It’s tougher than with humans, he tells me.
Can’t tie their arms behind them, so their claws
cause problems sometimes. Still, they look funny,
strapped belly-up on the board, layered gauze
masks he soaks with water each five minutes,
gagging, hacking, spewing, screeching in plumed
spurts when their gurgling throats catch breath, send it
spraying out in gasps like mist from perfume
bottles. Thin legs flail. Thrashing paws slash down
at air like curved, starved bird beaks. He feels bad
sometimes, he says, if he errs, a cat drowns
or suddenly snaps inside, going mad.
“They’re not like humans, you know—evil men
who’ll lie to you, kill for their religion.”
Roger Armbrust
November 25, 2007
