When I was in my 20’s and friends talked about wanting to have children, I’d get very uncomfortable and try to change the subject. I felt no maternal instinct and worried that if anyone knew, they’d think I was weird and heartless. But when I started raising Japanese quail in my early 40’s and witnessed tiny, vulnerable chicks coming out of their shells, a powerful desire to protect and nurture them came over me, and I felt maternal.

For the next twenty years I hatched and raised more than a dozen quail, loving every minute of it. In September of 2024, I branched out and bought six Wisconsin Bobwhite Quail eggs, a new species for me. Unlike the Japanese quail eggs, which are covered with brown speckles, these were white, like chicken eggs.

They should have hatched in the incubator by day 23, but when nothing happened by day 24, I decided, with a heavy heart, that I’d turn the incubator off the next morning and throw away the eggs. But as I got ready to go to bed that night, I looked in one more time and saw one of the eggs rocking. I froze. Then I noticed a second one rocking. Over the next few hours, I watched a little beak peck a line of tiny holes that circled the top of the egg, forming a cap. The tiny chick pushed it open, revealing its round, slimy head, then kicked and squirmed until its gooey, feathered body and legs were fully out of the shell.

            As I watched this miracle of life occur, tears rolled down my cheeks. The little thing flopped around and eventually got onto its feet. The other eggs hadn’t moved yet, but the first chick looked stable, so I made sure the temperature was at the prescribed 99.5 degrees F and went to bed.

In the morning, I found 2 more little hatchlings walking around, trying to get their sticky feathers fluffed up. Once they were fully dry, I could move them to the brooder, the large plastic box set up with a heat lamp.

The hatchlings would stay inside in the brooder for 4-6 weeks, until they were strong enough to live in the cages outside.

In the first week I spent hours watching them learn to walk, peck at their high protein crumble, and huddle together to sleep. They seemed to be thriving, but at the beginning of week two, I noticed blood on the toes of two of them. What happened? When I took them out to rinse off the blood, I discovered that one of them was missing a toe. How did this happen? Did they step on something sharp??

I watched them closely for the next ten minutes and saw that the one chick with no blood on its feet, was pecking at its siblings’ toes! “What are you doing, you little cannable?” It was too early to determine gender, but I named him Hannibal and quickly set up a second brooder for him. “You’re banished! No more companions for you, little bully.”

When they were fully grown at five weeks, I transferred them outside to their cages. My husband asked if Hannibal was ever going to be reunited with his sisters.

“Absolutely not. He’s too mean.” I refused to subject my two sweet females, whom I’d named Audrey and Grace, to that kind of danger. Hannibal would have to live alone. His cage was right next to theirs so he could see them. That would have to do.

This arrangement worked out well for about six months, then Hannibal started making these piercing, high-volume calls. It literally sounded like he was screeching “Bob White!” and he repeated this for hours.

I worried my husband would be annoyed, but I worried more about our neighbors calling Animal Control. I wasn’t even sure if it was legal to have Wisconsin Bobwhite quail on your front porch, especially with all the bird flus going around.

What if he never shuts up? Should I just set him free? No, if I did that, I’d feel guilty for putting him in danger. Quails don’t fly well, so a coyote or hawk could easily eat him, and I didn’t want that on my conscious. What am I supposed to do? I tried putting a towel over his cage so he couldn’t see his sisters but that only worked for a few hours because he’s no dummy. He knew they were still there.

I did a Google search, “Will my Bobwhite quail ever stop yelling?” I learned that April and May are mating season, and the males are especially nosy during this time. Oh, good, he should be quieting down soon. But June came and his yelling continued.

I did a little more research and learned that males are quieter if they’re with the females. I had to do something; he was driving me nuts, so I reluctantly put him with Audrey and Grace, totally prepared to pull him right back out. All he did was run around and ignore the girls, and his crazy calling stopped. It seemed too good to be true. Two days later his mating calls resumed, which I thought was pretty rude since he had two lovely ladies right there.

On the third day I went out to clean their cage and found blood all over Audrey’s legs. I immediately scooped her out, rinsed off her wounds. Once she was safe, I swooped Hannibal out and locked him in his original cage. Of course, the mating calls continued. I discovered that if I moved him into one of the spare cages, he’d stop calling, but that would only last about an hour, so I was moving him a dozen times a day, which was a nuisance as well as a danger because every time I reached for him, he’d try to fly out. A big part of me wanted to let him “accidentally” fly off and find a new home on the grassy hill nearby, but that would mean I was heartless, right? I felt guilty because I brought him into this world, but he was miserable and he was making me miserable. It was all my fault.

A few more days passed. I rushed out to move him every few hours, starting at 5:30am, and worried about leaving the house for very long because he was such a nuisance.

One afternoon I went out to move him, and as I reached in to get him, he did his usual desperate flurry, and before I knew it, he was loose, running toward the natal plum bushes in front of our house. I lunged for him, but he was too quick. He disappeared into the thorny bushes. I’d lost quail in these bushes before and knew that once they get in there it’s impossible to get them back.

I sat down on the porch and took a deep breath. Maybe this is the answer to my problem. Am I okay with losing him? Maybe. Am I heartless? I went inside, told Don what happened and started crying. He gave me a hug.

That evening, I heard his distinctive call. Ugh!! He’s back. I ran outside and saw him in a tree. “Fly away, you’re free!”

But he didn’t go away. He sat in that tree and called for his mates throughout the night. Why doesn’t he leave? He’s going to starve to death in that tree, and it will be my fault. I’m a terrible person. I’m never hatching eggs again.

First thing, the next morning I went out with the broom, hoping to nudge him out of the tree, but as soon as I stepped out, I saw him standing on the porch.  Before I could grab him, our dog Morty came running out and tried to eat him, but his Puggle mouth wasn’t quite big enough. Hannibal hurried toward the bushes and stopped, so I reached for him, but he took off around the side of the house to the backyard with Morty close behind. Morty chased him back onto the front porch  and I was able to catch him and put him back in his cage.

He looked stunned, but unharmed. I too, was stunned, but not unharmed. My arms were covered with bloody scratches from the thorny bushes.

For the next week I continued to manage his loud calling by moving him from cage to cage every couple of hours, but he was relentless. I had to find him a proper home, where he could run around with multiple female quails. I called a quail farm I’d been to in Sun Valley, and Hutch, the middle-aged Armenian guy who owned the place, said he could take Hannibal. 

I carefully reached into his cage for the last time, transferred him to a small dog crate and drove him to the farm. The barn was clean, and the quail and chickens had plenty of room, so I knew he’d be okay. I handed the crate to Hutch, and he released Hannibal into the flock. I thanked him and headed for my car. Once inside my lower lip started to quiver and my eyes filled with tears. I’d done the right thing, but still, I felt guilty and a little heartless.