Your childhood sounds remarkably like mine, except I had to be home by 6:30 p:m sharp to clean the dog kennels for 7 p:m dinner or there would be a date with a yardstick in my dad's bedroom and him saying "this is going to hurt me more than you {like hell it is)" and off to my room in place of dinner. If I wanted lunch, which I rarely did, it was up to me to whip something up...PB&J of course if I did and provided all the ingredients were stocked, otherwise a jelly or peanut butter sammich.
My dad was a big bird hunter and one or both of his german short hairs were usually my creek and woods buddie(s)and if I was shrewd, it wasn't impossible to loosen a shotgun shell from a locked cabinet. The dumbest thing I ever did was place a shell between two flat creek rocks and pound on the pin with a third rock. Fortunately I couldn't get it to go off and apparently had an epiphany sometime after and never tried that again.
Two experiences with killing animals animals have always stood out with me, throwing a crab apple at a robin in a tree never expecting to hit it and knocking his dumbass out of the tree deader than the battery on my Vdub beetle would perpetually be years later as my first car.
A second dead animal experience that stuck with me was when I managed to rescue one of the baby rabbits from a clutch the neighbor's dog had got into. The mostly hairless tiny little thing was pretty gravely mangled and when I tearfully asked my unsympathetic bird murdering dad what I should do he offhandedly said 'I dunno, try some of that BFI powder in my cabinet'. Not knowing what the fuck BFI powder is to this day and with no other instructions I sprinkled the powder on it's nasty gapping wounds after school for days when eventually (when I wasn't looking)it must have managed to drag it's half dead corpse to the water I put in there and a couple days later started eating the carrot butts my mom gave me from chopping up her mirepoix or stew mix stuff in our house.
One day, after school, I gathered up some carrot butts and went to drop them in the cage when the little fuck gave me a horse bite which I couldn't believe the force or pain from. In my eight year old temper I reached back in, grabbed a butt and whipped it back in the cage. Dead as a door nail he was, the quickly healing on the mend soon to be released back into the wild baby bunny. That haunted me for years as saving baby birds and rescuing animals and playing with snakes and stuff was always my thing.
I was getting worried my 'stuffing hamburgers in your pockets' comment may have offended your adopted sensibilité, off to a gathering with a bunch of other old farts that don't accept or realize we're all old farts now (thankfully)...what fucking question btw? Did I miss that this was fiction? lol
Oh wait, I thought we were exchanging stories, carry on.
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