“Don’t go outside or the chickens will peck it off!”

That’s what my grandmother told a 4-year-old me standing there in crisp autumnal New England, wincing and bracing awkwardly in the backyard. Plastered in dead leaves with mittens on a string hanging by my side and an oversized Detroit Lions knit hat falling over my eyes, I made my way to the back deck to head back in. I believed her. I had no choice. I don’t know if that’s what made me afraid or not but who’s to say?

Cut to every time I went to a pet store. I just wanted to check out the animals. Not all of them. Maybe we just flushed some dead fish down the toilet and it was time to pick up a couple a more, a vicious cycle we all participated in. I just liked browsing. Browsing was always a hobby of mine. I had to stop when I got to the cages though.

Some were in cages. That was fine. Some of the cages were open. Some weren’t contained at all and flew from point A to point B and back again without even thinking how it might affect a frightened youngster who had been warned that they might peck it off. Subconsciously, it could’ve been that. I don’t think so. It was more than that. This was a new feeling. This was hatred. I hated them. I still do.