My wife's dog died the other day in somewhat spectacular fashion, having troughed a large amount of rat poison which some tw@t had put down in the environs of my mother in law's house. Actually, I for one won't be missing it: it was a small and yappy Cairn Terrier which was looking increasingly rough round the edges as the result of p1ssing off my somewhat larger and harder Bull terrier, which objected to having its scoff nicked etc etc. As it was pegging out, expelling large quantities of doggy blood from every orifice, my wife was very keen that I should do something to hasten it on its way but the alternatives - cricket bat or 12 bore - seemed a tad excessive, not least because the action was taking place in mother in law's kitchen. Instead, we called the vet but midway through the conversation the beast expired, which saved a few quid at least. However, the episode did remind me of a friend - a REME Major - who back in the days of BAOR was faced with the problem of his first posting back to the UK for 12 years and the realisation that his ickle canine companion was probably too old and knackered to survive quarantine. The solution that he came up with was to take the dog for it's favourite walk round the woods behind their MQ and then slot it with his .22 target pistol so that it would die happy. Off he set, and after half an hour or so of squirrel chasing and p1ssing against trees (the dog, not the REME bloke), he called the dog over, stroked it, gave it a biscuit, said goodbye and then put a round through it's head. He was expecting the target to fall when hit. Wrong. With a round through it's skull, the dog took off through the woods, howling like a banshee and spraying blood everywhere. Oh sh1t. He took off in pursuit and eventually caught up with the blood soaked mutt, hunkered down and whimpering in some bushes. He took a slightly different point of aim and put a second round into it's head. This knocked the dog over, but it immediately got up, barking madly, and took off again. This time, he spent an hour or so looking for it but couldn't find the fÃ¼cker anywhere. By this stage he was, not unnaturally, feeling as guilty as an axe murderer and, hoping that the dog had expired relatively quickly, decided to go home and confess what had happened to his wife. When he got there, he found the dog lying in a pool of blood on the back doorstep, feebly wagging it's tail at him. Nice. The third round finally did the job. Anyone else have any amusing stories of killing much loved family pets?