She chokes down the last cold, discarded French Fry as she continues her watch of Davie Street. Head cocked to one side, her beady eyes narrow and lock in on any moving targets. Bodies are scanned, potential routes mapped, threat levels assigned. Eat, feed, protect. That’s the name of the game. Her body leans slightly forward, muscles tense, poised to dive at any moment.
There’s a heaviness to the air, which will only make things harder if she needs to fight. The sun’s rays bounce off the surrounding kaleidoscope of concrete and glass, smothering her from all angles. Her lungs sizzle as she breathes in the hot air, bringing with it Vancouver’s signature summer scent of sun-cooked garbage and dog piss. The smell she associates with her Watch.
Disturbance.
Her eyes zero in on a potential threat; a tongue lolls grotesquely out of a wide maw as it crashes through Davie Street’s delicate ecosystem. A rat dodges between fur-lined legs, dashing to the bloated trash-bag carcass it calls home. Meanwhile, scores of flies explode outwards as a long leash is dragged through the pile of dog shit they were treating as an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Stand down. It seems content to remain at a distance.
Time to tend to the precious one whose incessant screaming has hit glass-shattering levels. The nest wobbles precariously as she lands on the scrawny branch it calls home. But it’ll hold, she’s a pro. Cocking her head, she contemplates the pink writhing mass sparsely dotted with small black feathers. She can count every vein popping out of the neck desperately craning towards her as it screams to be fed. How can she love something so intensely which disgusts her this much? Although, to be fair, hers is the very best of a bad bunch. She shudders at the thought of the precious one on the corner by Burrard, now that’s an ugly baby. Beak meets beak in the intimate act of giving over sustenance. But why can’t she shake the image of a downtown raccoon shoving its greedy hands into a trash can again, and again, and again, until it’s nothing but a shredded empty bag. No, don’t think like that.
Movement. (Thank God).
Her head snaps round and she’s on the move, momentarily still connected with the precious one by a long rope of saliva. The threat is now galloping towards her tree. This is it. What she’s been afraid of. What she’s been training for. It leaps at her tree, paws pumping as if it could run right up the trunk. It can’t right? It definitely can’t. But shit, she’s never seen one jump this high. Why won’t it stop jumping? Its nostrils flare as it seeks the source of the sweet smell higher up the tree. Hot breath blasts her feathers and she’s given a front row seat to black gums lining brown-stained teeth. Her heart flutters with panic, but it’s quickly steamrolled by righteous purpose. Her whole body is alight with it, filling her veins with hot, white power. Game on.
Wings pump twice and she’s up high. From this height, the threat’s desperate scrabbling is almost laughable. Almost. Go for the soft tissue. No clean fighting here. She zeroes in on the white bulging eyes, nearly vibrating in their sockets with excitement. They hate it when you go for the eyes. She’s burning up with a dizzying sense of rageful glee. It’s love, and she knows it. Time to ride this feeling. Eyes narrow, and a screech echoes down the street as she dives. It’s not a warning, it’s a proclamation. She may be ugly but she’s my ugly. And you. Can. Not. Have. Her. Talons snap open as she anticipates contact in 3,2,1.
But suddenly, nothing.
Snapping jaws have been replaced by empty air as the creature is jerked to the floor. A two-legged thing is trying to pull it away by the leash. As it’s dragged across the gum-splattered pavement, the creature’s whines nearly drown out the screams of her precious. Screams, which now seem like a heavenly chorus. She eyeballs the thing from a nearby branch as it recedes into the distance. I’ve got your number, pal. Next time, you won’t be so lucky. We Watchers never forget.
Elen Gibbons