Back around 1958 or '59, we had two cats, which were both white. One was named Frisky, and the other was named Homer. Frisky we got as a kitten from I don't remember where, and Homer was a stray that had come around where my dad was working and was brought home. We had a neighbor lady across the street who didn't like cats, and one day made a pointed complaint that our two cats had been in her yard and messed things up and what was my dad going to do about it? Well, in those days most people didn't think about keeping cats strictly indoors. My dad was angry about
this complaint, not at the cats but at the neighbor. Nevertheless, he wanted peace in the neighborhood (which most people were still interested in in those times), so he took both of our cats to the pound (which it was called then, not the "animal shelter") where they no doubt were destroyed. He didn't feel good about it, because he liked cats in general and these animals in particular but at the time, he didn't see another solution to keeping the peace with this neighbor. I was very upset at the time, but of course the passage of time heals wounds especially when we are young. Still, I think about and kind of mourn the loss of these two animals all these years later.