I probably wasn’t out long. A hundred-pound Rottweiler has a lot of poking power in his nose and doesn’t take no for an answer. Goblin poked and prodded me around. My head hurt from the hangover, my jaw was the size of a large arbor reel, and my thigh was a bloody mess.

First thing’s first. I took my shirt off and bound my thigh. Then I got in the truck and maneuvered it to hook the winch onto the trailer and dragged it roughly back to my stoop. I had a new bay window thanks to the assholes, but I would worry about that later. At least it would keep me dry for the night.

After that I got into my shed and took a pair of forceps from my waders and went inside to my fly-tying bench. Lesson 101. Leave some damn Bourbon in the bottle. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way – with beer. I got a Dead Guy and slammed it for the pain. Then I probed around with the forceps until I was sure the wound was mostly empty, and sopped up the prodigious blood using both of my good towels. Time to get re-married and register for new linen, I thought. I took a curved needle and some nylon gut I had and tried to pull the wound together while I was still in shock and thought this was a good idea, but it was more of a hole than a cut, so it was going to be one hell of a scar. I let the dog lick it a little to clean it out. I think the dog worries about me some, but I’m not so sure he wouldn’t just eat me if I dropped dead in the trailer. Finally, I poured a bunch of Super Glue into it and went into convulsions until it set up.