We're down to nine guineas. We haven't suffered any massacres yet, but something about the cooler weather does seem to bring the predators creeping out again. It seems that after each death lately, the guineas all decide to roost in the chicken house for a few nights, but this pattern hasn't stuck for the long term. After a few nights of safety, they regain their confidence and head for the trees again. I feel a little guilty because I heard one of them getting snatched the other night, and I didn't bother to get out of bed and do anything about it. In my defense, I have leapt out of bed countless times, heart pounding, running around in the dark and the cold with a dim flashlight responding to guinea alarm calls, only to find nothing apparently wrong. The two times I have actually encountered a predator (an owl and a raccoon), my presence seemed hardly to faze them. I may have temporarily put a hitch in their plans, but I could tell they were just waiting for me to tire and go back to bed so they could resume their business. In the end, I've decided that I have done my duty by providing a pen and a house for protection, but it is the guineas who must decide to take advantage of it, or take their chances.

Speaking of predators, we had a weird encounter with some local wildlife the other night. After eating dinner, Joe and I were sitting in bed watching a movie when we heard some strange noises from the front porch. I've mostly been desensitized to outdoor noises as lately they invariably turn out to be our neighbors' dog come for his nightly visit, but this noise was less gallumphing and more subtle. I turned on the porch light and  shone the flashlight around the yard, but all I saw was Wilson in the garden, looking off towards the chicken pen. I called him inside, which he happily came, but after getting his seizure drugs and subsequent treats, he wanted to go outside again. Moments later, we heard more noises, as if someone was trying to reorganize the junk under our house. Joe investigated this time and came a minute later to tell me "There's a dead opossum under the house, and Wilson is trying to get to it."

By the time I'd put my robe on and we'd stepped back on the porch again, Wilson had gotten the opossum and pulled him out into the yard. Wilson was standing back away from the opossum, looking confused. The opossum did appear to be dead, but after watching him for a second we could see him breathing. Wilson had apparently only been interested in a dead opossum and wanted no part of a live one, so he left the scene. The opossum was sporting a wound in its side, presumably incurred by being drug around by a hound dog's mouth, although I'm no judge as to whether or not it was a fatal wound.

After debating for a minute or two what the best course of action would be, Joe managed to scoot the beast into a bucket. The opossum put up no fight, maintaining his illusion of deadness to the end (although maybe he was near to dying for all I know), although Joe said he did turn his head to look at him as he was being scooted into the bucket. Luckily, it was a bucket with a lid, so we put him in the car and drove him a mile or so away to a large area of woods by some roadside dumpsters. When Joe released him from the bucket, he did get up and slowly walk/wobble off into the woods. When we got back home, I went straight to he chicken pen to close everyone up. All was quiet the rest of the night, and I slept like a baby.