Kitty got her first mouse last week. Good kitty!

I spent a great day working outside in the yard, hacking down an old grapevine that I hope to rehabilitate. I opened the guinea coop and a few birds spent a lovely afternoon enjoying the newly green grass. It rained off and on throughout the afternoon, and I left their coop door open. Yet they didn’t rejoin their flock.

Around sundown there were about seven birds still outside the coop, circling madly but not jumping inside. I think they were still traumatized from their last foray out, which ended in a panicked flock right at the door of the coop. I curse myself for allowing that to happen, as I think it undid months of conditioning them to calmly return to their coop.

As it got dark I turned on their coop light, as well as the garage floodlight, hoping that the birds could see their way in and put themselves to bed. I sat on the front porch and watched as the sky filled with deep blue clouds out of the west.

All of a sudden the wind began to blow like the proverbial freight train, sending leaves tumbling across the driveway and causing the floodlights to do a wild shadow dance. It was dark now, and I could barely see the pale bobbing heads of several guineas still outside of the coop. I went inside for my boots, and the wind was blowing so hard it ripped the door from my hands. The power cut off just as I was stepping off the porch.

As huge raindrops began to assault me I approached the coop to find four birds huddled in a mass outside of an open door leading to food and water and the rest of their flock lit up in vital detail by a warm lamp. And yet these birds were camped out together in the dark and pelting rain.

I tried to herd them into the coop. Despite my warnings that, “If you don’t get inside right now you are dinner for the fox!,” they weren’t falling into line. In the dark, and with soaking feathers, they were moving unusually slow. So I did something I’d not done since they were tiny babies. I grabbed one. And, surprisingly, it ended up in my hands. I took it to the coop and threw it inside, setting off a flurry of dust and feathers inside. Pleased with my success, I went back for more.

I grabbed a second bird. It felt substantial. Meaty. I know to admit such brands me a horrible caretaker, but it was the dinner hour and thoughts of fricassee flashed through my head.

I overcame my base impulse and tossed the bird inside with his flock.

The remaining two guineas must have gotten wise to the farmer/predator in their midst. I chased one a bit, in and out of pale light and dark shadows, tripping over tractor implements (which cost me half my big toenail on my right foot) and made my strike. The bird screamed and burst away, leaving me with a handful of feathers. I gave up on that one, and approached the other, able to see only its bright frantic eyes in the flashes of lightning. When this bird headed into the pasture I gave up the chase. My jeans were soaked and made it hard to move my legs. My hair was dripping water, plastered to my skull. The thunder boomed again. Screw these birds.

I closed up the coop, and dashed inside to peel off wet clothes directly into the dryer.

Upstairs I turned on the shower. Nice and hot and sane. I teased grapevine buds out of my hair, and a lone guinea feather slowly swirled down the drain.

Yesterday I had the guineas out of their house while I worked in the yard and made some minor coop modifications in response to last week’s entrapment:

I was taking a break on the front porch and enjoying some light weekend reading (The Basics of Shotgun Shooting) when I heard an unholy racket of screaming, alarm-sounding guineas. Because the birds were near the woods at the back of the property, out of eyesight, I figured Mr. Fox had returned to claim his lunch. I pulled my boots on and shot off the porch and toward the commotion.

When I arrived at the scene of the expected crime, I saw this:

The birds had discovered the final resting place of last week’s gold star balloon. And boy were they concerned to find something so amiss on their territory. They were hilarious to watch as they approached in a squawking clump, necks extended to shout at the offending piece of mylar. Then the balloon would move in the wind and the birds would jump back in fright before approaching again. This went on for a good ten minutes until I shooed them back up the hill toward the house. I am very proud of my birds for being such vigilant watchdogs. I hope they display the same reaction to snakes!

But the guinea excitement didn’t end there. Around four I tried to put the guineas in their coop so I could go into town. An overzealous relative was trying to help herd them but succeeded only in panicking the flock and creating the worst round-up experience I’ve had since last summer. We eventually got all but one guinea into the coop, and that holdout was so distressed she flew deep in the woods. After a half an hour of sprinting around the pastures and crawling through barbed-wire fence lines, I said let her go. So we did, and it was with heavy hearts that we went into town to cry in our beer.

I knew the odds weren’t good that at sundown the bird would make her way out of the woods alive. When it gets dark guineas can’t see and just hunker down wherever they are becoming, well, sitting ducks. So I left on all the lights outside of my house, and turned on the light in the coop in hopes that she’d be attracted toward the light and be lured out of the woods, and I also hoped that the birds in the coop would stay awake to help call her out with their cries. That was the best I could do.

But lo and behold, I got home after midnight and the missing guinea was perched outside of the coop window, pressed up against the wire to get as close to her family as possible. In the light of my car’s headlights I very slowly and calmly opened the outside coop door and walked around the coop with her in circles until she jumped in. Then I closed that door behind us, opened the interior door, and she quickly rejoined her flock. I shut off their light and went to bed.

There’s never a dull moment around here with these entertaining, beautiful, exasperating birds.

I came home last night and unloaded my groceries on the front porch before pulling the car back to the garage. As I was getting out to open the garage door, I had the brilliant idea to feed the guineas at night instead of in the morning, when we were supposed to be experiencing a rainstorm strong enough to warrant flood warnings three days in advance. So I let myself into the outside coop door, and in through the interior coop door that separates the guineas’ living quarters from a tiny entry room where I store their food. I fed them their pellets, even adding a bit extra for good measure, and left their area. The interior door is secured by a simple hook and eye, and tonight I couldn’t get the door shut tight enough to latch it. I debated just leaving it, as it was practially pitch-black and starting to rain. But with visions of the winds to come blowing the door open and the guineas trashing the entry room, I kept at it, trying all my tricks to jimmy the hook into the eye.

It just wasn’t working, and it was dark enough that I couldn’t tell what was causing the problem. So, I opened the interior door and stepped into the guineas’ room. I pushed lightly on the bottom of the door, where it seemed to be getting stuck, and as I did, the door sucked tight into its frame, unmovable.

Now this wouldn’t be a problem except that I’d neglected to install any sort of handle on the inside of the door, which is just a smooth piece of plywood. And after listening to my entreaties for a “predator-proof coop,” my master coop builder father had made the door so well that it fit into the jam with nary a gap anywhere except for a tiny bit at the bottom which I realized, with a sinking feeling, had become stuffed with pine bedding and guinea dust in such a way that I was now effectively trapped in the coop.

In the past I’d been able to find a bit of give around the edges of the door and ease it open. But tonight nothing doing. The door was shut tight, glued in place by dust and pine.

I felt a wave of adrenaline-induced nausea. The guineas, disturbed by my unexpected presence, began to cry louder and pace back and forth, their squawks in such close quarters hurting my ears. I knew it was only a matter of minutes until they all exploded in a panic of dust and feathers, unleashing their prehistoric talons with no regard for my flesh or my soft, gelatinous eyeballs.

I switched on the light, that merciful light I’d installed a while back as a heat source during really cold nights. It sure came in handy as I scanned the inside of the coop, looking for ways to escape.

Both windows were covered with hardware cloth, which I’d thoroughtly stapled with a power stapler when I installed it to thwart even the tiniest intruder. And beyond the hardware cloth, each window was covered with a glass storm window I might have a hard time breaking through.

The poop door, though human size, was bolted closed in two places from the outside.

I eyed the chicken door. Even if I could have fit through it, which was doubtful, it too was bolted closed from the outside

I was in a tough spot. I’d pulled my car up to the garage and turned it off, so any passerby would think I’d gone inside. It was now dark and raining and my neighbors live far enough away that I doubt they would have heard me if I would have had to yell. I had the light. I could semaphore S.O.S. But would anybody see? And worst of all, my beer was on the porch.

I felt the pockets of my jacket, searching for a tool to free myself. Thank goodness, I had my keys on me. I could do anything with, keys, right? Even better, I carry a tiny knife on my keyring, just for emergencies such as this. At first I thought that if I could get the knife into the door well enough, it would create a handle that would let me pull it open. But after a few tries I realized the door was stuck too tight for that to work.

And then it came to me. One of my father’s favorite concepts: leverage! While making this farm I have seen him move all sorts of ridiculous things with the simple power of leverage, including a full-size stacked washer and dryer, and each time he told me that leverage was one of the keys to the universe. I rationalized that if I could get enough of the blade under the stuck door to lever it up, maybe I could get it to swing free.

And so I began. The door was stuck so tightly that even the tiny blade of my tiny knife was hard to wedge underneath. I kept at it, fighting panic as each attempt seemed to fail. The guineas roiled around me, screaming and churning up dust that thickened the air. I found my motions growing frantic and had to stop to remind myself that while being trapped in the coop was bad, being trapped in the coop while hemorrhaging from a knife wound to the wrist would be even worse. So I began again, more slowly, with a steadied mind, and eventually worked the blade into the stuck area between the door and the jam. I pried up with a delicate touch, so as not to snap the knife blade, and with my other hand worked my fingers around the edge of the door until I could grasp enough to swing it free.

And so I was. Free to step out of the melee of scrambling, squawling guineas. Free of the feather dust and soiled pine shavings and rising panic.

With my bare hands I clawed the door jamb free of the debris that had caused the jam, slammed the door shut, latched it, and fled. Into the dark, the fresh air, the rain. I was free.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Dad. Thanks for teaching me, among a million other things, about leverage. And you built a damn tight coop.

Image above, before adulteration, © Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment LLC. All Rights Reserved.

…when you leave this cozy spot to head out into a dark cold rain to rig a heat lamp to keep your 15 guineas toasty warm.

The guineas have been doing fine (i.e., surviving) the few nights that have gotten down into the teens. But reading the weather report tonight, I discovered that the storm system sweeping eastward may bring subzero wind chills Tuesday night. I know the birds can handle cold, but the wind we’re expected to get may do them in. I am pretty sure their coop is resistant to wind because its so tightly constructed, but I am not entirely sure how much makes its way through and I don’t want to find out by discovering a bunch of two-legged popsicles.

And, I’d rather be doing this mucking around tonight, in a rainy but relatively balmy 35 degrees, instead of Tuesday night after work in a subzero windstorm.

So I hung a shop light over the perch, nailed it in so it wouldn’t fall and catch their house on fire, and then tacked the cord down so the birds wouldn’t hang themselves if they got caught in it. Thankfully the “chicken door” that the birds never liked to use was just loose enough to let an extension cord in, saving me from drilling holes in my perfectly predator-proof coop. We’ll see how long it takes the birds to start pecking at the extension cord. Then I’ll be enjoying flash-fried poultry instead of popsicles. Choose your poison.

My fifteen guineas spent the Thanksgiving weekend wandering the fields and exploring the cherry tree near the garage. This is the first time so many have chosen to fly into it, and it was quite a sight. I am glad they are learning to fly into trees because this skill will help protect them from predators. They still aren’t very graceful—and may well never be—but when they find themselves wedged in precarious positions they have managed to work it out.

The recent cold weather and early sunset have put a damper on the pleasure I used to take in caring for them. If I need to feed and change their water when I get home from work in the dark, I shine my car’s high beams at the coop and then juggle a flashlight inside to collect their feeder and waterer. The birds are always calm—with most continuing to sleep on their perches—but it’s awkward work for me. I need to run a light into the coop somehow to make this easier.

This morning I took care of the birds before work, and I knocked a sizable ice floe out of their waterer. And then I went to work and started investigating heated waterers. The idea of paying for the electricity to heat guinea water all winter irks me, but when we start getting into the days that don’t rise above freezing I may not have a choice.

Though the chore of caring for the guineas is diminishing in pleasure, what’s increasing is the enjoyment I take in the birds when they are out of their coop and flying/wandering/running around the property. They are behaving pretty well by sticking close to the house, and they are truly hilarious to watch. When I was mowing on the tractor last week, the whole flock was actually chasing after me!

You knew it was coming. I knew it was coming.

Friday evening I came home from work and went to feed the guineas. The wind was blowing like crazy, it was spitting rain and cold, and I was barely walking from the second round of a virus that had me down for the past two weeks.

As I filled the guinea water, the door to their house blew open and two birds jumped out, a pearl and a lavender, no doubt freaked by the gale gusting around them. I spent most of the evening chasing them through the fields, trying to get them back home. I tracked them with a flashlight through the tall, uncut pastures as they hunkered down in the grass. At one point I was close enough to grab one, but she erupted under my fingers in a whirl of muscle and beating wings, leaving me in a swirl of feathers.

I gave up, went inside, and posted the 14 remaining birds on CraigsList.

At 10:30 that night I was reading in bed and I heard the cries right under my bedroom window. A few shouts and then quiet. I went to sleep.

Around daybreak I was awoken by more guinea cries. There goes the second one, I thought, and when a quick trip outside to investigate turned up no body, I returned to bed.

When I finally got up for good, I found the front yard littered with pearl guinea feathers. In several distinct patches, which must have been where each attack took place before the bird was finally caught. There was no trace of the lavender’s remains. There was also no trace of my CraigsList post, which appeared to have been ghosted and never showed up. Perhaps it was because I offered the birds for “farm or table?”

I went about my day, out for errands, and when I returned in the afternoon what should I see but the lavender hen walking right outside the guinea coop. She was unscathed, and jumped right in when I opened the door. What a story she had to tell, of her night outside while her mate was murdered! I was amazed that she was alive.

Things improved on Sunday, when the 15 remaining birds spent more than nine hours outside, wallowing in dust holes, sticking close to the house and generally appearing to enjoy themselves. Around dusk I guided them back to their coop and all jumped right in but for one, who spent ten minutes frantically circling the coop before figuring his way in. I shut the door, and bid them all sweet dreams.

One year ago today I started BonafideFarm.com, the blog you’re now reading. As this anniversary approached, and I’ve been thinking a lot about why I started the blog and where to take it in the future.

Last year I knew I was about to embark on a pretty big construction project, and I wanted the blog as a way to keep a journal of the house being built. I am so glad I did—it’s really been remarkable to look back at some of my posts from the past year and marvel at how far I’ve come. It provides a good dose of perspective—I tend to always feel as though I am behind and should be doing more, so much so that I fail to appreciate what I’ve actually accomplished. The blog’s been a good tool for developing this awareness in myself.

I’ve also enjoyed how the blog has in its quiet way encouraged me with two activities I love, writing and photography. I will probably always write and make pictures, but what I like about the blog is the immediacy of it—how I can snap a photo and within a few minutes (satellite internet connection willing) have it online where everyone I care about can see it. I like being able to so easily share my world with friends and family spread across the globe.

I have been kicking a few ideas around for where I’d like to take Bonafide Farm, both the physical farm and the .com. Nothing’s yet ready for its big reveal, but stay tuned. I realize there are only so many guinea pictures I can post before I bore you and have to come up with something fresh. That said, enjoy this Happy Blogiversary Guinea:

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!