Friday night I watched the most delightful movie I’ve seen all year, Fantastic Mr. Fox. I loved it, but must admit I’ll take a suave, animated George Clooney-voiced fox over the real one that showed up on the farm yesterday.
I let the birds out around 2:30 in the afternoon, and watched them while I puttered about the house. I sat at my desk, working on the computer while they hung out at the line of brush, cedar trees and old fence that divides my property from my neighbor’s.
I glanced up from my work around 4:00 to see what looked like a small red dog weaving and ducking among the flock, which was roiled up in a fluff of feathers and flying birds and alarm calls. What’s this?! I didn’t order a border collie!
I jumped out of my chair and onto the front porch, yelling the entire time without care for how my neighbors must have perceived this raving lunatic, and I pulled on my boots. Then I lit out into the fracas, screaming as I went, trying to chase off Mr. Fox. I was successful, and managed to fight him off into the woods behind my house—without a guinea clenched in his jaws.
I hung around the guineas for a while as they calmed down. About six—way too few in my opinion—had actually done the right thing and flown into the trees. Eventually they came down, inelegantly tumbling head over talons through the branches and landing hard. While we were all catching our breath, I heard movement in the woods and turned to look just as a bushy fox tail flew over a fallen tree and out of sight. For now.
The guineas didn’t manage to put themselves to bed as early as they had the night before, and wary from the fox attack I went out as it was getting dark around seven and was able to herd them into the coop. So we end another weekend with 16 guineas, about a half a dozen new tick bites (including one in my bellybutton, indignity of indignities), and one wary farmer who’s now researching livestock guard dogs.
I witnessed my first attack on the guinea flock today. It came from the sky.
I let the birds out around nine this morning, and they spent all day wandering the yard, being very good about staying away from the road and sticking close to the coop, house and garage. They were actually right in front of their coop when I stepped onto the front porch and saw a small bird hovering among the guineas. They were wildly sounding the alarm, and the attacker wasn’t exactly being subtle with his high klee klee klee call. As annoying as it is to think something was after my birds, I have to give this little guy props for trying. After failing to cart off a bird that was at least twice as big as he was, he flew to a tall tree at the corner of the property to collect his dignity. And then he took off, presumably to pick on somebody his own size.
I broke out my bird book and figured out that I’d been visited by a kestrel, a small hawk about the size of a jay. I think he was one of a pair, as during this whole encounter I heard another bird flying over the woods making the same call.
The rest of the day passed without incident, though I was nervous about how I’d get the birds back in the coop at nightfall. After one weekend of allowing me to herd them into their coop, last weekend the birds decided to rebel on the very afternoon I needed to put them away and drive out of town for an overnight trip. They started splitting into two groups as I got them close to the coop door. As just one person, it was impossible for me to play defense. Thank goodness my neighbor noticed my frantic jogging about the back pasture and rode to my rescue on his mountain bike. With his presence, the flock fell in line and everyone jumped right in the coop.
So I was hoping I wouldn’t have a repeat of that situation. I figured I’d leave the birds out all day and then see if they’d be smart enough to put themselves to bed at dusk. And guess what? Almost as soon as the sun dropped behind the big oak at the woodline, throwing the farm into shadow at about half past six, I looked out the window and saw half the birds in the coop. The rest were milling around, and I went out to “assist,” which really just made them anxious. So I walked away, and not a minute later returned to find that they’d all hopped in the coop. I scurried over and shut up their door, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over me that I didn’t have to track down errant birds in the dark. Now if I can just keep up this trend of them not getting eaten, staying off the road, and putting themselves to bed, I will be a very happy guinea farmer!
I was cooking dinner tonight and looked out across the field at this:
In the last week or so, a switch seems to have been flipped and we are officially in another season. I mourn the loss of light and not being able to work in the yard after work until almost bedtime. Even though we’re enjoying beautiful, clear warm days and open-window nights, it feels as though things are drying up and closing down as I think ahead to what’s the hardest part of the year for me.
I am not really sure what I am going to do during these long, cold nights. I better come up with a plan, fast, or I might make a grave mistake and order satellite t.v.
The guineas burst to freedom last Saturday when I decided I’d had enough of them sitting for hours in their house contemplating the open doors but not venturing forth. It was time to kick my fledglings out of the nest. I entered their coop and with a few strict words and a flap of my windmill arms, they exploded out of the coop and flew into the woods.
Damn. Not exactly the effect I was going for. I figured they just hop out of the coop and stick around, but no such luck. So I spent a couple of hours searching the woods for stray birds, which in their panic had bedded down in the leaves and camouflaged themselves well. Once the birds were all out in the field, I watched them with anxious eyes as they flew back and forth from tree to tree across the property. The distressed birds called to each other, upset to be away from the flock but unsure about how to regroup. I had about given up on them when they managed to all fly out of the woods and fields and down from the trees and collect themselves into a nervous-looking bunch.
Around six in the evening on this stress-filled day, I was worrying how I’d get this rangy coalition back into their coop for the night. Just then my neighbor appeared like an angel riding his mountain bike, which proved to be the perfect tool for the job. With some quick cowboy riding on his part, and copious stick waving on mine, we managed to herd the flock back to their coop where they placidly enough jumped right in, seemingly happy to see their home again. I shut up the coop and heaved a huge sigh of relief before heading inside to pick off countless tiny seed ticks—42 bites in all. No, the irony that I got these birds to control the ticks does not, in fact, escape me.
Last Sunday I tried again, and the whole process went much smoother. The birds came out of the coop on their own, and fourteen of them headed to the far side of the property to play in a dust patch along the fence line. The remaining two snuck off by themselves under the cherry tree and spent the afternoon playing birds and bees. I was able to put them all back into the coop myself by herding them along using two long sticks.
Both yesterday and today the birds again were out free ranging, and I had no problem bringing them back to the coop when I wanted to. They are getting quite good at being herded, and as I teach them how to respond to my movements, they teach me. It’s a minute-by-minute learning process as I try to read them and anticipate their moves. When to walk, when to run, when to speak softly to call them along, how to recognize the moment right before they panic and take flight. Each day that I manage to take 16 birds out of the coop and shut the door on 16 birds later in the evening is a good day for me!
I left for work this morning and found this gift. Right in the middle of my front walkway, which is comprised of two sheets of weathered OSB with black-widow infested coir welcome mats at each end. Because I’m friendly as well as classy.
Anyway, when other people use their work computers to—they think—surreptitiously surf internet porn or while away the hours with celebrity gossip sites, I google “coyote scat.” I hope I am the first person in the world to have that phrase turn up in a performance review.
But seriously. Which of the myriad mammals that share their territory with me left this calling card? Readers, your conjectures in the comments please.
“Firecracker” by Frazey Ford, from an excellent new album, Obadiah, which I’ve been listening to on repeat all weekend. Perfect summer evening porch sittin’ tunes.
I woke up at seven this morning to rain pouring on the skylight over my bed. It’s the first time I can remember awakening to such a hard rain all summer, and given our record heat and dryness this year the sight made me happy instead of glum as grey skies usually do. I got out of bed and went outside to drag all my potted plants into the deluge. As I was coming back in, I glanced toward the nice little pond that had formed in my crawl space well and saw my old friend Toad.
Toad had been living in the doorway to the crawlspace for quite a while, but then disappeared around the time of the black snake incident. I figured Toad was a casualty of close quarters, though this particular toad is quite large—about the size of the fingerless part of my not insubstantial hands. He’s also a striking black, exactly the color of oxidized silver.
I’m glad to see Toad back. I love the way he sits like an oracle in the doorway, all quiet and wise.
I opened the coop door this morning around nine and set the chicken walk in place. I went about my weekend chores, checking back every now and then to see if any guineas had ventured forth to freedom. After several hours and no takers, I fired up the weed whacker and went to work around the property. I’d totally forgotten the coop was open when I went to noisily trim around the garage. The next thing I knew I looked up and a great flurry of grey feathers exploded out of the chicken door and into the field. Whoops. So much for a gentle introduction into free ranging!
When the flurry landed I realized it wasn’t a whole flock, but just one bird. Which walked a bit this way and that before heading into the shade of the cedar tree and grapevine. I watched her for a while and then went back to weed whacking.
The next I saw the guinea she had flown deep in the brush at the wood’s edge. Dumb guinea! A wood full of foxes, and you choose to fly right into their territory. Oh well. I can’t control these birds because they are basically wild, so I just went back to weed whacking the ditch near the road.
When I looked up again, the guinea was near the front of the property under the big silver maple. I took a water break and watched her from the front porch. It was pretty cool to see her strut about the yard, and to poke her head under the cherry and stick her head amongst the azaleas in front of the garage. It gave the farm an air of an exotic wildlife preserve.
The guinea made her way around the edge of the garage and finally realized she was in the vicinity of her tribe. I had thought she would have been drawn back to the coop by the sounds of her flockmates much earlier than she was—it was almost as though she couldn’t find it based on sound alone and needed to actually see the other birds to know where they were.
She spent the next couple of hours making fast circles around the coop while her flock mates anxiously peered down from their balcony seats. Not one made the move to join Magellan as she churned a path through the straw around the chicken walk without figuring out that she need only walk up it to rejoin her family. At one point she burst a few feet into the air in a desperate attempt to hit the chicken door, but upon failing she didn’t attempt that approach again.
I let her go for a few hours figuring she’d eventually get it together. But around five o’clock I had company coming and dinner to cook and wanted the birds to bed for the night. And the guinea had been out in the hot sun for the first time in her life, and I figured she’d had enough excitement for the day. So I stood in the storage area of the coop and opened both the interior and exterior doors that I use to access the coop. In a few minutes Magellan jumped up into the vestibule and greeted her flock. A few minutes more and she jumped back into the coop proper and was home sweet home.
