THE BLOG

What I Wish I Knew Before Raising Coturnix Quail

Jun 23, 2025

Nobody told me these birds would take over my life.
I thought I was signing up for a few eggs and a quirky hobby. What I got was:

  • Olympic-level drama
  • A poop-to-body-size ratio that defies science
  • And the distinct honor of becoming that person with an incubator in her laundry room.

This is everything I wish I knew before getting Coturnix quail. Because it turns out, when you raise birds that mature in six weeks, lay daily, and hatch like popcorn—things escalate.

Fast.

 “They’ll start laying at 6 weeks!” ← Cool story.

You ever hear people say, “They’ll start laying at 6 weeks!”
Yeah. Cool story.
Let me guess—you got your birds, marked the calendar, hit week six, and… nothing.

Same.
What nobody tells you is how specific these little freeloaders are.

If your lighting is off by an hour? They’ll stage a silent protest.
If it’s even a little too cold? They’re out.
If you so much as breathe wrong near the coop? Production pauses.

Turns out, quail don’t just need light—they need a system.

They need 14 to 16 hours of consistent light. Not “sometimes I turn it on” light. Get a solar light (affiliate link) and thank me later.

They also need feed with 20 to 24% protein. Layer feed—not your leftover chicken scratch. They will not perform on crumbs and vibes. Yes, they will do fine with 17% protein but they’re more likely to stop laying during molting season and putter through the winter.

And temperature? They’ll survive down to -20°F, but if you want them laying strong and steady you’ll want it a little more in the plus numbers.

And here's the thing—if they hit maturity without enough light, you can’t just add it later and expect results. You have to have the light before they’re old enough, or they’ll delay laying for weeks. 

Build a bad cage, lose birds. It’s science.

Let’s talk cages.

My first setup? Honestly, it was gorgeous.
Spacious. Bright. Looked like I was trying to impress HGTV.

Also? A total death trap. More for me than for them. I’d have to crawl in and try to avoid their land mines while collecting eggs. I built my pens at 2 feet, which is on the dangerous side. Luckily I used hardware cloth so it has a give and I didn’t lose any birds.

Here’s what I didn’t realize:
Quail don’t just jump—they launch. Like full-body cannonballs.
And if your cage is between 24 inches and 6 feet tall? Congrats. You’ve built a neck-snapping chamber of doom.

One shadow? Boom—parkour audition. Every time.

So here’s what you actually need:
If you’re doing cages—keep that ceiling under 18 inches. If you’re going big? Go really big. Like 6 feet tall, walk-in aviary status. No in-between.

Use ½" hardware cloth (affiliate link)—not chicken wire. I know chicken wire’s cheap. So is regret.

Give them a dust bath. Sand, dry dirt, wood ash, maybe a little DE (affiliate link). They’ll roll around like they’re on vacation, and it keeps mites off.

If you’re using wire flooring, throw in a rest tray—something flat like a piece of wood or tile so they’re not standing on wire 24/7. I’ve seen a lot of people build an enclosed section with a solid floor.

They need at least 1 square foot per bird.

And for the love of all things feathered—lock down the top and bottom of your setup. Raccoons, snakes, neighborhood dogs… everybody wants a snack. Don’t make it easy.

You will lose a bird. Probably while drinking coffee.

Let’s just get this out of the way now: you’re going to lose a bird.
And it’ll probably be while you’re drinking your coffee, feeling good about life.

Quail don’t get sick the way chickens do. They don’t limp around, looking pitiful. They don’t give you any sort of heads-up.
They just… go.

I’ve walked into the coop more times than I’d like to admit, looked around, everyone’s fine—except that one in the corner, who’s just casually dead.

No flapping. No sound. Just: “I have perished. Goodbye.”

So here’s what you need before that happens.
Not when you’re panicking in your pajamas on a Tuesday morning.

Bare minimum first aid kit:

  • Nutri-Drench – for energy crashes or emergencies
  • Electrolytes – especially in summer or after shipping
  • Epsom salt – for soaking if you’ve got egg binding or injuries
  • Blu-Kote – if one gets pecked and you don’t want them all to turn cannibal
  • 1cc syringes – to actually get anything into their mouth
  • Poultry vitamins – for random weirdness
  • Quarantine bin or crate – because trust me, isolating a sick bird in the same cage doesn’t count

And no, you don’t have to name them all.
In fact, unless you enjoy emotional instability before 9am, maybe… don’t.

Grab the Quail First Aid Kit PDF in the description. Because Googling “why is my quail suddenly dying” at midnight is not a real emergency plan.

 Quail math isn’t cute. It’s an identity crisis.

Let’s talk about quail math.
It’s not cute.
It’s a full-blown identity crisis.

You start with five birds.
Totally manageable.
Then someone messages you with a “Hey, wanna trade some hatching eggs?”
And suddenly you're building “just one more brooder” like it's a normal thing to do at 11PM.

Next thing you know, you’re naming bloodlines and arranging breeder set meetups in gas station parking lots.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, but I have 86 eggs in my incubator and a spreadsheet called ‘The Hatchening.’”

And here’s why it happens so fast:

  • Quail eggs hatch in 17 to 18 days
  • Grow-out only takes 6 to 8 weeks
  • Each hen lays about 300 eggs a year
  • Half of those babies? Males. So… yeah. Drama.
  • Breeding sets are 1 roo to 4 hens, so now you're managing ratios like a matchmaking service
  • And don’t lie—you will keep that one random bird with the cool feathers “just to see what she lays” and suddenly she’s your favorite and now you can’t sell her

Start with 10. But seriously—know yourself.
Because quail math doesn’t creep up on you… it ambushes you.

Poop. So much poop.

Let’s address the part no one brags about on Instagram.
The smell. The buildup. The sheer volume.
Because for birds this small… the poop-to-body ratio is offensive.

These birds are the size of a potato.
But somehow, they produce the waste of a large, judgmental cat with digestive issues.
I don't understand the physics of it—I just live with the consequences.

Now, wire floors definitely help. But only if you commit to catch trays underneath and, you know, actually empty them.
Skip a day or two and it’s not cute. It’s Ammonia Fest 2025 and your birds are wheezing like they just ran a marathon in a porta-potty.

Here’s what works:

✔️ Use plastic or metal trays under your cages and dump them daily. Like brushing your teeth—non-negotiable.
✔️ Deep litter method? Only if your setup is outdoors with amazing airflow. Otherwise, it’s just a slow compost death trap.
✔️ If you're raising indoors, sprinkle in PDZ (affiliate link), hemp bedding, or pine pellets to cut the smell and moisture.
✔️ And ventilation? Yeah. Not optional. You need a fan, a window, or a full-blown airflow system unless you’re into respiratory drama.

Bonus tip: Don’t toss the poop.
It’s basically rocket fuel for your garden once composted. Tomatoes, thank you in advance.

 They are a side hustle—if you don’t mind chaos.

Everyone thinks they’re gonna sell a few eggs and suddenly be the Elon Musk of backyard farming.
Spoiler: posting $5 eggs on Facebook does not build generational wealth.

Can you make money with quail?
Yeah.
But not if your strategy is vibes and hope.

So here’s what actually sells:

You’ve got your eating eggs—those go for anywhere from $4 to $6 a dozen, depending on where you are and how bougie your neighbors are.
Hatching eggs bring in way more—think $18 to $35 a dozen, especially if you're shipping and your birds are from solid lines. But shipping eggs? That’s a whole separate emotional journey.

Then there’s breeder sets—usually four hens and a rooster. You can price those anywhere from $35 to $50 depending on the quality, age, and whether you smile in your listing photo.

And don’t forget feeder quail—people with reptiles or raw-fed pets love them. You’ll get about $2 to $4 each, and they’re repeat customers if you’re consistent.

You can also sell laying hens once they’re productive, usually $10 to $15 apiece, and chicks once they’re past that fragile two-week phase. People will pay $4 to $10 a bird, but only if they’re healthy and you don’t sound like a serial killer in your messages.

Bottom line?
If you treat this like a business—with systems, pricing, and actual effort—it works.
If you treat it like a lemonade stand with birds, you’ll be burnt out and buried in eggs by month two. Ask me how I know.

If you’re serious about making money with quail and you don’t feel like reinventing the wheel—or explaining for the tenth time why your eggs are smaller but more expensive—just grab the course.

I’ll walk you through everything: pricing, packaging, pitching, where to sell, who not to sell to, and how to make this actually work without losing your mind or your weekends.

It’s called Make Money with Quail—and it’s way cheaper than learning the hard way.
Go be the weird bird boss you were meant to be.

 These birds are legal loopholes with feathers.

HOAs hate joy.
Apartments hate noise.
And if you’ve ever tried to sneak a chicken past a lease agreement, you already know it’s a hard no.

But Coturnix quail?
Whole different game.

These little birds are legal loopholes with feathers. They fly under the radar—literally and legally.

They don’t crow loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
They don’t free-range.
They don’t enrage your neighbors by digging up their flower beds.
And 90% of the time, people have no idea what they even are.

I’ve met people raising 30+ birds in a single garage bay, collecting eggs before work, and selling them from a cooler in their driveway like it’s a very niche lemonade stand.

In many states, Coturnix are classified as game birds, not livestock. That means all those “no chickens allowed” rules in city ordinances or HOAs?
They often don’t apply.
(Still do your own research, but you’ll be surprised what you can get away with.)


And the roosters? They don’t scream. They sound like a squeaky toy with asthma. It’s weird. But manageable.

Space-wise, a 2x4 foot cage is enough to keep a small flock.
You can raise them in:

  • Garages
  • Backyard sheds
  • Storage rooms
  • Balconies (yep—I've seen it)
  • Converted rabbit hutches (affiliate link)
  • Grow tents with some airflow modifications

They don’t need open pasture or rolling green hills.
Just good ventilation, proper light, clean water, and they’ll crank out eggs like a well-oiled machine.

Would I tell your landlord you’ve got birds in the spare room?
…Absolutely not.
This is a forgiveness, not permission situation.
Trust me, the birds will be quieter than your neighbor’s emotional support chihuahua.

Final Thoughts

Would I do it again?

Oh yeah. No hesitation.

But would I do it the same way?
No.
Not even close.

I would not waste money building a Pinterest coop that’s secretly a death trap.
I wouldn’t assume they’d just “figure out” how to lay eggs on their own.
And I definitely wouldn’t let my kids name every single chick on hatch day only to realize I now have a bird named “Princess Marshmallow” in my freezer.

Now I run a full micro flock with automated lights, backup breeders, and a setup that doesn’t require daily therapy.

I know how many eggs I’m getting. I know which birds are pulling their weight. And I’ve got a system that makes me money without chaining me to the brooder 24/7.

 

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