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A long story to lead up to that question. When I was about 5 or so, my grandmother, who lived across the road, started feeding a stray cat. She had kittens, one of which was a nice calico cat we called Callie.
Callie was a sweet cat who lived through a lot of things, such as being shot and attacked by a dog.
My uncle, who lived next door to my grandmother, hated cats. His big thing was setting leg traps.
When Callie was 12 years old, she got into one of those. She came to me with a badly broken leg, which I tried to splint. After a week, the leg was very nearly falling off, and the cat was in pretty severe pain. She was still sweet, purring and grabbing my hand so she could wash my fingers, but the damn leg was falling off. My father told me that the cat needed to be put down, and I had to do it.
So, without going into those details, I put the poor cat out of her misery.
As I buried her, I was crying. I remember very clearly saying "Damn that bastard Clare" (the uncle). "I hope he dies a little bit at a time, and suffers like that poor cat".
Clare was later diagnosed with diabetes. He went through 3 different surgeries to amputate first a foot, then a leg, then the other leg. He died from complications.
I have never wished ill on a person again, just in case....
You may now cue the "Twilight Zone" music.
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