When I was growing up on a farm in Iowa, the standard rule concerning edible livestock was that any critter, that has a name, is safe from becoming Sunday dinner.
My sister and I had a pet turkey named “Tom” (how original...hey, we were kids) that we raised from a ‘chick’ and he was imprinted with the image of us being his mom.
He followed us around constantly like a spare shadow and always came out to meet us, getting off the school bus each afternoon. He’d come out and fan out his feathers and strut around a bit. It was his main, possibly only, talent.
In early November, word leaked out to us that he was going to be the main course for Thanksgiving dinner. The old rule had been over-ridden and Tom was about to be “axed” literally.
Come the day before Thanksgiving, we all dreaded what was about to happen and nobody would volunteer to be his executioner. Just thinking about it spread through the family to where we were all nearly in tears.
Happy ending:
We couldn’t bear to kill Tom for dinner, so we ate the dog.