The clippers came from the drawer with dead batteries and twist ties. The spring was still strong. They opened themselves twice before I set them on the floor.
I set the yellow jar of styptic powder on the linoleum. The lid stayed loose. You do not read instructions after blood.
He heard the tools settle. His nails had been ticking on the kitchen floor all morning, but the sound stopped near the fridge. He stood with his mouth closed and his weight leaned back, looking at the wall as if the wall had asked for this.
The paw was warm. Warmer than the clippers. He let me hold it, but leaned thirty pounds of doubt against my shin. The pad was rough as a pencil eraser.
Black nail. No window.
You cut where you believe the blood is not. That is the whole technique. Belief, then squeeze. I guessed short. Cowardice has uses.
The snap was dry, like stepping on pasta. He did not flinch. I did.
Three nails. A pause for the dewclaw, which angles wrong and always seems more personal. Then the last two, and the treat he took carefully, as if accepting terms.
He walked away with a quieter rhythm on the boards. Not softer. Just less.
Three black crescents stayed against the baseboard. I left them there for the rest of the afternoon, because I did not have a reason to pick them up yet.
The clipper went back in the drawer. The spring stayed open.