do is, ehh, rub their nethers together, exchange their birdly fluids, and that's about that.  In theory, the whole exchange can be completed in about a second, but no-one seems to have told these gulls that.  They usually spend about three minutes.

This is what one calls the “cloacal kiss.” Most birds haven’t got penises (there are exceptions, but gulls are not among them), so what they do is, ehh, rub their nethers together, exchange their birdly fluids, and that’s about that. In theory, the whole exchange can be completed in about a second, but no-one seems to have told these gulls that. They usually spend about three minutes.

Does this feel good to them, or are they only doing it because they have to?  Don't ask me.  I have no idea.

Does this feel good to them, or are they only doing it because they have to? Don’t ask me. I have no idea.

The male slows down, a bit.  Tired already?  Worthless bird!

The male slows down, a bit. Tired already? Worthless bird!

Perhaps his legs are getting tired.  It does look a bit awkward, the way he's crouching.

Perhaps his legs are getting tired. It does look a bit awkward, the way he’s crouching.

Time for a break!

Time for a break!

That's right.  Mr. Gull has paused, mid-coitus, to serenade his mate.  There he is, sitting on her back, singing a little song...

That’s right. Mr. Gull has paused, mid-coitus, to serenade his mate. There he is, sitting on her back, singing a little song…

...I'm not sure she appreciates his vocal stylings.  That's one bored-looking bird.

…I’m not sure she appreciates his vocal stylings. That’s one bored-looking bird.

All right -- back to business!

All right — back to business!

Mr. Gull swings his tail from side to side.  One presumes he's making absolutely certain he's, well, rubbing the right bit in the right place.

Mr. Gull swings his tail from side to side. One presumes he’s making absolutely certain he’s, well, rubbing the right bit in the right place.

Oops!  Don't fall off!

Oops! Don’t fall off!

...SCORE!  (Invisible high-five is a go!)

…SCORE! (Invisible high-five is a go!)

All right; that'll do -- Mrs. Gull starts to wander off, carrying Mr. Gull with her.

All right; that’ll do — Mrs. Gull starts to wander off, carrying Mr. Gull with her.

He flaps and flaps...

He flaps and flaps…

...and wriggles about.  He's sexy and he knows it; yep-yep.

…and wriggles about. He’s sexy and he knows it; yep-yep.

She shoogles her wings.  "Gerroff!"

She shoogles her wings. “Gerroff!”

He's slipping!

He’s slipping!

Oh, no -- he's still on.  Though, he's pretty much roosting on her back, at this point.  I think he used up all his energy in the first minute and a half.

Oh, no — he’s still on. Though, he’s pretty much roosting on her back, at this point. I think he used up all his energy in the first minute and a half.

Aaaaaaand...he's off.  Jolly good show, old bean.

Aaaaaaand…he’s off. Jolly good show, old bean.

Hopefully, these gullie shag displays might soon be replaced by cute, interestingly-patterned minigulls, enjoying their first snacks at my feeder. Less bouncy-bouncy, more sitting on the nest! I know you’ve got eggs, Mrs. Gull. Get on home!

Rubbish Feeder

I have, on my moseyings about the neighbourhood, come upon other birdfeeders. Most are perfectly lovely: there’s one in a bush, which offers shelter and snacks to the local song sparrows; another on a balcony, that has little flower-shaped trumpets, for the hummers. And there’s one nearly hidden under an awning and behind a bush, that nonetheless attracts the starlings. But today, I stumbled upon one that wasn’t so great. It was old, so old the plastic had clouded, and very, very dirty. The seeds at the bottom had begun to moulder away, while the ones at the top were fresh and new. Clearly, someone has been — and still is — putting out new food without clearing away the old. This feeder is already doing harm: when I approached, a sad little finch was perched on top, puffed up, with her beak down, and clear signs of infection around her eyes. I felt sorry for her, of course, but it also occurred to me that she could cross over to MY feeder, wipe her germs all over it. Birds like to rub their faces on the feeder and on the railing, after a good nosh — you know, to dislodge little bits of seed, and so forth. An infected bird could cause a serious outbreak, that way.

Of course, I soap up my feeder nightly, and bleach it out once a week, but would that really be effective, if a sick bird got in? It could shoulder itself up between a pair of healthy birds, and slather them with microbes, all in a matter of moments. And I can’t clean the railing as effectively as the feeder, itself, as it doesn’t come off. (Not, of course, that I’d want it to. A railing’s a very good thing, when one’s standing five floors above concrete.)

So far, my finches are healthy, and my sparrows, pigeons, gulls, crows, and flickers also seem full of beans. But I’ll have to keep a vigilant eye on them, get ready to take in the feeder, should anything appear to be making the rounds.

At any rate, I find myself in a bit of a quandary: should I steal and destroy the rubbish feeder, or leave it alone? On one hand, it isn’t mine. It’s illegal to take things that belong to other people. I could probably get in a bit of trouble. I mean, I doubt I’d go to prison, or anything, but I might have to pay a fine, or pick up trash along the roadside. On the other hand, it’s disgusting. It’s old, germy, and full of mould. A bird could kill itself, eating from that. It could even be harmful to people…well, maybe. Probably not. But you do occasionally hear about somebody breathing in mould spores, which then eat their faces off. Nobody likes a prosthetic face.

Maybe I should take it, wash it, refill it, and put it back. But that makes for TWO chances to get caught, instead of just one. And it’s up a bit, hanging off someone’s balcony. I’d have to jump up, maybe even climb part of a tree, to get at it. I’m not much for jumping or climbing. I might be able to bash it down with my walking stick, but that would definitely attract attention.

While I consider my options, here are some pictures of a poofy sparrow. He’s plumping himself up because he’s sunbathing, not because he’s under the weather. In fact, he’s a healthy, happy, NOISY wee chap; I see him most mornings, first thing.

This sparrow stood on the railing with his friends, puffing and unpuffing, for quite some time.  I think he was sleeping, for a couple of minutes.  Even birds feel lazy on a sunny afternoon.

This sparrow stood on the railing with his friends, puffing and unpuffing, for quite some time. I think he was sleeping, for a couple of minutes. Even birds feel lazy on a sunny afternoon.

This is ridiculous; he has puffed himself up to such a foolish extent, he no longer looks like a bird.  It never ceases to amaze me, how he can look like this one moment, and only a second or two later, have all his feathers back in place, sleek as you please.

This is ridiculous; he has puffed himself up to such a foolish extent, he no longer looks like a bird. It never ceases to amaze me, how he can look like this one moment, and only a second or two later, have all his feathers back in place, sleek as you please.

Having fanned in some cool air, the sparrow deflates.

Having fanned in some cool air, the sparrow deflates.