The Richest Vet in the World

The shaman gave me a choice: carry on as normal, with time and space exactly as my dulled senses perceived them – or – travel back to the year 2009 to spend twenty-four hours as a seagull.

‘Ok, you crazy bastard,’ I told him, ‘let’s do it.’

When my yellow eyes peeled open, I was perched atop the bronze head of Sir Francis Drake. It was a lovely day for it. The bay swept out towards the horizon in sheets of turquoise, as a soft breeze ruffled my feathers.

With my mind intact and blessed with future knowledge, the plan was hatched: it just required trusted people to help carry it out. From here I estimated it was a forty-minute flight to my intended destination.

Unsure as to my new biomechanics, I thought it nonetheless wise to load up on carbs beforehand – and it wasn’t long before I spotted a nearby source: a middle-aged man on a bench in a neck brace, enjoying a tray of chips and the view.

I’d simply wait until my victim was distracted by his phone, then swoop in to snatch my prize. I wasn’t proud, of course, realising it had taken me all of five minutes to revert to type.

Flapping my way over, I stood off to the side, feigning disinterest while he ate. Sooner or later, the urge to stare blankly at a screen would override any instinct to resource guard. Sooner passed. Then later – then even longer – and he had yet to succumb.

What kind of superman was this? – content to eat chips and watch the sea – a true revolt against the modern world! Then I remembered: scrolling did not exist yet, with social media still a peripheral distraction – not the dopamine death-trap it would evolve into. I squawked in annoyance that my bird-brain had forgotten this historic detail.

‘I know what you’re up to,’ announced the man, ‘you’re planning to steal my chips.’

I cocked my head, neither denying nor confirming the accusation.

‘You need only ask,’ he continued, tossing one my way.

I swallowed it down, then stared at him expectantly.

‘Want another?’

I nodded. This was demeaning to say the least, but perhaps a necessary moral lesson in something.

After a couple more, he said, ‘Why don’t you hop up here and eat like a civilised fellow?’

How strange life was! From a relative sceptic when it came to metaphysics, I was now a full-blown seagull transported back in time, sharing junk food with a stranger.

‘Yeah,’ sighed the man, ‘must be nice to be a bird – all plumage and fluff, no pressure on the old joints… light as a feather, as they say! Not my case, unfortunately. Been laid off work with my back… NHS don’t give a toss…’

I tried to look sympathetic to this unsolicited life-story, despite my lack of eyebrows and primordial hunger. ‘Missus even bought me a yoga DVD,’ he continued. ‘Well, no harm in trying, I thought. Ended up doing my neck in too, trying to follow the instructions on the flatscreen!’

A couple strolled by. ‘Did you see that weird guy talking to a seagull?’ asked the girl with a shudder, for they were of that unblemished young age whereby almost everyone over the age of thirty resembled a circus freak.

‘There’s worse things to talk to,’ shrugged the boy.

Finally sated and up to date on my companion’s medical history, I bid him farewell and took to the sky. I glided along the coast, over toothy cliffs and soggy valleys, soaring higher on the currents until the villages looked like clusters of limpets. I landed on our chimney next to Kevin the roofer, who was rubbing his chin, still deciding if he should demolish it or not.

‘Alright, Kevin?’ I said, which came out as caw-caw-caw!

Hopping along the slate tiles I came to a window. On the other side my father sat at the computer, no doubt composing a topical email. He gazed up, as if searching for a phrase, saw me, and carried on.

I was a seagull after all – a rather common and problematic bird – of no great importance to my father, nor anyone else really. I tapped the glass with my beak. He looked up, considered me with a furrowed brow and returned to his email.

Growing bolder with frustration, I tried once more, to which he gestured for me to stop bothering him. I had to formulate an alternative plan of communication. I flew down into the garden, gathering pebbles, twigs and general foliage and got to work. When I was finished, I tapped again. This time he got up and opened the window, issuing me a verbal warning to leave the vicinity. I took to the air, hovering above my masterpiece.

‘I am your son,’ said my dad, reading the message. ‘Is this true?’

I nodded.

‘Which one – Max?’ I nodded again.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, what do you want? I’ve got some bones left over from the chicken if you like. I’ve been feeding the others – you should see it – they just swallow them whole! Really, quite incredible!’

Fighting my instincts, I shook my head, inferring there were more important issues at stake here. My beloved mother’s voice floated up the stairs: ‘Who are you speaking to?’

‘It’s Max. He’s a seagull now. I think he wants to come in. Just try not to make a mess everywhere,’ he muttered as I strutted onto the desk and started pecking away at the keyboard:

This is Max, your son…

‘Yes, we’ve already established that,’ said my father.

My mother entered the room. ‘I don’t think that’s good for the keyboard,’ she said.

I have come here from the future, I continued – as a seagull.

‘I just don’t understand why you couldn’t come back normally,’ she said.

A shaman sent me.

‘Well, he doesn’t seem like a very good shaman if this is the best he could do.’

And how many shamans do you know? I snapped, tiring already.

‘A seagull is fine, I suppose. I’d just prefer you in human form – that’s all I’m saying,’ said my mother, giving my father a side glance.

‘Yes, then you wouldn’t be ruining the keyboard,’ he added.

Listen…

‘We’re reading,’ corrected my mother.

Ok… just read then. I am only here for a day. Then I will travel back to the future from where I came and become human again. In the meantime, I need you to buy Bitcoin.

‘Buy what?’ said my father, though all he needed to do was to re-read the sentence.

Bitcoin – it’s a cryptocurrency – one of the first ones, in fact – and in the future, it will be worth hundreds of thousands more than its present value.

‘A cryptocurrency? Sounds like nonsense to me.’

I know it sounds like nonsense now – but in the future it will be worth millions. That’s why I came back – to tell you about it.

‘Well, why don’t you buy some of this bitcoin yourself?’ he asked.

I can’t because, as you can see, I’m not in human form.

‘I’m not sure it’s wise taking investment tips from a seagull,’ said my mother.

But I’m not a seagull, I’m Max. That’s the main point.

‘Even worse!’ quipped my father. They both laughed like this was the funniest thing ever, as I shrieked in annoyance.

‘If you’re going to make noises, then you can do them outside,’ warned my mother.

‘He’s probably just hungry,’ said my father. ‘They’re always hungry, these seagulls.’

‘Why don’t you give him the leftover chicken?’ my mother suggested.

‘Good idea,’ he said and went downstairs.

I don’t want leftover chicken – I want you to purchase bitcoin, I typed.

My mind may have been strong, but my body had other ideas, as I heard a pot being banged outside.

I flew out of the window, landing on the lawn.

‘Ah, here’s the boy!’ said my father, tossing a bone into the air.

Before I could react, another seagull dived down – seemingly out of nowhere – and grabbed it. Then it threw back its head, swallowing the bone whole.

My father laughed: ‘You’ve got to be faster than that!’ he told me.

Another bone sailed through the air. If I could get it before my rival – show some initiative – then perhaps they’d invest in bitcoin after all.

Oh, no you don’t, you little shit, I thought, using my wings to obscure the prize before snapping it up. OH, JOY!

My father was smiling, proud that his son was already out-performing the native seagulls.

I attempted a victory cry, but only a strangled croak came out, as I realised I couldn’t breathe properly. The chicken bone was lodged in my throat.

I started spinning in hysterics. I no longer cared about bitcoin – I just wanted to get it out.

‘What’s wrong?’ my mother called down from the window.

‘He’s got a bone stuck in his throat,’ replied my father, walking barefoot towards the commotion. ‘He was being greedy.’

He knelt beside me: ‘Ok, just stop flapping around,’ he said. ‘I can actually see the bone – it’s nearly poking through.’

‘I’ll call the vet,’ said my mother.

‘Yes, that doesn’t look too good,’ said the vet, peering down at me with his annoying face. How far I had fallen: from bitcoin prophet, to sitting in a cardboard box with a chicken bone stuck in my throat.

‘In fact, I’m a little surprised,’ he continued, ‘they don’t usually have any problem swallowing them.’

‘Actually, this is our son,’ explained my poor mother. ‘He hasn’t been a seagull very long.’

‘Oh, that makes more sense,’ said the vet.

‘He came back from the future to get us to invest in bitcoin,’ added my father. ‘But instead, this happened.’

‘Well, hopefully he’s learnt his lesson,’ said the vet. ‘Anyway, what’s bitcoin?’

(Fifteen Years Later)

‘Hello, Charlotte,’ said the richest vet in the world, breezing into reception, ‘Any update on Tom Hardy’s tortoise?’

‘He says the pills are really helping with the weight loss and the anxiety.’

‘Ok, that’s great – but what about the tortoise? Ha-Ha-Ha! Well, I’m off to the marina. Forward all my calls on to Jennifer, thanks!’

He stepped out into the driveway where his Bentley awaited.

‘To my yacht, please, Joe.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The hot streets were stained in cool monochrome, as he watched them through the tinted window, allowing his thoughts to distill.

Yes, it was all about being in the right place at the right time, about taking a chance on absurdity, he thought, fondling his golden seagull medallion. And of course, not letting it go to your head.