Guineas eat ticks. Twenty-five guineas free range in our backyard soley because of their peculiar niche in the food chain. During the cooler months arachnids are scarce, so almost daily I scatter cracked corn along a strip of ground now bald from years of guinea pecking and scratching. Usually, the vigilant birds are watching for me and they gather around in a chattering crowd while I drop the grain. Sometimes they are foraging in the nearby woods when I come out of the house and I have to call, “Here silly birds, come silly birds,” to get their attention. They know my voice and, therefore, my purpose. Minutes later they come running in a line from the woods in anticipation of the easy meal.
After feeding the guineas I walk beyond their roosting house to the chicken house. The chickens in the fenced-in yard see me coming and run from the yard into the chicken house. Before going in I set the bucket of feed aside and get out 3 slices of white bread from the bag I always keep with the chicken food. I have the bread ready as I open the chicken house door because I know they’ll be waiting. I turn the golden knob and step inside quickly as I swing the door open to obstruct the exit of Genu and W.C. The hens are not interested in leaving, but are anxious for the soft white bread. They eat out of my hand as I ease through the doorway. I scatter bread crumbs to the four other birds who do not come as close. Eventually Genu and W.C. also move away to scratch up bread from the chicken house floor. Before I leave I check the automatic feed hopper, top off the water and gather eggs.
My husband, Frank, knows this routine, so on the March Sunday that I needed to take our daughter to her swim meet I said, “Don’t forget to feed the birds. Remember, Genu and W.C. will be waiting at the door for you. If you don’t walk in with their bread they may walk out.”
“No problem,” he replied casually.
That evening as we caught up on the news of the day I asked how the feeding had gone. “The guineas didn’t recognize me, so I put the food out, but they didn’t come,” he reported.
“Did you call ‘here silly birds, here silly birds’?” I asked.
“Well, no,” he confessed with a doubtful glance at me. “Then, of course, Stripey was a problem.”
“What did Stripey do?” I asked puzzled by all this chicken trouble.
“He had bad behavior,” Frank said. “He was scratching with his feet.”
“Stripey is a rooster,” I explained still confused about it all. “Roosters scratch with their feet like all chickens.”
“But he paws the ground,” Frank insisted. “He paws the ground like a bull and then lurches toward you. I wanted to give him a kick.”
“No chicken kicking!” I exclaimed. “Stripey is 5 feet shorter than you. Surely you can handle him without a kick. You could snap his wishbone with one swift toe. Absolutely no chicken kicking!”
“Well, we didn’t kick him, but Cabell and I threw bread crumbs at his head all the same,” Frank replied.
During the night I lay awake thinking perhaps I should start a protection group like the Society for the Prevention of Chicken Kicking. In my dreams my good intentions got all tangled up with chicken kicking, finger licking until I had a nightmare about fried chicken. Stripey was in grave danger all right!
The next day I called my sister. I related my story and told her that I was fearful because even peaceful Frank who never hurt anyone almost succumbed to chicken kicking over Stripey. “Stripey doesn’t act nice,” she replied after listening to it all.
“Maybe not,” I rejoined with surprise at her callous attitude, “But he’s only a foot tall and Frank could literally step on him if he took a notion.”
“Come to think of it,” she said, “Maybe Stripey’s shortness even contributes to his attitude problem. Besides, squishing him might be okay. Squishing is not the same as kicking.”
This line of thinking was not helpful, so I gave up on her and called my mother-in-law who is the kindest soul in town. She loves all children and animals. I gave her my SPCK speech and waited for her endorsement.
After a pause she said with a stern voice, “Stripey is not nice. He does jump at the children.” She stopped just shy of offering her full support for giving Stripey a swift kick in the second joint. Overcome by reality I gave up my campaign altogether figuring that if I couldn’t convince the consummate grandmother to defend Stripey it was a hopeless effort.
At work around the coffee pot days later I was cheered up while talking to Mary. She and her husband, Bill, had just ordered 25 chicks to arrive in late March. Ten of them were ours. I had hand picked from the catalogue a variety of female chicks that Bill would order and keep for me until they were old enough to come to my chicken house.
“You know,” Mary said, “The company always puts in one free exotic chicken and Bill says he’ll send that one home with you.”
“Just make sure it is a hen,” I sighed. “No more roosters. Just the other day Frank was complaining about Stripey’s aggressive behavior.”
Oh,” Mary said poking out her right leg, “When the roosters run at Bill he just gives them a little kick.”
Betrayed by another grandmother I could only hang my head and barely whisper, “No chicken kicking.”