Catching supper was quite easy, since it was still where we stashed it in an old schoolhouse. However when we went to get the axe, Wally handed it to me. I handed it back to him explaining that I had never killed a chicken before and really, really didn't want to start. He explained to me the very logical reason for me to be the executioner and handed the axe back to me.
I can still remember the chicken starring at me while Wally held it with it's neck on the top of the chopping stump. It was only a 5lb axe, but as I lifted it, it felt much much heavier, straining my poor little 10 year old muscles. I only lifted it about a foot and a half above the chicken's neck then simply dropped it with my eyes wide open, (I wanted to close them but thought I might hit my foot if I did) hoping I would either kill the animal quickly or miss completely. It did neither. The axe didn't even go half way though the neck, leaving the damn chicken alive and kicking. I dropped the axe and ran into the house crying my eyes out. My cousin killed the chicken for me, came into the house and explained to my concerned grandmother, in the most unflattering terms if memory serves, why I was crying. He has never let me forget the incident.
My parents just lopped their heads off and hung the writhing carcass on a clothesline feet first.
These were critters that had tried to kill me so I wasn't particularly upset.
That was funny, and sad, and poingent all rolled into one. I don't know what word I'd use to describe it, but thanks for sharing it.
I can't top it, but I do have a little story from when I was about the same age as you were. I was kind of a city boy, but my uncle and grandfather were outdoorsmen so I've hunted and cleaned game fowl. One day I invited a friend over for dinner. My grandmother was making roast dove. My friend has never had dove, but I guaranteed he would like it because grandma was such a good cook.
As soon as the plate was set in front of him, we all instantly knew something was wrong. There was no outward expression, but his eyes betrayed something deep welling up inside him. He excused himself and made a beeline for the bathroom. I don't suppose he had confronted the idea of where food came from, and to his eyes he was looking at nothing but a crispy bird carcass with the head and feet lopped off. Grampa and I spilt his portion (not wanting it to go to waste) while grandma went to go check on him. We cleared the table, and I think grandma boiled him a hot dog.