I was not allowed to have pets as a child. So, like any young lady, I fed a stray cat out of my club-house. I would hide her in a school-bag and bring her in my room to put bows on her fur and get quite scratched up in the process. (She didn't want to wear them any more than I did.) I would try to make a drawer into her bed to pretend she was, "my baby bunting" and probably even closed the drawer with her in it when my mother walked by.
All this would probably have gone smoothly, except that my mother had a fancy living-room that we were only allowed to use for holiday gatherings. And, of course, my mother found out the hard way that I was harboring a cat...
To help my mothers' cause of shooing the cat away, my father would look at her and yell , "go away!" The cat eventually responded to this and thought she was given a name, so the ever confusing frustration between father and cat became further confused with the nomenclature of the feline and her care-free caress when he shouted this at her.
Eventually we kept the cat, who ironically did not go in the livingroom after the solitary act of ownership. She died. Suicide. Not something I thought cats did. She ran as fast as she could into a wall, knocked herself out, and never came to. We've kept this means of death a secret from my mother, who gets upset about such things, especially if they happen in the look-at-only livingroom.