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The first and all-compelling reason was eggs. Not one or two, but dozens of eggs. No, hundreds...even thousands of eggs. These embryonic containers were the basis of the business plan my young entrepreneurial imagination had devised: to become an egg producing mogul. "You too can make big money selling eggs to your family and friends...be your own boss...money for candy, comics, and savings to spare". My twelve year old mind began to compose a fevered sales pitch the minute I spied the fuzzy little yellow balls in the pet shop window.
It was a week before Easter, 1961, and it was time for a new pet. I had already been caretaker to umpteen goldfish, turtles, chameleons, and other miniature companions. But these pubescent pets had outgrown their attraction. I was ready for something larger, something challenging, and more specifically, something with profit potential.
I had been weaned on those 'one inch by one column' ads in the back of Popular Mechanics and Boy's Life magazines, the ones promising financial success by raising worms, sharpening saw blades, and peddling therapeutic salves. I don't ever recall any of those ads toting the monetary benefits of backyard egg production, but if a garage full of chinchillas could produce positive cash flow, why not a mini-barnyard of egg laying hens?
Yes, chickens. Chickens were the answer. A few quick weeks to maturity and then the production line could be fired up. What other pet could provide companionship as well as ready cash? Certainly not a dog. Nor a cat. Besides, I could never get approval for a canine or a feline past the parental approval committee. Yes, cute little fluffy chicks would be a far easier sell.
I began to draw up a list of compelling reasons: they're cheap (six for $2.50), don't cost much to feed, would be kept outdoors, and the Mother of all reasons, "I'll take care of them myself". It was always a good idea to stress the no-obligation clause as a closer.
It worked. Six chicks for Easter. I peddled to the pet store and picked out what looked to be the healthiest, egg laying-est of the lot. They were plopped into a cardboard carrying case which I carefully wedged into the basket on my bike. I sped off for home with my golden feathered treasures.
I nurtured my budding employees with motherly care, providing a cardboard home layered with shredded newspaper and a 100 watt light bulb for heat. They grew with abandon and were soon busting out of their corrugated condo. I was time for expanded quarters. Besides, certain of their bodily functions were emitting an overpowering odor which meant the indoor lease would not be renewed. It was time to construct a coop outdoors.
Some plywood, several 2 x 4's, a roll of chicken wire, eight metal fence stakes, nails, tar paper, and a couple of hours later I had a crude but serviceable miniature barnyard. I was advised at the local feed store that to ensure good egg production I would need to feed them a healthy diet. They recommended a special chicken feed and dried cracked corn as well as crushed gravel for their gizzards. I also had to buy a bale of straw for bedding and some supplementary vitamins. The startup costs of this venture were a little more expensive than I had planned but the return on investment would be worth it once egg production began.
Few chickens have ever had it so well. I got up early every morning and fed them before going to school. Once a week I thoroughly cleaned out their coop and replaced the straw. I was a Mother Hen in the real sense.
They were now growing faster on their new supercharged diet, getting bigger and noisier. It was about this time that I noticed something peculiar...a possibility that I had never considered. My soon-to-be-employees were losing their physical resemblance to egg-laying hens. Their feather color was turning from creamy white to shades of brown. They were getting big; really big. And they were making a new sound that went beyond clucking...they were, horror of all horrors, cock a-doodle-doing!
I'd been hoodwinked! I had bought a pig in a poke, or in this case, "pigs". They were roosters, all six of them! The only chicken that pet store ever sold was of the masculine persuasion. No amount of care or cajoling would ever get even a single egg out of these bogus 'hens.' I was crushed. It was the end of a young entrepreneurial dream.
Resigned to the fact that my pets would never provide a monetary pay-back, I nevertheless continued to care for them with the same measure of devotion. They matured into very striking roosters, I must say, with bright shinny feathers and brilliant red combs. But they were high-maintenance pets for a suburban dweller. I had to spend more money and time than I was willing to or had. I was loosing interest in these bogus employees who managed to reach retirement with full benefits without ever having punched a single time card.
They were also getting extremely noisy, with their dependable 5:30 AM crowing grating the nerves of both family and neighbor. I knew an ultimatum would be coming down from the powers that be very soon. It would be time to find them a new home.
That's when my Grandmother Waltz entered the equation. Knowing that finding them a new roost would be all but impossible, she offered the only sensible solution: turn them into...gasp...chicken paprikash!
Eat my little friends for dinner? Had any child ever been asked to consume their pet? The immediate answer was no. I mean, come on...so they disappointed me with their lack of embryo production, but they didn't deserve to end up in a Hungarian dish, no matter how tasty. Right? The request was enough to rid me of any carnivorous tendency from for life.
My defense lasted about a week. I caved in, but with two provisos: A.) I wouldn't have to be party to the process, i.e., the execution would take place when I was absent, and B.) I wouldn't have to consume them, even if their final resting place was in a pool of paprika laced onions.
Agreed.
The first three met their demise by the cleaver and were taken home by my Grandmother for further processing. During dinner at her house the next week I abstained from the chicken paprikash and settled for stuffed cabbage. (As protests go, it wasn't much of a sacrifice). Upon my Grandmother's next visit the remaining three were quickly convinced they didn't need their heads either. I waved a fond farewell as my father pulled out of the driveway, Grandma in the back seat along with my former pets in a brown paper body bag.
The following Sunday my mother prepared chicken paprikash for dinner but, I was hesitant to join in with everyone else at the table. I wasn't sure I could ever eat this favorite dish again. I kept thinking of my departed friends whom I missed even thought they couldn't fulfill my moneymaking fantasy. I was, however, eventually convinced to sit down and eat dinner with my family.
I had to admit that that particular batch of chicken paprikash was particularly tasty...perhaps the best I had ever eaten. In fact, it probably was. It was not until a year later that I learned that my Grandmother never took the remaining three chickens home with her. They went in the fridge. Our fridge. Yes, sad but true, I had unwittingly eaten my own pets for dinner.
I suppose you could find fault with my mother for pulling the old switcharoo on me but I really never held it against her. If you try make pets out of roosters there is only one possible outcome.
And lets face it...if they were going to end up in a pot, it might as well be paprikash.
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