Imagine the terrifying reverse, though.

You’re out at night, and see some critter scurry across the path. You think nothing of it, but then moments later, an ear-piercing squawk rings out in the dark night. A flash of white, feathers lopsided and flying whizzes past you, and then you see it smash into a bush, tumbling end over end before the rough sounds of scratching and clawing shake the air in front of you. You stare, frozen, as after nearly a minute, the seagull, drenched in blood and dirt, hops out of the bush with something in its mouth. It could have been a rat, a squirrel, a gerbil, anything for all you know, but now it is mangled with guts spilling out on the ground. The gull, its mouth already overstuffed, stares you down as it gobbles up the fallen entrails, its eyes never leaving yours, as if daring you to make a move. It drops the rest of the carcass from its mouth and snatches the creature awkwardly in its talons to save for a snack later, then more jumps than flies upwards, its wings blowing air past you loudly in the quiet night. You stand there in shock, and as you finally begin to walk again, a guttural squawk of triumph again rings through the night, followed by loud echoes of many others, as the seagull brags about its stealthy and elegant kill.

The next morning, you take a trip down to the beach with your friend and his daughter. Sitting on a boardwalk bench, you tell them the crazy story, captivating your enthused audience. The young girl laughs, but then suddenly stops. You look over to see her staring in shock at her empty hand, which moments ago held a half-eaten hot dog. She raises her head to look up at the sky, and you follow her gaze. The owl silently flies up and away with its catch, the bun clutched neatly in its talons as its wings beat softly. No one even heard it coming.

I’d still rather see seagulls on beaches than pigeons.