When a friend of mine moved to Portland, one of the first things he commented was, "Have you noticed the abundance of stray cats and the absence of song birds?
Yes, I am a cat killer. One of my favorite stories involves my dad and I clearing the farm of cats when they all got distemper. I stood outside the barn door with my shotgun. He would go inside, find a cat, grab it, and bring it to the door. I would then yell, "PULL!" In all, we shot about a dozen cats that day, father and son bonding over a grizzly but essential task. These were all pets. (It's probably inappropriate to bring up Terri Schiavo at this time.) And I learned something, too. Cats don't always land on their feet.
As a Presidential Candidate, I support Wisconsin's efforts to list stray domestic cats as an unprotected species. Pass the 12-gauge and put on the kettle.
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