The Whale Watcher

The gulls picked at the whale’s flesh even as he was trying to comfort it. They were opening gashes in the blue-black skin, exposing the white blubber underneath. “Fuckers!” He swung his bucket, hitting a gull across the head. The bird fell to the ground -- still laughing through its broken beak. He started to worry only when their cacophony died down. The gulls were landing on the whale, resting there without picking at the flesh -- just resting – quietly, as if it was a done deal. Only when the grizzly bear lumbered onto the beach did the gulls rise up again as a noisy flock. He threw the water bucket as hard as he could, and then jumped to one side as the grizzly ripped the whale open with his powerful claws -- feasting as he worked his way into the wound.

***

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he tip-toed across the floor to the living room. Last week, she had still been able to roll off the sofa by kicking one leg out, catching the floor just in time before the unthinkable could happen. But things were slowly changing. Little things. She was starting to smell.

“Just like a beached whale,” he whispered.

He leaned over her body, unsure of what to do with the mass. What if he needed to find the heartbeat? He thought about the wrists -- checking there for a pulse, but they were bigger than his thighs. When he touched the back of her upper arm, he noticed how cold the skin was, so he allowed his hand to linger, warm that spot at least.

He stepped back when he realized he was hovering like a sea gull facing the wind. The least he could do, he thought, was get a blanket.