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.
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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