Saturday morning I drove our two Guinea hens down to Connecticut to be re-homed. A reader (thank you, Georgette) knew of someone; Dick, who raised Guineas as a hobby and who was willing to take my pair. I had decided to send both birds because I thought it would be easier on the pair if they went together.
Marc got a cardboard box from our Tractor Supply Store and after about 20 minutes of chasing our Guineas around the pen (seriously, an oiled-up pig has nothing on Guinea hens) I finally caught them (and if truth be told, re-caught them after they escaped several times) and then loaded them into the box. They went into the car and I set out on my way.
It was a 2 hour drive, a trip I was willing to take if it meant my birds would go to a nice home.
As a point of interest, during the drive my Guineas settled down right away to the CD of James Taylor and Carole King but I had to turn John Denver’s Calypso off (not that I really blame them, it definitely wasn’t one of his best) as it seemed to get them too excited.
If I were a serial killer, I thought to myself, as I started driving through rural Connecticut, I might put up an ad asking for people’s extra Guinea hens. This I thought to myself after having sat through 3 hours of Criminal Minds with my sons the night before. You’d have an endless supply of victims once the birds reached puberty and neighbors started complaining about how noisy they were.
I made sure once again, that Marc had the address and contact information of where I was going. Continue reading