“They’re terrorizing my chickens,” said our neighbor. His tone was pleasant and mild.
“If you need them to run away and join the circus, we can do that for you,” I replied.
So 6 Guinea fowl joined the farm menagerie. Bob and I decided to test their flavor before we decided what to do with the others. I approached their crate with murderous intent. The flighty fowl panicked, flapping wildly in their filthy crates.
“Well, I can’t blame you,” I said as I wiped Guinea poop off my eyelashes.
The farm lunch consensus was that Guinea fowl are delicious. The remaining four got a stay of execution because I needed to make cheese on Thursday. I’m not the most hygiene-conscious person in the world, but I refuse to make cheese while spattered with fowl crap.
Guinea fowl emit a demonic racket that makes me think of them as heavy metal fans, or chickens with chainsaws. Daniel and I woke up to their squeaky chorus in the front yard. At least they get going later than the 5 a.m. roosters.
“It’s the Guinea fowl,” I said as I pulled a pillow over my ears.
Daniel chanted, “Gimme a U! Gimme an I! Gimme an E! Gimme an A! Gimme an O! It’s the bird with every vowel in its name!”