“Our last two babies” . . . .

Two guinea moms who have been tag team partners in building a nest, laying their eggs, and now hovering over their newly hatched keets, have had a long slog.  They arrived in the yard one evening three weeks ago with what can only be described as “a mess o’keets!”  A brown mass of twenty-some tiny guineas, barely bigger than bumblebees, was flowing through the “forest” of grass near the garden shed.  All were striving valiantly to keep up with the two guinea moms leading the parade, their little stick legs pumping hard and heads bobbing just above the overgrown grass which had not been cut in a week.

“Hey, where is everybody?” . . . .

Our consternation at the sheer volume of babies was heightened by the knowledge we had no control over the situation.  Previous attempts to capture the keets and raise them in the brooder house have met with mixed results.  The guinea hens wanted desperately to escape the confines of the brooder house and had to be turned loose, sans babies. We raised healthy birds, but their knowledge for survival and ability to assimilate with the older guineas was inhibited.  Not to mention, trying to catch the little devils is about as easy as trying to catch a baby pronghorn–they are born to run!  Vivid memories of thrashing around on the ground with a fishing net or plastic tub to capture and get my hands on the little critters overtook my impulse to “save” them once again.

“Dinner time” . . . .

We created watering stations in a couple of locations where the group entered and exited the yard each day, and left a feeder with chick starter granules thinking the little ones would soon starve without something to eat.  We observed they seemed to be eating what the adults ate– insects, spilled seed from the bird feeders, and smaller pieces of scratch grains that we throw to the adult birds.  Each day we attempted to get an accurate count and it appeared the group was experiencing some attrition.  Each evening the guinea moms would depart for the sagebrush and tall grass outside the boundaries of the yard, taking the little ones with them for the night.  They seemed to vary the destination, but we never knew for certain where they spent the night.  The rest of the adult guineas roost in a grove of spruce trees inside the yard where they are relatively safe.

“Better keep up!” . . . .

The morning this photograph was taken was somewhat depressing.  Rosie, our dog had barked incessantly through the night, and several times the guineas roosting in the spruce grove erupted in frantic chatter.  I went out with a flashlight but could not detect what was causing the ruckus.  Rosie didn’t offer up any useful information, so I went back to bed. Next morning the baby guinea population had been reduced by half.  We could do nothing but wring our hands and worry each evening when the little troop traveled into the brush. Predators of all kinds awaited them and have decimated the keets to just two remaining.

“It’s time to fly” . . . .

Last evening we were enjoying a fire outdoors on the patio and noticed the guineas were behaving differently.  They were circling a giant spruce where they roost in the winter months as it affords more protection from the snow and cold.  The two remaining keets were attempting to jump onto the low hanging branches of the tree.  Round and round they went, leaping and falling and trying again.  They now have just enough wing feathers to give them loft and tiny as they are, they finally succeeded in reaching a low branch that allowed them to ascend the tree to higher elevation.

” I think I could use a bigger branch!” . . . .

As we watched in amazement, we wondered what prompted the decision to change their routine.  Had the keets somehow demonstrated their ability to climb a tree?  Did the guinea hens know they were ready?  Were they desperate to save the last two keets from harm?  The group collectively seemed to know it was time and moved en masse to the giant spruce, circling patiently as the little ones tried their luck at roosting for the first time.

Tucked in for the night . . . .

There was no chatter from the giant spruce tree last night.  I worried that the little keets would fall out of the tree and tried to imagine how their tiny feet could grasp a branch all night and stay aloft.  At dawn, I heard them down on the lawn and went to the window to see if I could find the little ones.  They were grazing in the grass with the rest, hopping and strutting along as they embraced a new day.  Their trials and tribulations are not yet over and as the flock departs for the day, they will have to cover the same ground that stretches for over a mile of sagebrush prairie and tall grasses in the creek bottom, catching grasshoppers and whatever else they can find for a meal on the move.  Hopefully they will all return this evening to roost safely for the night.

Got lumps? . . . .

Disguised in a bumpy exterior, Ted tries to hide from notice and blend in with the rocks surrounding his favorite water hole.  His ubiquitous presence in the flower beds, rock gardens and even on the front porch became so common we took him for granted and had lengthy conversations with him as we watered, weeded and wandered around the yard.

“These pine cones are prickly!” . . . .

A bed of pine cones resting between two huge Ponderosa pine trees seems an unlikely spot for Ted, but he is full of surprises.  I never know when I will rest my hand on the ground while pulling weeds and he will suddenly hop into the air near my finger tips, startling me and eliciting a loud yell of surprise.

“Hey, that water is cold!”

Ted loves a bath in the old rock, but he likes his water a bit more temperate.  Not realizing he was lurking in the corner, I filled the rock with cold, fresh water.  The look he gave me says a lot.

“Ah, morning rays to warm me up!” . . . .

Ted appears to have gained some weight – he looks much larger splayed out on the rocks in the early morning sun.  We decided he is just expanding to catch more sunlight.  I don’t know what the reaction will be if he suddenly decides to hatch a bunch of little Teds.  A trove of toads?

“Don’t make waves!” . . . .

I shall miss my Ted talks when he leaves us for the annual hibernation.  A guy with this much personality leaves a void, you know?

The Rooster Crows! . . . .

Cromwell, our resident rooster, had a Father’s Day gift that has the chicken yard all aflutter.  When his significant other, Miss Betty White, went broody and spent her days sitting in their little house we assumed she was just tired of his attentions and wanted some peace and quiet.  And who could blame her?

We returned from a trip to our cabin at Red Feather to discover Betty White had a surprise. Joyce, our caregiver, had to go to great lengths to prevent Cromwell from any rooster-like behavior and interference with the new brood that had arrived unexpectedly.  She nailed up a piece of screen to keep Betty White and her new babies out of harm’s way until we returned to figure out what to do next.

Homegrown baby chicks . . . .

I had acquired 11 baby chicks of various breeds and colors in the spring from the feed store, and the addition of these six little cuties was going to be interesting, to say the least.  Betty White and her chicks would have to move to the brooder house where the older chicks were residing, which meant they too had to move . . . . . somewhere?  I had not planned to move them into the larger chicken house until autumn when they would begin to lay eggs. Cromwell of course would have to stay put and remain lord over his manor, without his consort Betty White and her progeny.

Moving day was fraught with peril.  I had to first catch the pullets one by one and hand them off to hubby and grandson Seamus to be hauled to “the big house.” The first one went pretty easy, and then chaos erupted.  Catching eleven very lively young chickens is not something I would recommend.  After the dust had settled and all eleven had been transported, I cleaned out the brooder house to prepare for the new occupants.

Cromwell came next.  I planned to lure him into the neighboring goose pen and lock him in their shed so that I could move Betty White and her chicks.  Cromwell by this time is very excited and defensive.  The squawking of the young chickens being torn from their lair next door was enough to get his adrenaline going. Before I knew it, he had me trapped between the propane tank and the fence. To describe the skirmish that went on would be believable only to those who have owned a rooster.  It astonished our grandson, who hasn’t been able to speak about it since.  I finally recovered my wits, and the big stick I carry when dealing with Cromwell, and got him under control and relocated.

It would seem that dealing with a rooster would be the most formidable of tasks in this whole operation, but have you ever dealt with a mother hen with a new batch of baby chicks?  I pulled off the slats and screen covering the doorway and tried to lure her out.  No way.  Her feathers were bristled and she was making a strange, growling noise as she darted about hiding her chicks.  She pecked at me when I tried to steer her out the door. Finally, there was nothing else to do but go in and grab her. Out came a bundle of shrieking, biting, clawing chicken and the feathers flew.  I had only one leg which allowed her to go into every contortion imaginable, twisting and flopping and flying at me.  I threw her into the brooder house and closed the door as she hurled herself against it.

I retrieved three chicks in the first swoop.  Fortunately, they were huddled in the corner completely traumatized.  They are lightning fast even at two days old, and if they escaped out into the pen I would never catch them!  The next three were still huddled and easy to catch.  Opening the door to the brooder house meant dealing with Betty White again, and I made fast work of tossing her babies in and shutting the door quickly as she raged against it.

Meanwhile, life in “the big house” was a question mark.  I had no idea whether the older hens would accept this invasion of eleven young pullets who were not yet old enough and big enough to defend themselves very well.  I was braced for the worst. Chickens have a pecking order which is physical as well as literal.

Princesses of Dry Creek . . . .

Later that evening I went to check on the pullets, and they were already up on the big roost.  No integration with the older hens had occurred, and likely wouldn’t, but they seemed to get into the stride of things right off.  They were settled in for the night.

Queens of Dry Creek . . . .

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the roost, the older hens were very unsettled.  Some were curious, some turned their backs on the newcomers, some were wandering around as if they couldn’t make up their minds to go to bed for the night.  Ah well, they too were young once and had to make their way with the older hens who reigned in “the big house.”

Source: Wild In Winter