When my older son was just a little fellow - perhaps two years, or a trifle younger - we lived in Miami, and numbered among our friends a man whose hobbies included cock-fighting. He brought one of his roosters into his living room one day when we were visiting, holding it tightly with his large, powerful hands. It was a gorgeous creature, with, as I recall, blueish feathers, feet that resembled eagle talons, and a ferocious expression. My boy was delighted, and toddled up to the bird, shouting, "Puppy!" Naturally, I hauled him out of harm's way.
I shiver to think what might have happened had Number One Son had an unsupervised encounter with that avian killer. I am reminded of the episode by this Mark Steyn piece, in which the author takes umbrage at criticism leveled at him by his own editor at NRO. Unfortunately, the editor had no loving hands to protect him from a (well-deserved) mauling.