Hi. I have a story.
When I was quite young, probably about four years old my family has a pet Kangaroo, a joey. Sounds cool right? After all Kangaroos are fun, joey’s even more so as they are cute.
Sorry about the photo quality, the originals are stuck inside a really old album I couldn’t take them out to scan.
Yep I was just a little kid.
I don’t remember the exact sort or reason we ended up with it, weird pet for my family to have as they often would shoot them to keep the off our farmland.
Grandma here with him and our apple orchard in the background. They would kill the trees by eating the bark, called ringbarking meaning stripping it all the way round.
They build a little pen for it.
Let it walk around the house.
Yep they loved that roo.
It was allowed to tool around out house, family would come over or down from the city it was a novelty.
Grandad too. To the left out of frame was his extensive unsecured wall of guns that were probably used to kill the joey’s family.
I probably would have enjoyed the situation more if fucko joey didn’t attack me every chance he got, I fucking hated it. Same thing every time, he would corner me and grab onto me with his little arms scratching and poking at my head and face with his claws.
My family enjoyed this immensely. Time after time he’d push me to the ground or I’d fall while trying to get away while protecting my eyes. I’d scream for help and cry…Laughter was all I’d get in reply.
Even as a child while I saw it as something that hurt me.
I knew that it really only wanted to by my friend. One day he just was not around anymore, I asked where he was, and why. They told me he got too big and was I’m told, put in a burlap sack, taken out into the bush and shot in the head.