Here it is:
Now, since this is where I work, and my buddy Larry of the Palouse lived in this neighborhood at that time, we lost our minds. Because it was funny and insane and somewhat scary, if you had little pookies, puppies or cats.
Now, not far from Olympia, we have this story from THIS MONTH, where woman was savagely attacked by more psycho killer raccoons.
They had her on the ground and gave her something like 100-bazillion puncture wounds before people chased them off. She was raccoon food, people.
Here’s that story:
And now we have a column by Peter the Callaghan about the raccoon PR problem, a column that deserves its own column, because it’s just that good.
I am in Psycho Killer Raccoon heaven, maybe because I’m a giant Swede and my dog, the Hound of the Baskervilles, would eat a pack of raccoons as a snack.
Bonus: apparently, chicken-slaying raccoons like donuts for dessert.
Reformed journalist. Scribbler of speeches and whatnot. Wrote a thriller that was a finalist for some award.