You relax on your porch with a cold glass of lemonade, watching your fluffy play in the yard. She loves getting to romp around outdoors, and you love not having to pull weeds from your lawn. It’s a mutually beneficial thing.
Now, most fluffy owners wouldn’t let their fluffy play in an unfenced yard, since they might wander off and never return, or a feral could come along and bully/knock them up.
You’re not worried though. She’s a well-behaved and obedient fluffy and knows to stay in the yard, and you’ve got Birth Control.
Ah, yeah! Enjoying the breeze, sipping on lemonade, got your bare feet propped up on the porch rail while your cute little fluffy plays.
Oh-ho, what’s this? Another fluffy is hiding behind the trash can, watching your fluffy chase a butterfly. Is it a feral, or one of the neighbor’s?
It creeps out a little further, giving you a better view; filthy, matted fluff, the tip of one ear missing… definitely a feral. It’s staring at your fluffy and licking its lips. You set your lemonade down and sit up, feet on the ground.
The feral sprints (well, waddles quickly) across the yard, making a beeline for your fluffy; her back is to him, unaware he’s even there. Clearly he intends to give your mare bad ‘special huggies’.
You’re not worried though. You’ve got Birth Control.
The feral stallion quickly mounts your fluffy and begins trying to penetrate her while she squawks in protest and tries to get away. You squint one eye and concentrate…
FOONT
The orange ball sails through the air and you watch its trajectory as it arcs up, then down, and hits the feral in the balls with a loud SMACK. He immediately flops on his side, motionless.
You set the paintball gun, the words BIRTH CONTROL engraved on its side, on the little table by your chair and walk across the yard toward the fluffies.
Your adorable little mare is screaming imprecations and epithets at the stallion for attempting to give her ‘bad special huggies’; she’s so angry she’s spitting with every word and stomping her little hooves. The feral is completely oblivious to her though; his eyes are watering and his mouth is gaping in a scream, silent because the pain of having a paintball smack him in the balls has driven the wind from him.
Oh, sorry; did you say paintball? You meant pepperball. Y’know, the kinda the cops shoot at rioters. So you get all the fun of being shot with paintballs AND being sprayed with pepper spray. On your balls.
“Ok Sweetums, time to go back in the house. Go tell daddy to meet me in the garage.”
She scurries off while you pick the feral up by the scruff of his neck and carry him into the garage; he’s got his wind back, but he’s just making a wheezing, croaking sound. Must be in a lot of pain.
Too bad you’re all out of fucks to give!
You drop the fluffy onto your husband’s work bench roughly and it winces, shaking one foreleg painfully before trying ineffectually to hug its crotch. You grab it and pin it to the table as your husband enters the garage.
“Another one, huh?”
“Yeah, look where I hit him.”
“OUCH.” He winces in sympathy; every guy you’ve ever known does that. Athlete gets hit in the balls with a baseball? Every guy in the room goes “oooooooooooh” and hugs their crotch. Someone gets kicked in the nuts in a movie? Every guy shifts uncomfortably. You don’t get it. Must be a guy thing.
“Hold him still for me, would you?”
He pins the fluffy to the table with one big, meaty hand while you open the junk drawer.
“Pwease, nu mowe huwties! Fwuffy sowwy! Fwuffy weave and nu cum back, efew! Pwease, nu huwt fwuffy! Huuhuu…”
You pull out a length of thin, light weight fishing line and snip it off with a pair of scissors. Then you carefully tie the line around the feral’s scrotum as tightly as possible.
“OWIES! Huuhuuhuuuu, why huwt fwuffy’s no-no’s? Pwease, nu mowe owies!”
You ignore his pleas and continue tying the fishing line around his sack, tighter and tighter. Your husband is shifting uncomfortably and wincing; seriously, do they all do that?
Finally, you’re done. You grab the feral by the scruff of his neck and lift him up to eye level.
“Are you ever going to come into my yard again?”
“Huuhuuu, fwuffy nu wan take wand fwum meanie munsta hoomin, jus wan spechow huggies and fwend… huuu…”
“Are you ever going to come into my yard again?”
“Nu! Fwuffy sweaw!”
“Are you ever going to give bad special huggies again?”
“Nu! Pwomise!”
“If I ever see you again, you’re going to get more hurties. Understand?”
“Yus! Pwease, nicey munsta wady, stawp huwties! Huuhuu, fwuffy’s no-no’s feew funneh! Nu wike!”
“You’re not supposed to like it.”
Your husband clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, and asks, “Uh, did you really have to tie his balls off like that? Seems a little… inhumane.”
“It doesn’t hurt after a while, it goes numb from blood loss. My dad does it to his cattle all the time. They’ll fall off in a week or so and he won’t be knocking up any more mares. He gets to live an otherwise normal life. Honestly, it isn’t any worse than getting him fixed the conventional way, and it’s better than killing him.”
You walk out into the yard and drop the feral in the grass.
“Owies! Huuhuu!”
“Get out of here! Scram! I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He looks back once, scaredy peepees trickling all over your driveway, as your little mare gives him a loud raspberry.
“PBBBBLLLLLT! Dummeh fewaw! Gu way, dummeh!”
“You tell 'im, Sweetums.”
“Huuhuuhuuu, why efewybuddy awways meanie tu fwuffy? Huuuuu…”
The feral, walking funny and trying to shake the fishing line off his balls by wiggling his rear, trots away down the street, never to invade your yard again.
“C’mon sweety, let’s go inside and have lunch.”
“Yaaaaay, nummies!”
“Are you talking to me, or your fluffy?”
You smile sweetly at your husband and teasingly chuck his chin.
“Either one works.”
