Our family visited relatives that had a ranch and the kids loved sitting on the pet calf called “Norman”. (Born during the Iraq war, “Stormin’ Norman”.) Norman hung out at the house where the wife took care of him while the “real” cattle were out on the range.
We visited again a year or two later and got in late. While eating a late dinner of hamburgers one of our little girls (6 years?) asked if they could go out and “ride” Norman again.
The hostess said “I’m afraid not - the hamburgers you are eating are Norman.
Being city kids and little I thought they were going to cry and get upset.
The daughter that asked looked down at her plate and said “Well - he sure tastes good!” and took another bite.
During the depression, my Dad and his brothers (children at the time) raised rabbits. They named one of them “Steve”.
One evening, they had fried Steve for dinner. The boys weren’t too happy about it, but it was the depression ... They didn’t name any more rabbits. And I learned, at a very young age, not to name livestock.
We met a lady at the supermarket who keeps chickens.
We asked if she named them. She said, "No."
I said, I would. I'd name them, "Monday," "Tuesday," "Lunch," "Dinner."
She chuckled.