Chicken Reza

The first time I ever boarded a plane was when I was nine years old. It wasn’t to go to Disneyland or Spain or anywhere else you’d typically expect a first holiday to be; it was to go to my father’s motherland, Iran.
It was unforgettably hot when we stepped out of the airport and were greeted by a cousin, I’d not met. He drove us from the airport to an area in the South of Iran called Ahvaz, where my father had grown up. At first, I was overwhelmed by the amount of family members who were there to greet us on our arrival. I thought that they had all come together just to welcome us, as it was the first time that my dad had been back in years but I later found out that they were always together like this, every day. That wasn’t the strange part though, the weirdest thing about it for me, was that nobody seemed to have any pets. In fact, I think that I was the only person there to have ever owned a pet during my one month stay. It wasn’t the most usual of pets either for a nine year old girl; it was a cockerel I had named ‘Chicken Reza’ after my cousin Reza; who was not in the slightest bit flattered by this gesture.
I hadn’t gone out with the intention of bringing a pet chicken back to my grandmother’s house, it just happened.
My father and I were out shopping one day for some chicken to have for dinner, and I was half expecting there to be a supermarket with already dead chickens in ready for us to buy, but where we went, looked more like a pet shop to me. There were loads of these chickens cooped up in cages outside of this store, and how it worked was, you picked one out alive, they chopped its head off in front of you, and then they would put it into a machine which removed all of its feathers. I had another idea however; I saw this one cockerel, pure white with the reddest comb of the bunch, and instead of looking at him and seeing food I looked at him and saw life. I decided to save him, which my grandmother was not happy about to say the least when we had returned with this chicken who walked freely around her home like a dog.
Unfortunately her mentality was not the same as mine when it came to seeing him as more than just something to eat, because after a couple of weeks of having him, he mysteriously vanished. My dad told me that Chicken Reza had flown away but it wasn’t until years later when I learned that chickens don’t actually fly, that I questioned him and got the truth. My grandmother had cooked Chicken Reza for dinner.