I grew up on a small farm. My father used to farm full time, and he had several 40-acre plots that he farmed or grew hay on. However, by the time I came along, it had become difficult to support a family on a family farm alone, so he also took a full-time job with a ship building company, and did logging on the side. We had several horses, chickens, guinea hens, turkens, some goats, a cow and, at one time, a bull. We also had a pig once. Growing up on a small farm, as opposed to a fully farming operation, I was sheltered from some of the less pleasant stuff. Now, I knew that the "chicken" that we were frequently served for supper was the same thing as the birds that made messes all over our lawn, but never once witnessed a chicken being slaughtered, and I wasn't particularly inquisitive, I suppose. Dad came home one day with a piglet. That little pig was kind of cute but it wasn't like a pet or anything, although she was sort of friendly. In time, the piglet grew into a pig, and in more time, it grew into a fairly large pig. Then, one day in mid-December, the pig was gone. "What happened to the pig?, I asked. "It ran away," was the answer. I accepted that, and it wasn't until several years later that I happened to think of that pig and realized that it was somehow related to the ham that we had for Christmas dinner.
Hubby had a pet pig named Arnald.He loved that pig but then he loves all animals although he hunted as a young man [he doesn't now] he would only hunt now if he had to. He can hunt, clean and prepare any wild meat.I use to be afraid to eat when I visited their home in S.C.. Only meat we ate came from the butcher or grocer.I had already heard of their famous squrrel poulow. Hubby was ask at the table after supper " how did Arnald taste" he said it took him years to forgive them.
There was a butcher in town, and people would rent freezer storage. As it worked out, I think, the butcher would take a portion of the meat, which was then sold to customers, or you could pay him cash for the work, so I don't imagine any of the slaughtering and stuff was done at the house, because I never once saw any of that stuff, except at the hunting camp during deer season. Even then, the butcher would do the meat processing, but first, the deer would be hanging outside the camp. I would try to avert my eyes because I really wasn't into any of that, which is probably why they lied to me about the pig. We had so many chickens that I wouldn't have noticed if any of them were gone because I didn't much like the chickens or pay any more attention to them than I had to in order to collect the eggs.
My dad and Grandpa Bailey went hunting every fall when I was younger. They almost always got a deer, and occasionally an elk, and the meat was always split between the two families. We had an old barn out behind the house, and that is where they hung the deer. I am not sure if they did all of the cutting themselves, or just sectioned it up and then mom took it to the butcher shop. I know that it ended up in the cold-storage lockers down the street, and mom would go there whenever we needed to refill our little freezer area in the refrigerator. Grandma Bailey made mincemeat , canned it, and we always had mincemeat pie for Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was the best mincemeat ever ! I remember the deer hide hanging over the divider wall in the garage, but I am not sure what happened with that. My mom might have taken it to the leather store and had it made into gloves maybe ? I had a rooster for a while when I was little. At Easter, the dime store sold baby chicks dyed pink, blue, yellow, and green; so mom got me one. I took good care of it, and it grew into a huge rooster, but then it started getting mean, and would attack me with its spurs when I went out to feed it. It soon did the disappearing act, and I think that it probably became chicken noodle dinner. I would not have minded by then, because it was no longer the little pet chicken that I loved, and was just that mean old rooster.
My father and older brother hunted rabbit and pheasant in the field behind our home in Indiana. I have vague memories of biting into shot once (rabbit), but that's the only time I recall us having game. Not did we raise livestock. Out of the 4 boys, only one younger brother hunted with any regularity. I've never shot nor dressed/butchered any critter. He had a life-long friend whose family owned a multiple-hundred acre farm about 25 miles west of DC and they hunted deer, turkey, dove, etc. I recall being at his house once when a dressed deer was hanging from his garage rafters. We were walking out with my 4 year old niece and I looked to see if she reacted to the critter, but having it hang there was just her "normal." I've often wondered how farm kids react to having familiar critters make it to the dining table. I guess the reactions are all over the place. From the few folks I've known who have been in that life to one degree or another, it does not seem to have effected their empathy. Interesting how we can compartmentalize stuff.
When I was about 4 I watched my grandmother wring a chicken neck, for supper that night. I don't remember supper time at all, as I was totally traumatized after watching that.