Freewrite 2, Week 7, Pet Euthanasia Part IV

The skin wrinkles like paper planes or Sunday shirts,
bulging between my fingers. It feels warm, like a
mama cat nuzzling folds between teeth on a morning
run. It licks my knuckles as my thumbs press tighter,
tighter. My eyes in its eyes blaze brighter as it
whimpers, and paw pads scurry against the dirt road.
It trembles, or I tremble, or the ground quivers
beneath its thrashing legs. I climb behind, straddling its
back and we flip like a sun-burnt beetle in supplication,
its belly stretched, my legs crossing its legs.
Now, with forearms indenting it into my chest,
it creaks and gurgles. Its tongue flops like the
nonchalance of my father, and I pant. Shifting, I stand
over it, its fur worn around the collar, and ease my toe
into ribs, easing, easing my father’s vodka and fists away.