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This continues from Part II of "How Henry Got Her Name."
One warm Sunday afternoon I was sitting here in my basement writing, when I heard a great ruckus above my head.
"No! Henry! No! No!" It was Sharon's voice, accompanied by some kind of scuffle. I ran upstairs and into our bed room. The...
This continues from Part II of "How Henry Got Her Name." One warm Sunday afternoon I was sitting here in my basement writing, when I heard a great ruckus above my head. "No! Henry! No! No!" It was Sharon's voice, accompanied by some kind of scuffle. I ran upstairs and into our bed room. There crouched Henry, hunched over a mourning dove. Its neck had been neatly snapped. Blood covered the poor thing, and was seeping into the rug. Sharon and I stood there in a state of shock. I can't ...