“What was that?”
“Oh, my God!”
“Oh, my God!”
“Oh, my God!”
At which point they flee and flutter pell-mell. Unbridled terror lasts for just a few seconds, which is as long as it takes them to forget whatever it was that prompted the stampede. The behavior repeats.
We let them out of the coop for the first time when they were about three months old, well past the recommended time. At first they sensibly refused to step out—all except for Luke, that is, who promptly hopped into one of the pastures and started chasing our Andalusian mare around like he owned the place. It took the others a few hours to venture forth.
And then … they ran off. Contrary to encouraging advice about the breed, gathered mostly from books and the Internet, which assured us that they would not stray far from their coop, they took off like a mob of unleashed teenagers, the whole flock of 23 (another, alas, had expired in the coop on the hottest day of August, prompting the installation of a fan). They bore southwest and just kept on going, as if drawn by some poultry siren over the horizon, making their way across several broad Thoroughbred horse pastures, then across Route 472, and so on toward the setting sun. After it became clear they were not planning to turn around, we made a heroic effort to herd them back, leaping tall fences, crossing the road, and, with curious horses peering over our shoulders, driving them before us with long sticks. The guineas were having none of it.
We gave up, and the guineas vanished.
Gail took it harder than I did. She is of the Bambi school, while I am more of a “nature, red in tooth and claw” person. We had given it our best shot, I figured, and had succeeding only in serving a moveable feast to our neighborhood foxes, dogs, and hawks. Neither of us ever expected to see them again.
But, lo! Three days later, they were back, chattering away in our middle pasture, minus two. One of the missing was Luke. We admire fearlessness, but it is a poor survival strategy. Not bad, all in all, I thought—only one fatality per night in the wild. The flock seemed chastened, and to have lost its appetite for wandering.
Then came the great guinea-hen massacre.
We have a fairly large property, so the flock has many safe acres in which to roam, chatter, panic, and vacuum ticks. But some madness, weeks later, propelled them once more to alien pastures. You would think that eons of evolution would have clued the guinea to Labradors. But, no. Amber, the chocolate Lab in question, is an especially obedient and friendly dog. She never saw a human hand she wasn’t eager to lick, and never strays from her own farm.
“She just tore into them,” said Chuck, our neighbor and Amber’s owner, who witnessed the slaughter and came away shocked by the flock’s stupidity. “I kept thinking they would try to get away,” he said.
Chuck found four carcasses, and five other birds just vanished, either down Amber’s gullet or felled by sheer terror in the high weeds.
The rest returned, an even dozen—less than half of those we raised. Duey is still biding his time. Gail is afraid to let them out of the coop. At night, mixed in with the usual racket of tree frogs and katydids, I swear I can hear deer ticks out there, laughing at us.