I was in seventh grade when my grandma called and asked if Dad would come over with his shotgun and kill her cat.
Grandma Elnora was moving to an apartment building that catered to seniors, but wouldn't allow pets. Her cat Snoopy - yes I know that's a dog name - was an indoor/ outdoor pet that was eight years old, and Grandma figured no one would adopt such an old cat. She was also worried that if Snoopy was put down by a veterinarian the needle used would cause him pain, and while waiting in the vet's office he'd be scared.
Her solution? Just have dad drive the cat out of town, let him out of the car - Snoopy loved prowling in long grass - and when the cat wasn't looking... Well, he wouldn't know what hit him, and she'd give Dad a garbage bag for the clean up.
Dad's solution? He stopped by Grandma's, took her cat and her garbage bag, then drove both to a gravel road. When he found a secluded spot he turned the car around and Snoopy lived at our house for 12 more years.
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