I once was a Canary Farmer. My mom called me a ‘sick little boy’ and my dad called it a phase during which he wrote me out of the will, but whatever they say, I reared many a champion thoroughbred canary during those days.
I was two.
My aunt bought me 87 canaries for my birthday that year. I’m not sure what that says about my aunt, but I made sure I wrote a thank you note. Anyways, a gift like this was a child’s dream. My canaries and I would go out into the yard for hours and stage epic battles: Good versus Evil, Americans versus the Commies, Peety versus the canary zombies. Those birds were my best friends in the whole world.
I’d do anything for them. Feed them. Play hide and seek. Bathe them. Bury them. We also learned quite a bit together. When I took my first steps, so did they. When they sang in the mornings, so would I. When they learned to fly, I jumped off the roof and broke my arm.
That is when I learned what it was to hate.
Guest Columnist