Foul Fowl

Don't, just don't say, "Aw sweet!"

That’s it, I’m done with guinea fowl. I realize given the proliferation of guinea fowl posts over the years that you may not believe me, but it’s true.
Aside from the shredded lawn, the destroyed borders, the quantities of poo and the littering of feathers, we’ve worked out it has cost us the same as a 10 day holiday on a tropical island to keep the beasts content. And for this largesse, what do we get? A lot of dead keets - and savagery.
Yes, savagery.
Enter Rupert the Guinea Fowl.

Rupert the Foul

Rupert has hung out in the garden for the last three years. He arrived as young bird; alone and frightened. Gradually he grew in confidence. He helped out with other guineas keets in the breeding season. He became a stalwart defender of his territory. He took to standing around on the patio table. He demanded, ultimately, his own feeding patch. Oh yes, he grew in stature and confidence.
He tamed a little too – he’d venture close to get a good look at the human who fed him. He’d witter and converse and honestly, as much I was inclined to think of him as Stupid Rupert (because let’s face it, how much brain can there be in that tiny head to manage so much bird), I grew rather fond of him.
But then Rupert found a wife. And then there were keets. 17 of them. All hatched on the last day of the decade.

Papa Rupert and Kids

Having already taken the decision that the Guinea Fowl Inn was closing for business, we were not delighted. Keets don’t flourish in this garden. I suspect years of birds and squirrels has seen a rise of pathogens which wipes them out. So we didn’t encourage them and were delighted when after a day they found the gap between gate and wall and headed into the big wide world.
Sighs of relief all round.

What's that? Is it a berry or a stone? Can we eat it?

"D'ya think there bugs in the cracks, dear?"

Mr and Mrs Rupert, snoozing en famille

But then they came back.
And the bravest one decided on an adventure - an adventure which took him through the tiny hole in the back gate, separating him from his family and resulting in the loudest imaginable peeping. (How so much noise can come from something so small is beyond me.)
Nevertheless, it was Guinea Fowl Goddess to the rescue. For my sins. Which are evidently plentiful.
As I bent down to rescue the small peep, a dark shape leapt on the wall. An angry shape. A shape with wings extended and heckling as though we’d hit the End Times at speed and in a foul mood.
“Bugger off, Rupert,” I snapped, “Don’t be such an arse, I’m trying to help.”
He was having none of it.
He launched himself at me.
Let me assure you there is nothing quite like an enraged guinea fowl coming in for the kill.
He opened his beak and shrieked. He extended his claws and his neck and attacked.
I grabbed a stick to beat him off as he flung himself at me first from the wall, then from the ground, then again from the wall, all the while screaming abominable insults and curses, which I daren’t repeat.
I screamed back, of course. In the interests of decency, I can’t repeat what I said either.
I finally shooed him off, rescued the keet and trotted out to the driveway to return it to its parents.
A thank you?
Not a chance.
Rupert, beside himself with fury, puffed himself up and flew at me again, bellowing obscenities.
I returned them with equal measure, picked up a pebble and flung it at the beast.
“HEEEECK!” screeched Rupert.
I brandished a branch at him and roared.
“SCREE-EECH!” he echoed as he dived over the wall.
“That'll teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you!” I snapped, and called him several unmentionable names.
Rupert and family cleared out the next day.
But guinea fowl have short memories and two days later they were back - and successfully managed to lose three adventuring keets in the back garden.

Three little keets are we...filled to the brim with keetish glee...
(I hope you know your Gilbert and Sullivan.)

After two hours of peeping, I took pity, grabbed the yard broom and set off to the rescue.
Rupert heckled once. I brandished the broom at him.
“Don’t!” I snarled, “Just don’t…even…think…about it!”
He squawked, muttered and vanished over the wall while I herded the keets to the driveway and through the hole in the wall.
Let’s hope that that’s the end of it.
Otherwise I do have a very nice French recipe for guinea fowl stew.

Nap-time with Papa Rupert