Geez, frank. Every Saturday afternoon, my Mom would send two of us brothers out to "butcher four roosters", if there were any left. Pullets if the roosters were all gone. For Sunday dinner.
That would give us 8 drumsticks for the nine kids. I, apparently the oddball connisuer of fried chicken, wouldn't eat the dark meat portions, being a breast man rather than a leg man even in my extreme youth. I always had the honor of providing the wishbones for all, for after meal hi-jinks ("I wished that you had to do the milking by yourself.")
Chopping the heads off was high entertainment for us. Timing how long the chicken jumped around, chopping the heads off two birds at once to see which one could hop around the longest ("Mine's still twitching!"). Then there was the 'pouring of the sacred boiling water' to loosen the feathers for plucking and getting to the really fun part: gutting! After which came the reading of the chicken entrails to see if we could predict the future ("My guts and the liver say that you'll do the milking by yourself for a week, and the lungs and gizzard are all twisted up! That means I'll be sick then"). We weren't big on milking. But we were big on eating fried chicken.