Today's Connecticut Post states that almost three of every four battered women report that their animals are beaten, killed, or threatened by their abusers. Three out of four!
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.