When I was about five years old, my brother caught me a wild baby bunny. He jumped right off a hay escalator and severely injured himself, but that rabbit was mine. Much to my surprise, upon arriving home with my new treasure, my only-cat-loving mother agreed to let me keep him. She even set up a cage for him in her immaculately clean kitchen. Life was great. Every day, I would come home from school, feed and pet "Hoppy" (you can see originality was discouraged in our house). He was so cute, so soft, so fluffy! And he was growing up.
One day many months later, upon arriving home, my mother met me at the door to give me the bad news: she had taken Hoppy into the garden with her to keep her company as she weeded her carrots. And do you know what? That little bunny ran away. I was devastated. I remember weeping into her polyester shirt.
When I was nineteen, I found out from my sister that Hoppy had not run away at all! In fact, my mother had killed him, skinned him and made a nice Haasenpfeffer out of him, which I apparently ate for dinner.
While this may seem a Grimmsian nightmare of sorts, I could only laugh at my mother's actions -- and not a bitter laugh. A true chuckle. I don't know what her motivations were... years of resentment toward her children? a genuine love for slow roasted game? It doesn't matter. What a thing for a woman to do!