My mother used to throw stones at sparrows, sprint up to them as they were dazed, twist their necks, pull out their feathers, and then roast them for a light snack. She relishes telling this story every time she sees a small bird resting nearby. Her one saving grace in my mind is, "hey at least she ate it."
Which is idiotic imo, since swiftly murdering a pigeon is much better than eating a chicken that has been through a lifetime of suffering, which is the majority of chickens in post industrial societies.
My grandpa would climb trees to raid bird nests for their eggs. I'm not sure which is worse to modern sensibilities -- that he was predating on song birds like a neighborhood cat, or that he ate the eggs raw.
I believe the story but I’m having trouble understanding how that would be worth the effort unless you were truly starving (which it seems like she wasn’t, since she called it a “light snack”) - what is there, a half ounce of meat on a sparrow?
