As a toddler I was given a pet chick from a friend of the family.
It grew into a mean rooster that liked to peck a mole on my arm.
One day he chased me clear around the house a couple of times.
My dad heard me screaming, came outside, and saw what was happening. He asked me if I wanted him to shoot it which I replied I did.
To my horror he got his .22 and dispatched the bird. There was some more crying on my part, but strangely enough a couple of days later we had a delicious fried chicken dinner.
My mother was born and raised on a farm during the Depression, and they had chickens. Among those chickens was a “fighty” rooster. One day, the rooster went after my mother’s older sister (he had gone after her before), so my aunt picked up a rock and killed it. My grandmother was not happy, as she had just butchered a chicken for their dinner.