From age six to age 14, I lived on a farm/ranch just outside Austintatious. My grandparents acted as though what they did for food, there, was normal: Ya want chicken for dinner? Go kill a chicken. The same sort of thing for bacon and ham. Or turkey at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I learned all about doctoring for the larva of screw-worm flies, which infest any wound. Navel of newborn calves, scrotum after castration, horn-bases after de-horning. Ain't purty. Any even-slightly-scratched wildlife died. (The screw-worm eradication program was part of the cause of Texas' wildlife population explosion.)
This story, I've told before; please bear with me: Around age 12, my dog got to killing a neighbor's turkeys. We did all the usual curative measures, to no avail. Now, in those days, the idea of paying a vet to do what you could do for yourself was considered somewhere between childishly foolish and indicative of great wealth. So, it was considered my responsibility to kill my dog. And I did.
I don't think I'm mean-spirited about any part of "the outdoors". I do believe I have a better understanding of the harsh realities than most folks, and am far more pragmatic.
Now, I've had pets for most of my life. I'd probably squirt a dog once, with a water pistol. I think I'd probably do it only once--unless the dog really appeared to enjoy it--because it would strike me as going beyond "just a joke". Once can be funny; two or three times can get to be harassment...
But I have no trouble whatsoever differentiating between pets and feral animals. I have no particular emotions regarding ferals, other than to regret their existence--some human "threw them away".
I note that the local humane society has trapped some 73 feral housecats in the adjacent 20 or so acres around my wife's house.
Pardon the wordiness.
Art