Fowl Play

I didn’t mean to put out a “hit” contract on the guinea hen. But I did. Such is life in the semi-rural, but too near big towns to really feel rural, place I live.

It was a cold day with a wind that could only be described as cranky. My husband was still out of state; so dog-walking duties fell to me both as the sun rose and as it sank. I enjoy the exercise since Booker, our husky, is a joyous sort. He checks every fresh “Pee-Mail,” chases tumbling leaves, and sets a goal of riling each family’s dog on our route.

On the day of the unintentional snuff-contract, our walk went predictably smooth. As we turned back into our driveway Booker lifted his nose into the air and started running with a force that dragged me forward. Huskies, for the record, like to pull. Sleds, surprised and off-balance humans, whatever. Pulling is pulling. As I attempted to gain control I scanned the area looking for the cause of his interest. Nothing seemed out of order, so I released him into our fenced backyard.

A few minutes later I looked out our kitchen window and saw he was standing on his hind feet, front paws on the top of chain link fence, and looking towards my husband’s workshop. He was also whining, which is unusual for him, so I put my boots back on to take a look around.

When I rounded the corner I heard a noise that can be best described as rusted metal rubbing on rusted metal. Then I saw the head of a large bird bobbing up and down in the rafters of the porch. At first I thought a young turkey was taking refuge from the weather, but then as I got a better look I realized it was a guinea hen. We stared at each other for a while as neither of us knew what to do next.

The hen looked healthy, but lost. In my world, when in doubt, feed it. Food is the great Band-Aid. I gathered sunflower seeds and spread them near the bird. She—I’m assuming the sex—watched cautiously and hunkered down. Although I wouldn’t say she was scared, she didn’t trust me either. Meanwhile Booker held his vigil from a safe distance, entranced.

That evening, when my husband called, I told him about the visitor. He suggested I contact a particular neighbor to inquire if he was missing any fowl. That made sense because said neighbor’s chickens have, on occasion, found their way into our yard as well.

“Why do you suppose his animals like us so much?” I ventured.

“Because you feed everything,” was my husband’s response.

Guilty.

I left a message on our neighbor’s phone and went about my night. The next morning Booker was still on high alert. I had to keep him on a short leash as we ventured out for our walk because he wanted, very badly, to have a confrontation with the guinea hen.

She, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed. Cocking her head, she walked around the porch’s handrail as if we were merely props in her unfolding story. I couldn’t tell if she had eaten any of the sunflower seeds, but didn’t feel there was much more I could do to entice her.

Later that morning the phone rang. It was our neighbor.

“Gail, you won’t have to worry anymore about the guinea hen.”

“Oh, hi. I wasn’t worried, I just wanted to know where it belonged.”

“It was ours, sort of. A friend gave us two guinea hens because they’re supposed to be good woodtick eaters. I had them with our chickens for a while, but one day they escaped and took off into the woods. I’ve never been able to catch them. I thought they had died until you called.”

“I’ve heard guinea hens are wanderers.”

“Not anymore. As I said, it won’t bother you again. I doubt you’ll see the other one, but if it comes around let me know and I’ll kill it too. ”

As I hung up the phone I felt sad. While our relationship was brief, I thought the hen had a kind, knowing, face. My intention was to get it back home; back to a safe and snug refuge from spring’s moody weather. Instead I had ratted the poor thing out and brought a swift death.

The next time my husband called I told him the story.

“I feel horrible,” I said. “I don’t like being the conduit of death.”

There was a hefty pause before he said, “Yeah, particularly since you cared enough to give it a last meal.” My anguish grew.

Forgive me guinea hen, I knew not what I did.