I stood by the window this morning and watched as five guineas made their way around the front of the porch and passed by the bird feeder. There should have been ten. It was a solemn march, their usual high pitched squeaks were hushed. Something was wrong.
My investigation took me outside. No sign of the other five. No loud honks between groups of bug grazing guineas in the meadow. I followed a trail of guinea feathers down the driveway, across the road and up into the creek bed.
My heart sunk knowing that at least one of my prized guineas was gone. I made my way back to the pole barn where they all like to roost at night. This had to be the sight of the murder, or was it a massacre.
There was no sign of animal prints, no claw marks on the support beams of the barn. The chickens like to lay eggs in an old dog food bin filled with straw. There smeared across the side was a red streak of blood. A small guinea head laid there beside it, its half closed eyes beseeching me to avenge its death.
It is a mournful time here at PHF. An event such as this is traumatic to say the least. One day my guineas are happily squawking, eating bugs in the tall grasses of the pastures and the next minute we are marauded by a wild animal. I suspect it is a raccoon or a family of raccoons. Either way we have to do something to stop it. We are not a drive through restaurant.
All chickens have been accounted for and I am still hoping that there may be another small group of guineas hiding out in the woods somewhere. This is war Mr. or Ms. Raccoon. Don’t mess with me and mine.