Rick’s in the hospital still. I heard from the neighbor he got five stitches in his right arm, down the gash where the canine tore wrist to elbow. The dog in question was cremated, though I don’t know what happened to the bullet; wasn’t in the ashes. The pool needs dredged, and, this late in the year, I can’t imagine having any parties again until next summer. The table will have to go. All the scrubbing this morning couldn’t get the mark of blood out, and I’m not inclined to find the right chemicals. I think I’d rather just buy one new outright.
No. 204