She said, “Hold him. But
don’t squeeze. Just there like
that.” At the same time she
propped his mouth with a
pencil—his stenciled, silken
skin over
supple muscle, molding to my
hand. She
took a “pinky” by the tail
and bashed its
delicate skull against the
sink. I said,
“Why does it still move?”
The baby writhed,
whimper-choked. “Nerves,”
she said. “Just nerves.” She
poked the pinky down his
protesting throat.
“Wild-caught, but he’s got
to eat.” I thought that
I might squeeze, might
reduce wrongness in the
universe with ease of
movement. Noble
creation reduced to this: a
python gagging
on an agonized baby rat. My
hand—immobile.