She thinks she’s got the bulk of him under control. He is a small dog, close to the ground. Cream-colored with splotches of black and shaven close except in the face and tail. Her hand, spread from his shoulder to his mid-back, holds him somewhat still, except for the legs and thrashing head. And that tail—sort of whimsical, fluffy and light through it all. She has a firm hold on his body and reaches toward his mouth only to scramble along the ears and jaws and jerking snout.
He comes from behind and tells her to just hold the body. He has a stick.
She moves one hand closer to the dog’s hindquarters and places the other high on the neck. She holds him, remembering the way the books say doing so is like being the mother of the pup. I’m the mother, she repeats and holds him steady. No worries about breaking bones or bruising, she tells herself. Hold by instinct. Hold like nature would. She tries to turn off her thoughts and to become strong, trustworthy hands with a steady pulse.
The man tries to wiggle a small stick between the dog’s upper and lower jaws. He thinks he can make a space there and pull forward. He thinks he can pry the jaws open. Those puppy jaws. Tiny sharp teeth gnawing store-bought pig skin, rubber toys, and occasionally the knob on the dresser’s bottom drawer most days. That little mouth, a mouth of surprise: a tiny pink tongue. A lick that tickles them awake in the morning. And now: jaws clenched tight around the body of the baby bird. The bird’s head flopping and red.
There’s no room for the stick. No prying the mouth open that way. The man grunts. A grunt that asks the puppy to be cute again. To remember how to beg and sit and lay down with its paws just so when commanded.
The puppy holds the bird tight in its mouth. The man says Ugh and grabs at the flopping head of the bird. He begins to pull. Thinks to pull the dead thing free. The woman holds tight to the puppy. Commands “Let go! Let go!” The feathers wet and sparse along the head and barely visible shoulders of the bird. The meat—slick with saliva—not the thick of a creature plump with life, but a raw flesh layered on bone and tendon and blood. She watches the pink of the neck lengthen—she wonders how far the neck can stretch before