mister d , howling and thrashing and snarling , trying to get away ; the thing lying on him , the pink threads growing out of its top thrashing around like kelp in a wave ; the smell of burning fur ; the stench of salt and cabbage ; the black stuff pouring out of the thing 's dog-bit , furrowed back , running down the wrinkles in its yellow skin like sludge and then pattering on the floor ; my need to kill it , erase it , make it gone from the world : all these things were whirling in my mind ?