For me, growing up in Connecticut on almost 2 acres of woods and water (a small pond and the little stream that fed it and some neighbor's ponds as well), I was used to seeing both cats and dogs roaming free in our neighborhood.   Then one day, my sister Martha brought home a kitten and insisted we adopt it!  Mother deferred that decision until Dad had come home from his work in NYC (which he commuted to via train).  Dad took one look at it, said "well, if it isn't Sam", and the decision had clearly been made. 

        It turned out that Sam was a "Samantha" and after she'd grown up, she had her (one and only) litter of kittens, and us kids got to watch them being born, one by one!  We proceeded to get them all adopted, except for a tuxedo which we kept and named “Rudy”.  I don’t recall how long we had Sam & Rudy, but Sam went first due to old age.   Rudy, like most tuxedos, had grown up to become a gentle giant and very friendly. 

        Then one morning I found Rudy hiding under my VW Bug and crying in pain.   I could see his neck was torn to pieces (probably by a not-so-friendly Raccoon), and Martha & I lost no time in coaxing him out and getting him to the local vet.   After examining poor Rudy’s injuries with us watching anxiously, he said that he could operate, but that would be both expensive and unlikely to succeed since Rudy’s wounds had become seriously infected.  He explained that Rudy’s wounds were not recent and that, like most cats, Rudy had probably sought solitude hoping he would get better, but had only gotten worse. 

        Martha and I discussed it, but ended up agreeing with the vet to let Rudy go.  The last thing I remember was our Gentle Giant purring loudly as soon as he'd gotten that final injection.  Of course, Martha and I were in tears at this point, but were grateful that Rudy had not died in pain.