She Fed It Pizza Dead-eyed, he paws the cottage's oak parlour door. Four mews erupt from his neck, a bloodclot clambering further through his heartstrings with each one. He tips, lists, tumbles, stays. "Get over it, it's only a cat," says the ombudsman, and with that we finish our Bloody Marys and hop in a taxi to Twickenham. "Bloody thing stank the place out anyway."
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