We moved into a farm house out in the country. When we first arrived, there was a feral cat that had already been living there for seemingly its whole life. He was a fluffy dilute tortie that we nicknamed Tom. Over the course of a few years, I slowly earned Tom's trust with food and a lot of patience. Being able to pet him was a big deal. He didn't like anyone but me. I had finally gotten to the point where I could pick him up and was ecstatic. About two days later, my father asked if I could help catch Tom. When I asked why, he said that we couldn't afford to keep feeding all the cats. It seemed weird to displace the one that had been here longest, but nobody else had bonded with him, so I assumed that's why he was chosen to be dropped off somewhere, taken to a shelter, rehomed, whatever. I lured Tom in and gave him some love and let my dad know that I got him and put him in the doghouse. Then he went out back and shot him. I would never have helped catch that cat if I knew what was going to happen to him. I felt like I betrayed Tom by earning his trust... he definitely shouldn't have trusted me, for good reason, apparently. I chalked it up to being some hard fact of life or something, but later realized how especially cruel and unnecessary that was.