My mother and Jaybird befriended animals — then slaughtered them. Mama loved chickens, but showed no feelings when fixing to fry fowl for family feasts. She’d chortle her feed call and scatter corn from her apron, and the flock flapped to the feeding frenzy. As they ate, Mama eased a cane fitted with a hook under a soon-to-be-plucked pullet and snatched. Sunday’s supper squawked for mercy, but the unmerciful executioner rung its neck. The decapitated carcass flopped its finale in a feathery flurry, and I fled in fright.
