On a balmy fall night, my wife and I saw a seagull strutting up Fifth Avenue.
Suddenly, the bird darted across the street into the rush-hour traffic. I cringed as it avoided the first car, then got clobbered by the second one. Like a punch-drunk fighter, the gull got up and limped toward the fine shops on Madison Avenue.
Unable to watch a drama that was destined to end badly, I raced toward the kamikaze bird. Shaken, it tried to fly away, but a broken wing kept it earthbound. As I picked it up, it stared defiantly and bit me.