'Any of you got cats in your cells throw them out,' said Tiny. Two cats at the end of the block, thinking perhaps that Tiny had food, came toward him. One was big, one was little. Tiny raised his club, way in the air, and caught a cat on the completion of the falling arc, tearing it in two. At the same time another guard bashed in the head of the big cat. Blood, brains and offal splattered their yellow waterproofs and the sight of carnage reverberated through Farragut's dental work; caps, inlays, restorations, they all began to ache. He snapped his head around to see that Bandit had started for the closed door. He was pleased at this show of intelligence and by the fact that Bandit had spared him the confrontation that was going on between Tiny and Chicken Number Two: 'Throw that cat out,' said Tiny to Chicken. 'You ain't going to kill my pussy,' said Chicken. 'You want six days cell lock,' said Tiny. 'You ain't going to kill my pussy,' said Chicken. 'Eight days cell lock,' said Tiny. Chicken said nothing he was hanging on to the cat. 'You want the hole,' said Tiny. 'You want a month in the hole.' 'I'll come back and get it later,' said one of the other men.
It was half and half. Half the cats cased the slaughter and made for the closed door. Half of them wandered around at a loss, sniffing the blood of their kind and sometimes drinking it. Two of the guards vomited and half a dozen cats got killed eating the vomit...'
— Falconer by John Cheever, 1977
The reason for this: I have a vague idea that there is a lot of this stuff — cats in fiction are subjected to unimaginable pain and indignity; dogs get off lightly. Contributions or contradictions welcome. I'll keep posting any examples I come across.