I was going to reflect on this, or perhaps extend my conversation with Feodor, but after a short back-and-forth "in another place" (as British Parliamentarians refer to the House of Lords), I decided to tell a story I heard from my father, back in 1992 or so.
In 1931, my father's family moved to a three-hundred acre farm in the almost non-existent town of Lockwood (it did have a train station at the time; and a mill!). My father was not quite ten. Like all good farm families, they acquired a number of cats to keep the rat-and-mouse population down to a dull roar. Like all semi-wild animals with no natural predators (this was before traffic up and down Lockwood Run Rd. could deal adequately with the problem), they quickly bred to near-overwhelming proportions.
My grandmother would feed them by cooking two pots of oatmeal, one mixed with bacon grease, etc., for the cats. She would call them to the porch by banging on the pot, and they would scurry up to the porch. I imagine it could be considered slopping the cats.
One day, or perhaps it was the final day that broke this particular camel's back, my grandmother complained about "all the cats". My guess is that it had been a theme of hers for a few days, and while my grandfather had to be a patient soul, I suspect he had reached the breaking point. He loaded his rifle, stuck some extra ammunition in his pockets, took the pot on to the porch and started banging on it. As the clouder approached, he opened fire. My grandfather probably couldn't have missed, at least first.
As the cats scattered and he ran out of ammo, he reloaded, banged the pot, and like Pavlov's Dogs, the cats immediately forgot their fear. Grampa opened up again. My father said he did this until there were only a couple left. He took their carcasses out in to a field.
When he came back in the house, my grandmother told him, "George, I didn't want you to kill them."
There is a sick part of me - and, yes, I do know it's sick, but I can't help it - that laughs whenever I think of this. Even Lisa, who is a far more feeling, sensitive soul than I will ever be, chuckles over this one.
