The Christmas Gift?

It has finally happened. We've turned into fowl. Atyllah would be proud of us. Or despairing. Time will tell.

So what, you wonder, am I wittering on about this time. Well, see, it's like this.

There was a tremendous squawking of guinea fowl earlier this evening - the sort of squawking that denotes an alarm. Then all fell silent for a while and then... the most strident peeping started. We assumed that it must be one of the three babies who live in the garden who'd managed to lose itself yet again. So we peeked out the front door and found, running around like little wind-up toys, four tiny, newly-hatched baby guinea fowl. There was no of evidence of a parent in sight and Outstanding Feather (the father of the other babies and named because of his one feather that insists on sticking out of his back instead of lying flat) was wandering around not quite sure what to do. He was alternately pecking the new babies and trying to round them up and they were simply out of control, whizzing back and forth across the driveway, peeping their tiny heads off.

I went off to get my camera to take some shots and as I came down the passage I saw a small creature dash into the kitchen (all the doors have been open all day because it's been a sweltering 33 degrees C). D gathered it up and took it back outside. The next thing, two more popped through the front door and scuttled up the passage to the bathroom. We gathered them up and popped them in a box. We searched for the third in the garden, caught it and popped in with its siblings. There was no sign of the fourth until very loud peeping advised us that there was a small bird under the Christmas tree in the lounge.

Despite hunting high and low, there was no sign of the parents anywhere. We even tried leaving the box on the patio so the mother might come for them - but it was already getting dark and guinea fowl retire early - the other lot were already roosting up in the flowering gum.

So D has now officially become the mother hen. The babies are tucked up in a box with a furry dog hot water bottle (water at blood temperature) and a teddy bear under which they're nesting. Whether they'll make it through the night remains to be seen but at least they're safe and warm.

We reckon they're no more than 24 hours old as they still have their egg tooth and their wings are mere stumps. The reality though is the mortality rate for these little birds is very high and they're subject to all sorts of pathogens. The shock of losing their parent and finding themselves in a strange environment - though they do seem to think D is mum - may well be too much for them. So we'll see whether they're still with us in the morning. If they are... then it will be a feeding regime, hand-rearing and... well, look, just don't call me Chicken - that's Atyllah's territory, not mine.