Evil Guinea

Blood seeped from my lip.  It mixed with tears as I cried and screamed for Mommy to come help me. 

That nasty bird screeched and made another run, but darted back when it was within kicking distance.  I was fixated on its wrinkled blue head and burning eyes.  It stooped to the ground, arching its wing feathers behind.  The screeching was ear piercing and incessant. 

“Mommy!  The guinea bit me!  Mommy, help!”  I bawled.

“Come on Tim, it’s just a guinea.  Kick it, or something,” Mommy shouted from somewhere near, but just out of sight. 

Feathers flashed and filled my field of vision.  The claws and wings beat against my arms as I guarded my face.  I was screaming.

The guinea dropped low and retreated as Mommy rounded the corner, sighing and frustrated.

“That bird is less than half your size.  You have to be tough.  Go after him!” she berated, her arm extended, pointing at the evil guinea. 

I wanted to, but couldn't stop crying.  Sniffling hard, I took a step toward the guinea.  It darted at me again, screeching and brandishing its claws and wings.  Instinctively, I recoiled and screamed.  The guinea laughed at me, menacingly.  I was terrified and shamed all at once.

Mommy leaned over me, pulling my chin up to meet her eyes.  “Timmy, you can’t….  Is that blood?”  

Mommy’s eyes changed from frustration to anger.  I was scared.  

“The guinea bit me!”

“You’re bleeding?  It got you in the face?  Doug!”

“Yeah?” Daddy answered from over by the fire.

“The guinea rooster bit Tim.  He’s bleeding.”

“He’s bleeding?”

Daddy and Mommy were soon standing over me, examining my lip, and suspiciously eyeing the bird.

“I’ll clean him up,” said Daddy.  “Come on Tim.  Mommy will take care of the guinea.”  I followed, tears and snot flowing.  I looked back at Mommy, who was standing, watching the birds.

The warm wash cloth felt good.  Daddy explained that it was only a scratch.  After a kiss on the forehead, he started digging around in the kitchen cabinets and drawers.  Curious as I was about what Daddy was going after, I wondered most about what Mommy was doing outside.

I cracked the back door and peeked out.  Mommy was stalking the guineas.  She trapped the evil one in the corner of the fence.  When she leaned in to grab it, the guinea cackled and flapped up and over her shoulder, getting away.

“Mommy, don’t let the guinea get me!”  I shouted from behind the cover of the door.

Eyes fixed on the bird, she answered, “Timmy, this bird isn't worried about you right now.  He’s worried about me.  He won’t bother you.” 

I ventured out onto the back steps, but still a little fearful, I wrapped my arms around Sophie and rested my head on the big old dog’s sloping back.  Sophie was as interested as I in what Mommy was up to.  We both sat quietly together, watching.

It happened.  Mommy was crouched on the ground.  Feathers fluttered and the guinea squeaked.  When she stood, the bird squirmed and struggled to get free.  It squawked, scolding and unknowing of what was about to happen. 

Mommy’s elbow came up and the bird’s body was making circles in the air around Mommy’s shoulder and arm.  The wings flapped awkwardly when Mommy laid the guinea’s body on the ground.  She stepped on its head and pulled up on the feet.  The headless guinea dangled there from her hand, dripping.

“Mommy!  You pulled its head off!” I gasped.

Mommy came up and looked me in the eye.  She was serious and solemn.

“Timmy, if anyone ever hurts you, you tell me or Daddy.  We will take care of it.” 

“You’ll kill them?”  I asked.

“Not usually, but we will make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“Okay,” I said.  “I want the feathers?  Can I have the feathers?”

Daddy stepped out and handed a knife to Mommy.  “Do you want to use tin foil?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Maybe,” Mommy responded.  “I was thinking of just propping that old grill grate above the fire and cooking it like that.”

“I can do that.  It will take some rigging up,” he said.

“How about you work on that while I clean the bird?  It will take me about that long.”

“Okay,” Daddy said with a smile.

I watched Mommy hang the bird by the feet from the fence of the hog pen.  June Bug snorted and sniffed with expectation.  Mommy tossed her scraps of bird skin and guts.  Occasionally Mommy handed be bunches of pretty spotted feathers.  The feet were left on “as handles.”

The bird cooked up beautifully on Daddy’s makeshift grill over the campfire.  Even though they fumbled a bit and dropped the bird in the coals once, the meat was so juicy and flavorful we didn't mind.  We picked over that carcass like cavemen, according to Daddy.  Like zombies, according to Mommy.  Like a family, to me.