So after a late-night finish last Thursday, I spent Friday moving the guineas into their new house. Which was close to the most stressful part of this whole project. I donned safety glasses and a face mask and leather gloves and entered their box in the garage. They, like the wild animals—with WINGS—they are, freaked out. They massed together into an explosive guinea bomb with birds shooting left and right and up and down trying to escape my deerskin clutches. It was all I could do to blindly grab at their body parts, wincing as I felt leg joints pop (forgive me for thinking “Buffalo wings!!”) and soft tissue smash beneath my fingers.
Each bird I managed to extract came out fighting, with me clamping it to my stomach to try to control its wings. My belly is scarred by slashes. I look like I’ve taken part in a bear fight, not moving day for 16 one-pound birds.
But, prevail I did, taking each guinea outside and hurling it into its new palatial estate. I hung around for about a second after each to make sure the poor dears could still hobble, and then I went back for more. Sixteen freaking times.
I am proud to say I had only two escapees within the garage during this process, and by force of rage I soon had those transfered too. We all sat for a while in the coop, all 17 of us animals panting:
And then I got up, went in the house, and took my reward. And yes, it was a double.