Found a surefire way to grind a date to a screeching halt this weekend.
Made it a couple of drinks in, conversation was productive, and the topic of pets came up. She mentioned she had a cat, I mentioned at one time I lived with one that made life completely miserable (it meowed 24/7, especially at night, and pissed everywhere but the litter box for several months), but once we got rid of it things were fine.
She asked what happened to it. I said we took care of it, meaning had it put down. She asked if we tried to figure out what was wrong with it first or tried to find a new home for it. I said no, it was an older cat and clearly on its last days, and figured it would meet a worse fate at the hands of someone else who might torture the animal due to its behavior if we just didn't put it down.
*Shattering glass*
That pretty much ended what was a fine evening, she was almost ready to cry, and then decided she had to get home because she had brunch the next morning and didn't want to be tired. That akwardness from the moment of shatter to the time she put on her coat and left felt like forever. I didn't even know what to do with myself but stare off at a distant TV while it all sunk in and she gathered her things. Apparently that story made me Hanibal Lecter.