Here's an Easter story to while away the time. My mother, who grew up on the wrong sides of the tracks (fortunately she married my dad who grew up on the right side of the tracks so I grew up in the middle of town) told us she and her siblings always got real live chicks for Easter presents. Then after the kids named their chicks and played with them their dad (major *******) moved the chicks out to the shed when they started to feather out and butchered them when they were big enough to eat; being sure to tell the kids which "pet" it was they were eating. So when we were kids my mother would give us a box of chicks for Easter, we'd name them, play with them, but after a week or so we'd drive out to my uncle's farm and turn them in with the rest of his flock. Sort of a salvation thing. Anyway, many years later I was reminding my uncle of the annual pilgrimage to release our chickens and how he could always point out by name which full grown chickens were ours on subsequent trips. He laughed and told me never knew which ones were which as they all looked alike, so he'd just point at a chicken and say, "There's Flossie" or whatever. The thing was, whenever we went out to the farm for Sunday dinner, my uncle would take his .22, step out the back door and pick off three or four chickens for our meal, always telling us worried kids that he was careful not to shoot "our" chickens. The moral of the story; Know who you are and never run with the flock as you might catch a bullet.