Uncle Guinea Is Gone

 

by Pa Rock

Farmer in Autumn

Rosie and I returned from out trip to Kansas City early yesterday afternoon, and as we arrived I noticed that we had the place all to ourselves.  My son was at work, and my faithful pal, the old guinea who always rushes to greet me when I am outside, was no where in sight.  I noticed that the chicken coop was closed, an odd occurrence for the middle of the day, so I rushed up to check and see if Nick had perhaps forgotten to open it that morning and let Uncle Guinea out to manage the farm for the day.  When I hurriedly opened the door, I was greeted by many guinea feathers strewn about, but Uncle was not there.  It was obvious that something had attacked him in the coop.

When Nick came home from work yesterday evening he said that something had gotten in the coop on Saturday evening and he had found the evidence of the attack the next morning.

Uncle Guinea had been at The Roost for nearly four years.  I purchased ten guniea chicks at a roadside poultry swap in the very early days of 2020, before the pandemic began, along with a few other birds.  By the following year most had been killed by predators - some years are really awful when it comes to things like stray dogs, raccoons, and other varmints.   By early 2022 my farm "livestock" was down to just three guineas, two toms and a hen.  That spring the hen laid a big nest of eggs in the barn, and both of the toms took turns helping her watch over the collection of eggs.  Finally eighteen hatched, and for a couple of days there were little guineas everywhere,

But then the predators struck again, and one morning I discovered that all of the baby guineas were gone, and so was the hen and one of the toms.  I began calling the lone survivor Uncle Guinea.  He was around for all of 2022 and 2023 living a very solitary life.

Birds, and especially farm fowl, tend to pattern on something.  I had a mama goose one time who became emotionally attached to the farm's female Great Pyrenees dog and was the big white dog's constant companion for years.  Uncle Guinea, after all of his companions were gone, patterned on me.  Whenever I was outside he would rush to my side and follow me around the farm.  Guineas often don't like to sleep in confined spaces, such as chicken coops, and prefer instead to roost high among the tree branches.    Somehow Uncle Guinea and I eventually came to an agreement that he would sleep in the coop where he should have been safer.    He would enter every evening right at dark, fly up to the rafters, and wait on me to come close him in.  He knew that I would be there opening the door at first light.

(Although I tried to keep the coop secure, the cat seemed to always be able to figure out ways to get in even when it was closed up, so the old, claptrap building obviously was not predator-proof.  Still, Uncle Guinea and I both felt that it was safer, and drier, than sleeping in the trees.)

All of that is over now, and I could sleep in - if not for what I feel is my obligation to go out and feed the neighbor's cat who is always waiting patiently on the back porch as the sun begins to rise.

Goodbye Uncle Guinea.  I'm really going to misss you!