Every year when my flock of guineas starts morphing into pairs of guineas, I brace myself for the onslaught. Nothing reminds you that your house is surrounded by predators quite like nesting guineas. Most of the year my guineas get cooped up at night, but finding and bringing in a guinea hen off her nest, or moving her and the whole nest somewhere I deem safer, has only resulted in the hens abandoning that nest and finding other, more well hidden spots, so I've given up bothering with them. To replenish my flock every year I simply have to find a pile of guinea feathers and follow their trail to wherever the predator grabbed the hen off the nest, and I pop those eggs in the incubator. And so life goes on.
. . . But this year, one of my guinea hens decided to do this.
I love how males will watch over their mate.
One of my hens decided to locate her nest on a table in my goose coop - a table housing a broody goose under it, no less. It seemed I finally got a hen who would survive the brooding process. I decided to leave her be and avoid that corner during my goosey chores.
Flash forward almost a month, and suddenly I have hatching goslings and hatching keets, and two mama birds suddenly very aware of the existence of the other and convinced that unless they manage to kill the other, all their hatchlings will be eaten. Which is fine, I figured I'd be needing to move the guinea as soon as anything hatched, anyway, so I was prepared with a dog playpen on my porch and a cat carrier.
. . . Well, not fully prepared, as I learned. Hell hath no fury like a guinea hen with keets. Guinea beaks are no joke - I swear they're 20 times sharper and more powerful than a chicken's, and after a minute of being blinded by a tornado of guinea feathers and talons and being beaten bloody by what felt like 20 million guinea beaks, I finally gave up and ran out of the coop with hydra-guinea close on my heels. Once she was out, I quickly reversed and dove back into the coop, shutting the door behind me. The hen flung herself repeatedly at the bars before calming down enough to just run frantically back and forth before the door. Honestly, I am in awe of the predators brave enough to try a go at snatching a guinea. I don't think I've ever been so terrified of my own poultry. I wound up scooping her nest - keets, as yet unhatched eggs, and all - into the carrier and leaving it open on the table. I then opened the coop and watched from a distance to see if the hen would enter the carrier of her own accord. She did, so I was able to rush back in and close the carrier on her. I then deposited the carrier within the pen on my porch, and spent a good few minutes nerving myself up to remove the door from the carrier. I finally did it, but not without the battle scars to prove it. I'm risking my life every time I reach in to change out food and water.
This is not a happy hen. If ever I disappear from BYC, someone please let my mother know I've been mauled to death by a guinea.
At the time of moving her, she only had a couple of keets hatched. She sat on the nest a couple more days, hatching more keets the entire time, before officially leaving it, but it's been so warm that several of the eggs continued to hatch for a couple of days after she had quit sitting on them. Almost a week later I had a handful of keets hatch from some eggs I had in an incubator, and I decided to toss them in with the mother guinea. She immediately accepted them - right after trying to tear my arm off my body for daring to hold keets. Altogether she's now raising 21 keets. What's truly impressive is how they all manage to fit under her at night.
It's like a guinea version of a clown car.
I've never had a guinea successfully hatch her own keets before, and it's very sweet if you can get past the thought that the hen is planning to murder you every moment you spend watching her family. Her mate, the white male, spent a day frantically searching for her by the goose coop before finally figuring out where she's moved to, and since then he spends his days on guard duty, sitting on one of our porch chairs or standing by the pen and tidbitting. Male guineas remind me so much more of geese than chickens sometimes, in that they seem to want to be much more involved in the raising of the young. The more I watch guineas overall, the more I'm convinced people are unobservant and full of hogwash when they say guineas are stupid.
I'm waiting on a tarp to finish up a hoop coop I've been building, and then I'll be moving the family into there until I think the keets are old enough to not immediately die from being led off through dew filled grass. The mornings are still chilly and wet here, and while I'm willing to accept some predator loss, it's simply beyond my ability to accept losses due to dew. I am a bit at a loss though; with this batch of guineas I'm way over my preferred limit. I don't know whether I should try selling or giving them away, or if there are even people around here wanting keets. I'm also curious to see if guinea-raised keets are better able to survive than their brooder-raised counterparts. I might have put more thought into this if I'd known quite how successful she'd be at hatching her own clutch. Still, it's been interesting.
Everyone involved will be happier once the new hoop coop is ready.
. . . But this year, one of my guinea hens decided to do this.
I love how males will watch over their mate.
One of my hens decided to locate her nest on a table in my goose coop - a table housing a broody goose under it, no less. It seemed I finally got a hen who would survive the brooding process. I decided to leave her be and avoid that corner during my goosey chores.
Flash forward almost a month, and suddenly I have hatching goslings and hatching keets, and two mama birds suddenly very aware of the existence of the other and convinced that unless they manage to kill the other, all their hatchlings will be eaten. Which is fine, I figured I'd be needing to move the guinea as soon as anything hatched, anyway, so I was prepared with a dog playpen on my porch and a cat carrier.
. . . Well, not fully prepared, as I learned. Hell hath no fury like a guinea hen with keets. Guinea beaks are no joke - I swear they're 20 times sharper and more powerful than a chicken's, and after a minute of being blinded by a tornado of guinea feathers and talons and being beaten bloody by what felt like 20 million guinea beaks, I finally gave up and ran out of the coop with hydra-guinea close on my heels. Once she was out, I quickly reversed and dove back into the coop, shutting the door behind me. The hen flung herself repeatedly at the bars before calming down enough to just run frantically back and forth before the door. Honestly, I am in awe of the predators brave enough to try a go at snatching a guinea. I don't think I've ever been so terrified of my own poultry. I wound up scooping her nest - keets, as yet unhatched eggs, and all - into the carrier and leaving it open on the table. I then opened the coop and watched from a distance to see if the hen would enter the carrier of her own accord. She did, so I was able to rush back in and close the carrier on her. I then deposited the carrier within the pen on my porch, and spent a good few minutes nerving myself up to remove the door from the carrier. I finally did it, but not without the battle scars to prove it. I'm risking my life every time I reach in to change out food and water.
This is not a happy hen. If ever I disappear from BYC, someone please let my mother know I've been mauled to death by a guinea.
At the time of moving her, she only had a couple of keets hatched. She sat on the nest a couple more days, hatching more keets the entire time, before officially leaving it, but it's been so warm that several of the eggs continued to hatch for a couple of days after she had quit sitting on them. Almost a week later I had a handful of keets hatch from some eggs I had in an incubator, and I decided to toss them in with the mother guinea. She immediately accepted them - right after trying to tear my arm off my body for daring to hold keets. Altogether she's now raising 21 keets. What's truly impressive is how they all manage to fit under her at night.
It's like a guinea version of a clown car.
I've never had a guinea successfully hatch her own keets before, and it's very sweet if you can get past the thought that the hen is planning to murder you every moment you spend watching her family. Her mate, the white male, spent a day frantically searching for her by the goose coop before finally figuring out where she's moved to, and since then he spends his days on guard duty, sitting on one of our porch chairs or standing by the pen and tidbitting. Male guineas remind me so much more of geese than chickens sometimes, in that they seem to want to be much more involved in the raising of the young. The more I watch guineas overall, the more I'm convinced people are unobservant and full of hogwash when they say guineas are stupid.
I'm waiting on a tarp to finish up a hoop coop I've been building, and then I'll be moving the family into there until I think the keets are old enough to not immediately die from being led off through dew filled grass. The mornings are still chilly and wet here, and while I'm willing to accept some predator loss, it's simply beyond my ability to accept losses due to dew. I am a bit at a loss though; with this batch of guineas I'm way over my preferred limit. I don't know whether I should try selling or giving them away, or if there are even people around here wanting keets. I'm also curious to see if guinea-raised keets are better able to survive than their brooder-raised counterparts. I might have put more thought into this if I'd known quite how successful she'd be at hatching her own clutch. Still, it's been interesting.
Everyone involved will be happier once the new hoop coop is ready.
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