The making of a sociopath

When I was a kid, it was fashionable to give kids baby chickens or ducks or rabbits or various other sort of doom-destined creature for Easter. None of them survived. It was a cruel tradition, one I'm glad to say, has gone away. But I wanted and got the cutest little Easter chickie when I was about six. He slept with me. I called him Red.

My Dad was overseas, so at the time, we were living with my great-grandparents on a huge, adventure-filled farm in Ohio.

As Red got bigger, he outgrew the house and had to go live with the other chickens in the hen house. Man could that boy crap.

Then one day, my Grandmother called me for dinner. Home fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans picked fresh out of the fields. Um-um. It was good.

After the meal, Grandpa let me know it was MY rooster that we had eaten. BAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!

At that exact moment, I metamorphosized from a mild-manner kid to a rant-raving sociopath... THEY ATE MY PET EASTER CHICKEN. IS NOTHING SACRED?

I hold nothing against my grandparents. They were good, loving farm folks and that's just the way they did things on the farm. The saying, there can only be one rooster in the hen house is not just a saying. I found that out that day.