He trashed the Boston Globe. Trashing an old-style Sunday newspaper meant scratching it to shreds, spreading it about two rooms, and peeing on the help wanted.
After this crouch, he’d spring into the air, spread his paws, and dive-bomb your head or chest – “Death From Above.”
Think about twenty pounds of cat doing this from the top of a refrigerator. No, you don’t want to, do you?
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