A continuation of Chicken Food and the New Lives for Litter Pals series! This one is much more abusey and sadboxy than the others. Many fluffies will die!
My fellow gardeners might be familiar with the plant kochia, also known as summer cypress, Bassia scoparia or Bassia kochia. It’s also called Poor Man’s Alfalfa as it has a really high protein content and it’s occasionally used for grazing, but there’s one eensy weensy little downside - it cannot comprise more than 50% of animals diet, especially in times of drought, because it is very likely to lead to nitrite and oxalate poisoning, and subsequently methemoglobinemia.
However, what if you grabbed a couple feral fluffies, forced them to mow down all of the nasty invasives in your yard, and discard them when they inevitably get poisoned and die of hypoxia?
Fluffies were quickly becoming integral to my daily life as an environmentalist. After bringing Malva and her fillies in to get spayed, I told some people at the city shelter what I was doing with them, and many of the employees were enthralled - such a perfect, environmentally sound use for fluffies that were otherwise doomed for the incinerator, freeing up space for a couple more fluffies to be nabbed off the streets. A couple weeks later, I was invited to apply for a position on the city’s Fluffy Environmental Control Committee (FECC), and I started spending my weekends talking with exhausted bureaucrats, concerned mothers, fellow eco-nuts, robust résumé seekers, and enthusiastic retirees about creative ways to deal with the fluffy scourge.
How could we put those feral fluffs infesting the cities to good use? How could we help alleviate some of the workload from the fluffy shelters? Were they a viable source of food? Could we champion their consumption to invasivores? Would that even be a safe source of food? Are there methods of disposal that didn’t generate so much CO2?
What I brought to the table was something of an unofficial experimentation ground. I had a solid half-acre to work with in a semi-rural area, with no HOA and few rules about what I could actually have on my land. I had already had great success with using chickens to handle the microfluff infestation, and I had suggested ratting terriers for that purpose as well. Crimson, Bark, Malva, Olive and Sticks were handling my food waste and turning it into compost, which Caramel was dutifully mixing. Using former enfie pals and litter pals as composters was an especially popular idea - especially for the crowd that was vaguely upset about what those fluffies had endured and were pleased with the idea of a more “humane” form of husbandry.
Naturally, the topic of invasive weed management came up. It felt like an obvious next step to putting all of those fuckin’ freeloaders to work (an enthusiastic retiree’s words, not mine). After all, they could theoretically be trained to recognize plants they should eat versus plants they shouldn’t, they were designed to eat stupid amounts of food, including food their equine ancestors couldn’t eat, and could fertilize historically overgrazed areas at the same time.
But I thought about my yard, and there was one big, glaring problem - kochia.
Bassia scoparia, summer cypress, poor man’s alfalfa, hailing from the land of the rising sun. It’s not the worst plant, as far as nonnative invasive go. It’s not kudzu, it’s not bindweed, it not even mullein. It has some good uses for phytoremediation and erosion control. In some cases, it’s even kind of pretty. But it’s aggressive, and spreads via dry bumbling tumbleweeds, spreading itself far and wide and pushing more desirable plants to the side.
But the real problem at hand is that it has the annoying little habit of accumulating toxic levels of nitrates and oxalates during periods of drought. Nitrates get converted into nitrites, which react with hemoglobin, which oxidizes into methemoglobin, and then oops - suddenly cells can’t carry oxygen. Despite being an excellent protein source, the rule of thumb is that it can never comprise more than 50% of a grazing animal’s diet.
So, I couldn’t have my chickens eat too much of it. I had originally resigned myself to trying to pull each of the plants out individually. But I was alone, on half an acre of land, and so, so much kochia.
God, I thought, it’d be so great to have an animal that could just eat all of this down. But alas, in this quantity, with this heat, it was just like eating poison. If only I could get some kind of invasive animal to eat it and die.
Well. I don’t think I need to tell you what idea hit me next.
Despite not needing any permission, I told the committee and the shelter about my idea. The biggest concern was the disposal of the nitrite-poisoned fluffy bodies - incineration wasn’t very environmentally friendly, landfills were similarly unappealing, carrion beetles wouldn’t be able to process large numbers of fluffies, and while eating a fluffy that had died from nitrite poisoning probably wouldn’t actually hurt a human, the idea wasn’t terribly appetizing. I decided to call a rancher down the road who was a strong proponent of mortality composting, and she offered me some space in her poultry carcass composting bins provided I pay for the bulking agent. Luckily for me, I had just bought a wood chipper.
The shelter offered me fifteen fluffies that were doomed to the incinerator. They were happy to hand over the burden of euthanasia, especially since overcrowding often led to fluffies getting tossed in alive. It was a real “out of the frying pan and into the fire” situation, but as far as the fluffies knew, they had simply been heroically saved from the “fiewy munstah.”
I loaded five boxes of the fluffies into the back of my truck. They were mostly brown and green fluffies per my request, not because I had any particular disdain for them, but because I knew they were more likely to suffer abuse from their littermates and humans - meaning, of course, that it would be easier for me to force them to do what I want, and to eat what I want.
I had no intention of learning their names or connecting with them in any way, but they were hard to ignore completely.
“New daddeh? New daddeh take fwuffies to new housie??”
“Gwass wuv nice mistah!!”
“Mistah? Mistah? Mistah!”
“Wewe fwuffies gowin?”
“No fowebah sweepies? Where fiwey-munstah?”
“Dummeh fwuffy. Mistah sabe fwuffies fwom fiwey-munstah.”
“Mistah! Mistah! Mistah! Mistah! Mistah! Were gowin? Mistah? Mistah? Mistah!”
“Shh wowd fwuffy!!! Fiwey mustah can heawe!”
“Mistah!!!”
I seemed to have more patience for fluffies than most. I really did find them quite cute. But fifteen fluffies was…a lot.
I gave a strained smile at the boxes of chittering, chattering little hairballs.
“Settle down, settle down. I’m taking you to your new home, okay? But I want to be clear about something - You’re not exactly my pets. I’m giving you all jobs.”
“Jowbs? Wat jowbs mean?” The fluffies exchanged confused looks. I chuckled a little bit - I had the exact same conversation with Malva, Crimson, Olive, Bark, Sticks and Caramel, but they all knew what “job” meant. They weren’t any smarter, they just knew the hell of being employed already, even if “employment” meant litter-pal or enfie-pal.
“A job is, uh, something you do for someone else for something in return. You all have the job of eating what I tell you to eat, and in return, you get housies and sketties, okay?”
The mention of skettis lit a glimmering light in so many of these creature’s eyes. All of them were probably ferals recently nabbed off the street, knowing nothing but shit and piss and garbage and rotting fruit. As far as fluffies had a culture, skettis seemed to be a universal symbol of the good life, a yearning passed from mother to foal - or a quirky obsession just deeply embedded into their programming.
And funnily enough, it was a promise I fully intended to fulfill. I got a load of spaghetti from the food bank, (reducing food waste, another win for me) and the carbohydrates would offset the impact of the nitrates, and they’d live a little longer.
I felt a short pang of guilt, but it was certainly a more humane end than the incinerator. Anything was - which meant I felt morally free to apply a little bit of encouragement.
I drove home, bearing the a cacophony of curious chirps and pleas for my attention. I unloaded the boxes into an empty storage shed. The fluffies hopped out, looking around, slightly bewildered.
“Okay fluffies, I need to go run some errands to work on your new housie, okay? I’ll be back soon.” Without stopping to entertain any questions, I left them some water and locked the door.
I let a couple hours pass. Of course, I had already built their new home, a simple enclosure made from PVC pipes and netting that I could move easily to areas that needed to be grazed down. It wouldn’t be impossible to escape, but I made sure that my chickens, the “beaky-munstahs,” would be looming around. Not that the chickens could eat a full-grown regular fluffy, but a velociraptor doesn’t need to be T. rex-sized to be terrifying to a human.
Anyways, I had to let them get hungry enough to actually accept the reality of living outside in a cage with vicious birds looming about and eating almost nothing but weeds that would eventually kill them. Sure, they were former ferals, they were used to wallowing in refuse and eating whatever they could find, but they had also gotten the slightest taste of air conditioning and kibble and empty promises about the possibility of living in a warm, loving home, with freshly cooked skettis every night and a soft bed to lay on for years to come.
But hey - better than the incinerator. Better than the incinerator. Better than the incinerator.
After a couple hours of doing absolutely nothing, I opened the shed door.
“So sorry about that fluffies, making your new home took longer than I thought!” The fluffies, which had wandered about the shed, all came running up to me with concern and discomfort stretched across their little faces. Some of them looked like they had been crying over being abandoned, only to light up when they saw that I was back.
“Mistah! Mistah! Mistah!”
“Mistah. Fwuffies vewy hungwy.”
“So hungwy. Haben’t eaten in a whole day!”
“Wanna do jowb whewe fwuffy eats wat daddeh says! Hungwy!”
Fluffies doomed to the incinerator generally weren’t fed for a day prior, to reduce the amount of mass being burned. Which I knew beforehand, of course. I wanted them very hungry.
“SO sorry again, fluffies. I have food for you in your new home. Get back in the boxes, please.”
The fluffies obediently hopped back in their boxes, chittering excitedly about the promise of food, and I made several trips back and forth, placing the boxes right into the PVC structure. By the time I moved the last box, I had a tiny little herd of fluffies bumbling about the net, some distracted by the awe of the fresh air and evening sky, dirt and grass under their hooves, and some confused and searching tiredly for skettis.
“Mistah? Whewe food? Bwean so hungwy. So hungwy could eat a howse.”
“Wats a howse? Want skettis!”
“Howse big big big fuffies, dummeh. Bwean saw one wif a bwue hoomin widing it.”
“That’s siwwy. Hoomins cawnt wide fwuffies. Hoomins not bwue.”
“Bwean not wiwing! Its TWUE!”
“Why Bwean so wowd??”
“Bwean sowwy…huuhuu, tummy hurties. Want skettis.”
“Want skettis too! Wewe food??”
I snickered at my hangry little herd. How hard could it be to get a fluffy to kill itself eating weeds?
“Calm down fluffies, I know y’all are hungry. Let me show you your food.” I plucked a piece of kochia from the ground and pointed to it with my other hand.
“Your job is to eat all of this plant. Eat as MUCH of it as you can, it’s very good for you. If you do a good job, you get skettis as dessert!”
I held a piece out and a brown stallion rushed over, shoving other fluffies out of the way. He gave it a suspicious sniff and took a hesitant bite, then grimaced. At least he didn’t spit it out.
“Nu wike gween skettis.”
“Would you rather eat garbage or poopies?”
“…Nu…”
“Well, this is your food. And like I said, skettis is your reward for eating this, okay?”
A couple of other fluffies came over and took small bites. They weren’t terribly enthusiastic about it, welcomed it as a compromise for their new lives, or were to hungry to care.
“Gween skettis otay. Bwean mowe essited fo weal sketties.”
“Wike gween skettis. Bettah than poopies!”
“Bwean awgee. IS bettah than poopies.”
“Glad to hear it,” I clapped my hands together, “I do have a couple more rules. You can’t leave this cage, okay? You’re gonna sleep in here and eat skettis in here. If you try to leave, there are some wild beaky-munstahs out there that might get you. But if you stay in here, they won’t. But this cage is safe, okay?”
Some of the fluffies shot concerned looks outside of the net, looking around for the wild beaky-munstahs that were currently in their coop. It was cultivating a useful paranoia, monsters lurking but you couldn’t see them. Although, all the fucking kochia was making it hard for them to see anything anyways.
“And another thing - if any of you feel sick, tell me, okay? If you feel sick, I’m gonna send you to a special ranch where you can get better. Any questions?”
A little green hoof shot up.
“Nice mistah? Why fwuffy no hab beds? Good fwuffies supposed to hab beds.”
“Are you kidding? Look at all that grass. That’s nature’s bed. It’ll be so much better than cardboard boxes and alleyways, right?”
“Fwuffy wike cawbord boss…fwuffy bown in cawbord boss!”
“You…want a cardboard box? Well, uh, okay, I can do that.” I walked to my pile of cardboard I used for weed barriers and reformed one into a box, then placed it under the netting. To my surprise, the fluffies rejoiced and a couple ran into it. I guess it was a comforting shelter.
The brown stallion from earlier looked right at me and huffed.
“Mistah. Wat if Chocowate don WANNA eat gween sketties?”
“I already told you, you have to. Aaaaaaand you get real skettis as a reward. 'Kay?”
“Chocowate don cawe. Don wike poopies. Don wike gawbage. Don wike gween skettis! Chocowate wan diffwent skettis! Dummeh human cawnt twick Chocowate! Wan diffwent skettis!”
Oh great, a smarty. And now I knew its name.
His face was adorably angry, puffed up and snorting and kind of punchable. The other fluffies had already started to wander around, chewing apprehensively or contently on the kochia.
“You eat this or nothing at all.” I simply turned around and walked away.
Night one. In just a couple hours, the fluffies had made quick work of the kochia in the PVC square. It was fantastic, so much more efficient than I could have ever dreamed of. In their hunger, they even uprooted many of the plants, preventing them from growing back. As promised, I cooked up a batch of spaghetti and divided it up into fifteen small plastic deli containers. When the herd saw me walk out with them, they gasped, pressing their faces up against the netting in disbelief. Skettis.
“Dinnertime! You all did so well today!” I lifted the PVC and slipped each of the bowls underneath, the little fluffies rushing to shove their faces in the legendary skettis, crashing into eachother and beginning to argue about who gets skettis first.
“Hey. No fighting. You will all get a bowl, okay? Patience.”
I placed each down, each of them eventually politely making their way in order to eat their meal. I stopped when I got to Chocolate.
“Now, Chocolate, did you eat any of the green skettis?”
“Yes mistah…” he grumbled, looking away.
“Dats not twue! Chocowate didn’t eat ANY gween skettis!” The little tan fluffy next to Chocolate chimed in, and the brown stallion shot her the most shocked and disdainful stare I had ever seen on a creature’s face. He then looked back at me, tears welling in his eyes.
“N-nu! Bwean big dummeh!! Want skettis!! Chocowate desewbe skettis!”
“Bwean not wiwing! Bwean not wiwing!!! Chocowate BAD fwuffy!”
I laughed.
“Did anyone else see Chocolate eat the plants?” The fluffies who were paying attention to the altercation either looked away or shook their heads.
“Well, Chocolate, it doesn’t sound like you ate anything I told you to eat. So, you don’t get any skettis. In fact, Bean gets your skettis.”
I gave Bean an extra helping of spaghetti, and she jumped up and down with glee.
“Waow!! Bwean gets esstwa skettis!! Wub you daddeh! Wub you so much!!”
Chocolate simply stared, mouth agape as I passed him over and gave food to the rest of the fluffies. It wasn’t until I placed the last bowl that he began to cry and stomp his hooves.
“DUMMEH! D-DUMMEH HOOMIN! HATECHU! SO HUNGWYYYY!!! HUUUUUUHUUU!” He attempted to knock over Bean’s bowl, but I snatched him by the scruff and dragged him out from under the enclosure before he could. I picked him up, and he screeched and flailed his legs like an angry toddler.
“BAD UPPIES! BAD UPPIES! HATECHU!! BAD HOOMIN! WORSTEST HOOMIN EVAH!! CHOCOWATE SO HUNGWY!!”
“Well, if you were so hungry, you should have eaten your green skettis! I told you - Now you don’t get anything.”
I walked back to the shed with the angry little fucker thrashing in my hands. I tossed him in and shut the door.
“You’re going to bed with no skettis at all. Hopefully this will teach you a lesson.”
He cried and banged on the walls, and I walked away again.
The next morning. I checked on the fourteen good little fluffies, and they were all looking just fine. They greeted me with happy chirps, saying that they loved the spaghetti and if they could have more. I told them yes - after another day of eating more plants. I shifted the enclosure fifteen or so feet to another kochia-infested part of the yard, then I went to visit Chocolate.
I opened the door and saw him curled up on the concrete, lying in a puddle of rancid piss. He blinked his eyes at the morning light, and grimaced when he saw me.
“Good morning Chocolate. Are you going to be a good fluffy now?”
“Yes mistah…C-Chocowate will be gud fwuffy…can…can hab gween skettis? So hungwy, tummy huwt so bad.”
“Of course you can have green skettis.” I picked him up and brought him back to the enclosure. When I put him in, he shuffled to his own little corner and began to eat, sobbing quietly. The other fluffies whispered to each other, calling him a “stoopid dummeh fwuffy.”
Night two. I had to fill their water bowl several times throughout the day, and there were huge puddles of piss in areas where the soil wasn’t draining well. Excessive drinking and urination - the first sign of nitrites accumulating.
I fed them spaghetti as a treat again, including Chocolate, who was very quiet this time around. He learned his lesson quickly, it seemed.
Day three. It was a very hot day, and I placed the enclosure in an area under the tree. Mostly protected from the sun and able to retain more water, the kochia here probably was taking up less nitrates. However, while gardening I overheard some of the fluffies complaining about “skin huwties” from the “sky place” - photosensitivity. The cardboard box ended up being an excellent shade structure.
Night three. I heard gasping and small cries of concern and walked over. There was a green mare lying down, trembling and heaving. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and I could see the skin around her nose and eyes tainted a drained blue color.
“M-mistah daddeh…fwuffy don feww so gud.”
“Aw, you look a bit sick. Come here. I’m gonna take you to the special ranch to make you all better.”
I picked her up. Her heart was pounding, trying to compensate for the lack of oxygen in her blood.
“T-tank you mistah daddeh. Wub you so much. Tank you for skettis…”
I looked at her exhausted, discolored little fuzzy face. Still better than the incinerator. Still better than the incinerator.
I held her in my arms and took her to the shed. I gently placed her on a thick piece of wood, then grabbed an axe. I took a deep breath, and with one swing slammed it down into her neck. Dark, chocolately-brown hypoxic blood gushed all over the wood and spilled onto the concrete floor. Her heart, having been pumping rapidly, squirted the blood in violent bursts until it slowed to a trickle. Her head tumbled down, eyes already closed. It was peaceful and quiet, nothing to be heard except for a gentle dripping sound.
I grimaced, feeling a little knot in my stomach. Maybe a different method next time. Maybe it was just the first time that felt bad.
I collected the body in a brown paper bag and tossed her into a large industrial freezer I had in my garage, which I had cleared out with the express purpose of storing all fifteen fluffies eventually. One down, fourteen to go.
Day four. The fluffies asked me where “Lweafy” had gone, and I said I sent her to the ranch to get better, and that they’d all see her soon.
Night four. A couple of the fluffies seemed very tired, but not sick quite yet. I gave them spaghetti again, praising them for how hard they were working. Nearly half the yard had been cleaned up of kochia at this point, nothing left behind except for stripped stalks and piles of fertilizer. I had a committee meeting that night, and I talked about my success so far. The only downside really (other than the fluffies dying) was that they needed some “convincing” to eat the plants. Fluffies were often disobedient, but if you could force a smarty to eat weeds, then you could probably force any fluffy to eat weeds.
There was some discussion about raising foals specifically to eat invasive plants, but it sort of defeated the purpose of trying to reduce the overall population.
Day five. As I expected, three of the fluffies started exhibiting signs of methemoglobinemia. The other fluffies were worried about their friends, but didn’t seem to be concerned with their own safety. They didn’t seem to have any concept of a disease spreading, or if what they were eating could be the source of their friend’s illness, or potentially their own.
Instead of chopping off their heads, I borrowed a non-penetrating captive bolt pistol from a friend who raised rabbits. I kept two of the fluffies outside the shed on the ground - they were too exhausted to try and move or escape - and brought the first one inside. He was a light brown stallion, mumbling quietly about how tired and cold he felt. I placed him on the wood, this time propped up against over a metal bucket. I positioned him so his head was over the bucket, then took a breath and pressed the pistol against his forehead, inbetween his ears. He blinked and strained his eyes to look up.
“Daddeh, wats tha-” I fired the pistol and it slammed into his fragile little skull, causing his body to jerk and blood to dribble from his mouth.
“Jesus.” The pistol was probably powerful enough that he wouldn’t regain consciousness, but I didn’t want to risk it - I quickly grabbed a knife and slit his throat from ear to ear. Much like the first mare, the rapid pumping of his heart made blood pour out uncomfortably fast.
I let him bleed out, then dumped his body in a paper bag. I grabbed the second fluffy and positioned her at the same spot. She was fast asleep, probably already close to death, but I used the pistol again anyways and slit her throat too. And then there was the third, and they all went into the paper bag and my freezer.
I went inside and showered, feeling absolutely filthy and spent. Better than the incinerator, yes. But maybe I wasn’t cut out for dispatching. Feeding microfluffs to my ravenous chickens wasn’t hard, but this was different.
Maybe it would get easier. I reminded myself, this was to clear invasive plants and protect the native ecosystem. A worthy sacrifice.
Night five. I was a little sad to see Bean get sick, she was such a funny little snitch. She was so optimistic on the way to the shed too, talking about how happy she was to eat skettis before having to go to the ranch.
Day six. This is when things began to go downhill.
I was woken up by shrill cries coming from my yard, and I walked out to see that three more fluffies had died overnight, their bodies cold, their faces blue, mouths agape in an ill-fated effort to pull that last bit of oxygen into their blood.
The remaining six fluffies were sobbing around them, poking their bodies.
“Huuhuuuhuuu…why fwuffy fwends go fowebah sweepies?? Nowe fawe!”
“I wubbed Sandwy…was speschul fwen…huhuuuu…”
Chocolate saw me approach and growled.
“It was munstah hoomin! Munstah hoomin fault! The gween sketties aw powisonous!! Hatechu mistah!! HATECHU!!!”
The other fluffis looked at him, bewildered. One mare looked at me with big, watery eyes.
“D-daddeh…is it twue? Is daddeh huwting fwuffies??”
“Oh, honey no. You are all a little sick. You used to be ferals, remember? Living on the streets can make a fluffy very sick. I was keeping you here in case you needed to go to that special ranch, and it looks like a lot of you have needed to go. Sadly I didn’t get to your friends in time, I’m sorry about that.”
“Mistah is WYWING!! WYAW!!! BAD HOOMIN!! BAAAAAAD!!” Chocolate screamed, stomping his hooves and tossing himself about until he stumbled and fell flat on his face. I’d say he was acting like a petulant toddler crying about nothing, except he was absolutely correct.
“You know, Chocolate, you’re seeming a little sick yourself. I think I need to take you to the ranch.”
Chocolate’s eyes shot open.
“Nu. Nu nu nu. Don wanna go to da ranch. Wat is da ranch mistah? Wat is it weally??” I was a little taken aback by the question.
“I already told you. It’s a special ranch where you can get better.”
“Why fwuffies no go to ranch in da fiwst pwace???”
“Because. Because I didn’t know if you would all get sick. Now, come on Chocolate. Let’s go make you feel better.” I grabbed him by the scruff and he squealed. All of the other fluffies watched this happen with dumbstruck expressions. I imagine they were trying to process what Chocolate had asked, but just couldn’t. Chocolate was a little too smart for his own good.
Once again, I brought the screaming, flailing smarty to the shed. I grabbed some rope and dropped him on the ground, using a knee on his torso to hold him down while I tied up his legs. He shrieked, banging his head against the floor, which caused me to jolt a little bit.
“Chocowate was WIGHT! MISTAH WYAW!! WORSTEST HOOMIN! HUUUUUU!”
“Fucking - stop it Chocolate! This is going to hurt so much worse if you keep thrashing around!”
“Chocowate don CAWE! HATE MISTAH!!! Chocowate gonna make fwuffy kiwwing HAWDEW!! Chocowate fwight untiw da fowebah sweepies!” I was more than a little disturbed at how much he understood. He knew he was going to die. He wasn’t begging to live.
I didn’t HAVE to kill him. He wasn’t sick yet. And even if he was, I had methylene blue. I could reverse the methemoglobinemia easily. But for some reason, I didn’t.
“Trust me, you don’t want this to hurt!” I tied his arms and legs down to the wood, then used a ratchet strap to pull his head and neck down until his chin was flush with the board.
I had never seen so much hate in a fluffy’s eyes. He used his entire weight to rock the board. I grabbed the captive bolt pistol and held it to his forehead. He screeched, tears streaming down his cheeks, and I pushed the trigger.
“Oh FUCK.” Chocolate wasn’t stunned. He convulsed and thrashed, screaming incoherently, foaming at the mouth. I quickly grabbed the pistol, moved it up a centimeter and shot again. This time, he went limp, gargling, blood seeping from his head. I took a breath and grabbed the knife, sticking his throat. The blood started to flow, a normal, rich red color, mixing with the muddy brown blood of the former fluffies.
As soon as I thought the life had left his eyes entirely, there was one last gargle.
“Hate…chu…”
Day seven. To my relief, the last five fluffies had all died.
I gathered up all of the carcasses, except Chocolate’s. I couldn’t enter the shed quite yet. I grabbed the frozen bodies and drove them as well as a pile of wood chips to the rancher down the road. She asked me how the experiment went, and I told her it went well. The fluffies were great at clearing lots of invasives, even though they were difficult ferals. She said she might try it. I said she should.
The committee was eager to hear about my experiment. I told them it went well. The fluffies were great at clearing lots of invasives, even though they were difficult ferals. A couple members say they might try it. I said they should.
There was a lot of promise for this joint project of feral fluffy management and invasive weed control. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. A member of the committee said he wanted to propose a more official plan to the city, and wanted me on as a consult. I said I’d be happy to help.
I went home and finally opened the shed to Chocolate’s lifeless body. I carried him and buried him in the corner of my yard.
I looked around. I had succeeded. The kochia was gone. And I would never do this again.