During my early 20s, a guy kept coming around who had a habit of throwing small animals against walls. I refused to date him, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.
About 12 years later, I read in the New York Daily News that he'd stabbed his latest girlfriend to death, rolled her up in a rug, and left her on the side of the Clearview Expressway.
Yeah, he's in prison.
Losers like this are more prevalent than you'd think: When I was a teenager, a local high school coach bragged to me that, as a kid, he liked to flush kittens down toilets and watch them scramble for their lives. After I had my first daughter, Peter and I met a guy who crowed about befriending a pig ("I had the thing eating out of the palm of mah hand"), and then putting a bullet to its head.
Sure, I was eating plently of ham sandwiches myself at the time, but the story--and the glee with which the jerk told it--made me kind of sick. Oh, and by the way, this guy always had a girlfriend.
It may seem like common sense, but I'm going to say it anyway: Animal abusers don't make good boyfriend material.
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