Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha
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There was a time, once, when the Higurashi family owned a piano.
Bitten by the sales bug, Mrs. Higurashi had bought it on a whim, patting her swollen belly affectionately and smiling before stuffing the receipt into her purse. Visions of her child-to-be learning beginners' tunes a few years down the line danced in her head. As she nodded off to sleep that night, husband at her side, she dreamt of impromptu 'concerts' for family and friends, of haunting melodies and jazzy ragtime beats, of complicated rhapsodies and the simplest, commonest tunes.
That piano would never produce such pleasing sounds in that household.
The next few years blessed the Higurashi residence (and all unfortunate listeners within earshot of the piano) with a nerve-wracking cacophony of what could be classified as anything but music. Clamors and the reckless slamming of keys. Dischordant compositions of migraine-spawning quality. Aural gibberish that would be hard on the ears of even the kindest, most unoffendable souls imaginable. Symphonies so shudder-inducing and unlistenable the Higurashi adults all but tore their hair out.
He was balding prematurely. She was thinning, hiding it with a shorter trim.
Each thoughtless clunk, each heartless pound upon the keys, was one less shred of sanity Mr. and Mrs. Higurashi retained, until the day came when the hideous, cringeworthy racket their piano produced finally pushed them completely over the edge. It was ultimatum time.
Either the piano had to go, or its inconsiderate, tone deaf player.
Mrs. Higurashi obviously kept the cat.