The Guinea Fowl Debacle: A Cautionary Tale

I’m in several Facebook groups dedicated to chickens, sheep, and various other forms of controlled barnyard chaos. These groups are equal parts helpful, terrifying, and wildly entertaining. Kind of like watching a soap opera, only with feathers, hooves, and the occasional goat climbing a kitchen counter. The kind of virtual hangouts where people post photos of poop and ask, "Is this normal?" They swap advice on everything from worming schedules to whether their rooster might be emotionally unstable.

This morning in one of the chicken groups, the topic took a lively detour into the world of guinea fowl—those screechy, helmet-headed weirdo guard dogs of the poultry world. One person raved about how they’re great watchdogs (watchbirds?), alerting you to anything even slightly unusual: predators, falling leaves, suspicious clouds, possibly ghosts. Another chimed in about their excellent reputation for drastically reducing the tick population. And then one brave soul asked the real question:

"Do they ever shut up?"

Cue the collective sigh from everyone who’s ever tried to own guineas and live a peaceful life.

I was instantly transported back to my guinea fowl misadventures. Yes, plural. You’d think I’d have learned the first time. You see, I've tried them, I really have. But I've never successfully managed to keep them around, or stay sane.

Try #1: The Great Guinea Getaway

It all began with 15 adorable, chirping keets (that's baby guineas for those blissfully unaware). I was feeling optimistic, full of hope, maybe a little cocky. (Pun intended.) I raised them like royalty, fed them well, kept them warm, and gave them love. I was the Mary Poppins of poultry.

The moment they got their flight feathers? Whoosh! They peaced out like a group of teenagers who just found out the Wi-Fi password at someone else's house.

No goodbye. No farewell peep. Gone. Vanished. No note. No text. Zoom—Just a puff of dust and the faint sound of flapping wings. Straight into the woods and gone forever. Probably joined a gang. I’m still bitter.

Try #2: Guinea Math and Desperate Neighbors

The second time, I didn't mean to get guineas. Fast forward a year or two. I went to pick up a sheep. Just one sheep. But the farmer was drowning in guineas and looked desperate. "Please take some", he begged. You’ve heard of chicken math? You know, that phenomenon where you go for one and end up with 20? This was guinea math—only a darker, louder force of nature.

We drove home with one sheep and four guineas, two mated pairs. I tried to do things right this time, keeping them in a large wire dog crate for a week so they could get the lay of the land, fall in love with the coop, maybe write a few songs about it, and learn where home is.

Apparently “home” was not to their liking.

As soon as I let them out, they strutted around the farm like they were on a real estate tour, then decided the neighbors’ yard had better amenities. Every day, they'd eat breakfast at my place like a bunch of freeloaders, then head off to the neighbor’s to scream at squirrels, admire their own voices, and park themselves right in front of his sliding glass doors like tiny feathered salesmen who forgot how to leave.

My neighbor called.

“Uh… Sandy? Did you… by any chance... happen to get some guineas?”

“Yes,” I said, cautiously.

“Well, they’ve adopted my porch. They're watching us like feathery surveillance drones. They stare at us for hours. And they never. stop. yelling. Can't you do something to keep them home?" he asked, sounding like a desperate man who was planning an emergency trip to the hardware store for chicken wire, porch netting, and possibly a priest.

I told him they were edible, kind of like pheasant but less gamey. He didn’t appreciate that suggestion. Something about his kids being traumatized if a bird dinner came with a name and a staring problem. 

Enter the Mirror of Doom

Desperate, I turned to the internet and discovered a fun guinea fact: they are ridiculously vain. Like, full-on feathered narcissists. Apparently, they love staring at their own reflections in a mirror.

Cue "Operation Narcissus".

I found a large, old mirror in the barn and propped it up along their morning commute to the feed trough. I placed the dog crate nearby, and waited. Right on schedule, the guineas strutted up, saw their reflections, and froze. It was like watching a poultry version of a high school prom photo shoot.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Martha: “Fred, do you see her? She looks just like me—stunning!”
Fred: “Indeed, Martha. And look at that dashing male beside her—quite the specimen. Honestly, a model.”
Sally: “Hold up, everyone. This one over here? Feathers like spun silk. I must know what shampoo she uses.”
Roger: “I don’t want to brag, but the guy in front of me? A real stud muffin. A true Adonis of the guinea world! Probably works out.”

While they fawned over themselves like barnyard Kardashians, I tiptoed up and gently nudged the crate closer... closer... bam! They marched right in like it was a VIP lounge. Caught by their own vanity. I didn’t know whether to be proud or deeply concerned about what I’d just witnessed.

Almost Freezer Camp... Almost

I couldn't just let them go again. I stuck them in an empty chicken tractor—basically a bottomless mobile pen you can move around the yard for fresh grass. They weren’t happy about it, but I reminded them that this was Plan B. Plan A was to stay in my barnyard, but that ship had already sailed.

Jim had plans to send them to “freezer camp” that weekend. But before we could sharpen the knives, Mother Nature got involved.

One blustery afternoon, I looked out the window just in time to see the chicken tractor take flight across the field like some low-budget barnyard production of The Wizard of Oz. It flipped upside down on the far side of the fence, and the guineas shot out like feathered cannonballs. They headed for the woods at top speed, squawking a final, offended farewell.

Gone again. Of course.

A Mystery for the Ages

The next summer, I overheard some folks chatting at the feed store:

“Have you heard about that wild flock of guineas over by the ridge road?”

“Yeah! Weird, right? Wonder where they came from.”

I just nodded politely and said, “Huh. That is strange.”

And I walked away. Slowly. Casually. Like a woman with nothing to confess and no regrets... except for the part where I ever brought home guineas.

Let's just say I've retired from guinea fowl ownership. If anyone asks, I'm strictly chickens and sheep these days. Chickens might be mini velociraptors, and sheep might think a strong breeze is a valid reason to panic, but at least they don't spend their afternoons admiring themselves in mirrors or heckling the neighbors. Usually.

If you’re thinking of getting guineas, here’s my advice: Don’t. Unless your neighbors really need more excitement in their lives. Or you have an extra mirror lying around and a lot of patience. Or you just really enjoy poultry that screams at its own reflection.

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Want to swap livestock war stories? Or maybe just confess how many chickens you really have?  Share it in the comments! Misery loves company—and so do livestock owners.

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Meet My Grandma... Kind Of

I just finished making a traditional Canadian pork pie—Tourtière—for a ladies’ meeting tomorrow. The theme is “Meet My Grandma.” We’ve been asked to bring food, photos, and stories that remind us of our grandmothers. Things they passed down. Things we carry forward.

The truth is, I never actually met my grandmother. She was gone before I was born. I don’t know the sound of her laugh or the way she wore her hair, except from a few pictures of her I've been able to find. But I do know that in my French Canadian family, Tourtière was a staple. It graced the holiday tables, warmed the kitchen on winter nights, and quietly stitched its way into our family’s fabric.

I haven’t made one in about 15 years. Honestly, I thought it would be easier—muscle memory and all that. But let me tell you, it was a lot more work than I remember. Let’s just say I had to sit down twice and question my life choices. At one point, I found myself negotiating with the pie crust like it was a hostage situation. Maybe that’s just age talking, or maybe it’s because when you’re younger, you don’t realize how much goes into the things you take for granted. The chopping, the stirring, the seasoning, the slow patience of it all. It turns out tradition isn’t fast food.

Still, something happened as I leaned over the stove today. As much as I sweated over it, it felt good. Familiar. Like reaching back through time and grabbing hold of something solid. The smell of the meat and spices—cinnamon, cloves, allspice, a hint of nutmeg—carried me somewhere else. It brought back scenes I didn’t even know I remembered. No, I never met my grandmother. I don’t know the sound of her voice or what kind of stories she told. But I do know the scent of her kitchen—or at least the one passed down through the hands and aprons of my family. I remember my aunt's (her daughter) kitchen, the clatter of pots, a well-used wooden spoon, someone humming in the background. I could almost see the older women in my family moving around me—quietly competent, sleeves rolled up, eyes kind but focused. Women I barely knew, and yet somehow, miss deeply.

So tomorrow I’ll show up with my Tourtière, maybe a couple of old black-and-white photos, and a pie dish full of memories that aren’t exactly mine, but still belong to me somehow. I’ll bring my pie and place it on the table alongside dishes from other's grandmothers. I may not have stories from my own lips to share, but I’ll have this—warm, flaky, a little lopsided, made with love. A dish that speaks where words fall short. A small way of saying, I came from somewhere. I come from someone.

Bon appétit, Mémère. I hope I did you proud.

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The Great Fluffpocalypse

It was grooming day here at the farm—also known as “The Great Fluffpocalypse.”

Dora, a Cockapoo, is our needy child. She has that wonderful, non-shedding poodle coat and had just gone to the groomer last week for her usual shampoo, haircut, and diva treatment, so she was in zero need of a brush. But don’t tell her that. The second she saw the grooming tote, she assumed the position like a diva about to take center stage. Stump of a tail wagging, butt wiggling, eyes sparkling, vibrating with the chaotic energy of a toddler who just ate three chocolate bars—she needed this. I gave her three pity brushes, praised her like she’d won Best in Show, and sent her back inside. She strutted off like a celebrity leaving a red carpet event and resumed her nap on the couch with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re fabulous.

Next up: Shaymus. Terrier mix of mysterious origin. Part dog, part tumbleweed with legs. When we adopted him, he didn’t shed. At all. We thought, “Wow! How lucky to find another non-shedding pooch!” Turns out, he just didn’t have an undercoat because of the poor nutrition common to stray street dogs. Fast forward to now—he’s healthy, thriving, and shedding like he’s in a competition to clone himself. I brushed him for 15 minutes and produced enough hair to stuff a futon. My porch looked like a dog exploded in slow motion. There was fur in my hair, on my teeth, inside my eyeballs, in my soul. Shaymus just sat there with the smug grin of a dog who knows he’s both the problem and the prize.

And then came Gus. Gus is our livestock guardian dog: massive, goofy, and under the impression that grooming is just an extreme sport version of cuddling. The moment he saw the brush, he belly-flopped like a sack of flour with fur and rolled over dramatically, ready for what he assumed was a 90-minute belly rub. Trying to brush Gus is like grooming a beached manatee that won’t stop wiggling. Every time I made a little progress, he rolled over like a furry rotisserie chicken and smiled like, “Was this the experience you were hoping for?” I had to use one hand to brush and the other to shield my face from joyful, slobbery kisses. By the end, I smelled like dog, mud, and despair.

We finished with a mountain of hair large enough to qualify for its own zip code. Dora was still napping like royalty. Shaymus was actively shedding in the breeze. And Gus was trotting toward the newly mowed pasture to roll and color himself green.

So yes, it was grooming day. I’m wearing enough fur to be mistaken for a border collie and my dignity is somewhere under the pile of fluff on the porch. But hey—it’s all in a day’s work on the farm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got fur in my mouth, slobber on my shirt, and a giant green dog to tackle before he gets captured by a leprechaun. Let’s roll.

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June 21st: The Worst Day of the Year (Don’t @ Me)

Ah yes, June 21st. The sunniest of all sunny days. The longest stretch of daylight we get all year. Birds are chirping. People are frolicking. Instagram is ablaze with flower crowns and iced coffee.

Meanwhile, I’m over here side-eyeing the sun like it just double dipped at a potluck. Why? Because this—this bright, chipper, UV-saturated day—is the beginning of the end.

That’s right. We peaked. It’s all downhill from here. The days only get shorter now. Every evening, a few more seconds of light get snatched away like nature's version of daylight robbery. It’s a slow-motion horror film for those of us who like to finish chores without a headlamp strapped to our foreheads.

And I know what you’re thinking: “But summer is so beautiful!”

Just so we’re clear, I’m not anti-summer. I enjoy a good watermelon. I’ve been known to frolic occasionally. But what really grinds my gears is that from this point on, every morning sunrise is a little later, every evening sunset a little earlier. By the time August hits, I’m already mourning the light. Because I know what’s coming. I’m emotionally preparing for the return of seasonal depression and frozen windshields.

Yep. Come winter, I’m out in the chicken coop stringing up bulbs like it’s Studio 54. Chickens need 12 to 14 hours of light a day to keep laying eggs, and let me tell you—those divas do not perform under poor lighting conditions. So there I am, running extension cords through snowdrifts so Henrietta can keep dropping eggs like the little oviparous prima donna she is.

Which brings me to my favorite day of the year: December 21st.

The shortest, darkest, most Vitamin D-deficient day on the calendar. While the rest of the world is clutching their SAD lamps and threatening to move to Florida, I’m out here in my thermal underwear doing a victory lap around the barn. Because that day? That day means we’re on the upswing. More daylight tomorrow. Even more the day after that. Eventually—gloriously—I get to unplug the chicken light.

And it's not just any unplugging. Oh no. This is a ceremony. There’s pomp. There’s circumstance. There may or may not be a bathrobe involved. I march out there like the Queen of Daylight, extension cord in hand, chickens watching with mild confusion as I declare, “Ladies, the sun hath returned! Lay at will!”

And just like that, we’re back on track.
No more electric bills for your eggs, Henrietta.

So while the rest of you are out twirling through the summer solstice in your flip-flops, sipping sun tea and pretending not to notice the mosquitoes, I’ll be in the shade with my iced herb tea and a countdown clock to winter.

Happy First Day of Summer.
Let the shrinking begin.

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Back in the Barn Boots --- Again

Or How I Gave Up Retirement for Hay, Hens, and a Whole Lot of Fence Fixing

In 2019, Jim and I did what any sensible, slightly stir-crazy couple does after years of livestock, mud, and frozen water buckets—we sold the animals, bought a 26-foot travel trailer, and rode off into the sunset like a pair of geriatric cowboys chasing 70 degrees.

We became snowbirds. Not the kind that nest in RV parks with satellite dishes the size of dinner tables. We zigzagged through the southern states (excluding Florida—because even in winter, it feels like soup in your shoes). We swapped barn boots for sandals and mud for sand. And for a while, it was great.

But then… things changed - again.

We sold the trailer, settled back into home life, and something strange started happening. I missed it.

Not the trailer. Not the questionable campground bathrooms. But the work. The real, gritty, unglamorous kind of work that makes your muscles sore and your back say things your mouth shouldn’t repeat.

Turns out, daily walks and beach chairs don’t keep you strong. Who knew? So I did the only reasonable thing: I got a dozen chickens, a few sheep, and started reacquainting myself with the joy of hay splinters, grain bags that laugh in the face of gravity, and fencing that mysteriously breaks only when it’s raining sideways.

And you know what? I love it.

This blog is my way of getting back to the roots—sometimes literally, when I trip in the pasture. I’ll be sharing the ridiculous, heartwarming, occasionally muddy realities of life on a (very) small farm. Expect animal shenanigans, fence-related swearing (edited from what my brain may be thinking), and the occasional life lesson courtesy of a hen with no sense of personal space.

Thanks for stopping by. Kick off your boots—or leave them on if you’re chasing chickens. Either way, grab a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. It’s going to be a good ride.

P.S. – Before I came crawling back to the barn, I wrote a travel blog during our RV days. If you want to see how we fumbled our way across the country (and how many times I said, “Did you lock the trailer?”), check out crosscountrycruzin.blogspot.com. It’s got sunsets, scenic views, and at least one emergency involving a black tank.

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