Nelson, Curly, and Ruby: Part One: “FLUFFIES ON THE RUN”
It’s been a few months since you’ve seen your beloved dog, Tucker. You finally managed to save up for a home of your own a few years after college, and your mother decided to take your golden boy away. You had no choice in the matter—but you only moved about an hour north from where you grew up, so weekend visits are in the cards when you aren’t busy.
It’s been lonely.
Adopting or buying a new dog has been increasingly difficult with PRVO-23 going around and killing them all in their sleep. At least they don’t feel it. Cats, dogs, and bunnies have been replaced with fluffies. The disgusting, fat, shit-filled rats that pollute the streets. Breeders are charging a pretty penny for Tucker’s breed, so that’s a no go.
There’s really only two options; crushing loneliness and work or adopting a creature you hate.
After long deliberation, you think:
“What could be the harm?”,
As a malicious grin unknowingly creeps across your mouth. After a quick shower and change, you hop into your car and speed off.
A few blown red lights and a 400$ speeding ticket later, you pull up to the ASPCA’s small headquarters downtown. The stench of shit and fur pollutes the air surrounding the building, but you manage the smell and stride inside the double doors to the front desk. The cute, bubbly blonde girl at the front desk greets you with a friendly “How can I help you today?” and a smile. You respond,
“Do you have any fluffies for adoption?”
She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the question. She replies meekly, “Um sir…fluffies are no longer considered animals. We have to…” she trails off, tears in her eyes.
“Kill them?” you say flatly.
The girl nods her head, waterworks on full display.
“Alright. Sorry to bother, and sorry to make you cry,” you say as you quickly walk back out to the parking lot.
Your tension waits to release as you open the driver’s side door, sit, and slam it shut. You ball your hand into a fist and begin punching the inside of your car door in frustration. You try and reach out for fluffies, but something always says NO.
The quick burst ends as soon as it began. Collecting your breath and thoughts, you drive, this time slowly, to the place where you adopted Tucker. Driving down a familiar road to “Puppies on the Run”, the memories flood in, being surprised and given a yellow-golden ball of fur and fat, with beautiful brown eyes staring back at me with nothing but love. The elderly woman who owned the place ran it herself, and raised the puppies herself with all of her heart. Apparently, it was her husband’s dying wish. You brought him home as your mother drove, the dog sitting in your lap and feeling comfortable enough to fall asleep with his new owners for once. The memories flow like water, and you finally come to the conclusion that you need a new dog. You imagine all of the new adventures with it, going to the beach…
The thoughts abruptly ends as you enter the gravel lot of the adoption building.
The lot looks abandoned. Nobody has been here in months.
The wooden carved sign above the building has been replaced with a flashing neon sign reading:
“FLUFFIES ON THE RUN”.
The rage boils within you. They even took the dog’s old home. You figure this could be a blessing in disguise, maybe you are meant to have a fluffy. You exit the car, and walk towards the entrance. You can’t help but notice it is absolutely COVERED in crusted shit. As you open the old, creaky door (at least they kept that), you are greeted by a short, overweight kid with a Marvel shirt on. He glances at you through bites of a Kit-Kat, it seems. “Hh-h-huullo sihr. Welcome to Flufphies on da Rhun,” laboring with each syllable, clearly keeping his voice down.
Then, as if the gates of Hell themselves opened, a thousand cries were heard saying;
“NYUUU DADDDEHHH???”
The shrills screams are abruptly ended with a slight crack, like the sound of a cracking knuckle, and a scree “SCREEEEEE” from a back room, accompanied with an even more labored “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!”
You recognize the sound instantly. The rage begins to boil away.
Someone’s babbeh just had their spine broken. People of culture, it seems!
You pay no mind to the fat clerk as you begin to stroll through the people-empty room, only occupied by mares and, if they were lucky, their foals. They were placed into small cubicles with high walls so that visitors could enter and play with them, just like they did for puppies.
Unsurprisingly, there were no visitors. Nobody wants to be covered in shit and piss while playing.
As you peer into the cubicles, nothing but disgust and demented hatred fill you. These pastel bio-toys lurch around their tile covered areas, wailing about “mummahs” and “daddehs” and “expiwashun daye”. Blue colts cry for your attention, a purple mare calls you “dummeh nyu daddeh”. You pick her up to eye level and glare in her eyes with contempt as you holding her skin suffocates her. You throw her into the pen as a fly lands on her eye. There’s no babies to mourn her. They were already half-eaten by their mummah. The clerk pays no attention.
Another cubicle contains two black and brown mares. They stare blankly ahead behind cataract-filled eyes as their foals gorge themselves on milk, slowly killing their mother.
Three more cubicles contain four dead families. “Expensive” alicorns with their horns cracked, wings destroyed. Fathers “enf-ing” their children’s corpses. You gave that one a slow, agonizing choke to death.
You sighed. It was an abuser’s paradise, but that’s not what you’re here for.
As you reach the corner of the room, you peer into the most isolated group of fluffies.
The magenta mummah is singing.
Clearly favored by the owner (or potentially the fat fuck up front), this mummah was overfed and pampered. Her babies cried in the corner, starving for milk, moaning “nee…miwgee…”, not even old enough to form full words. You watched as one took its last breath. You call for the mummah, “Hey shitrat. I got a treat for you.” “TWEAT???”, comes the almost instant response. She shifts her bulbous body around to look at you. As she does, you can see a golden-yellow foal clinging to her ass for dear life. You swiftly grab him. The color matched exactly the color of Tucker. The foal’s eyes grew wide, almost popping out of its head, tail wagging with excitement.
“NYUDABBEH! HUGNWUB YU DADDEH! FWUBBY FOW WUBNHUG!!”
If he was the same color as Tucker, maybe he could make just as good of a pet.
As your hand and the fluff’s coat meet, any hope was crushed.
The fur felt like straw, and was covered in its mothers crusted and fresh shit.
The fat welled up in the foal’s stomach and legs, making it feel like a wet sandbag.
The eyes were yellow-tinged and popping out of the creature’s skull.
It was a disgusting, hollow shell of an animal. Any wonder and love that could have been had by a puppy was impossible for a fluffy.
No wonder the ASPCA didn’t classify them as animals.
You tuck him in the bottom of your pocket, making sure to dig your wallet and phone into the foal’s back, causing the most discomfort.
Feeling slightly satisfied at the state of the fluffies, you begin to walk out of the small building. The clerk shoots you a look, clearly hearing the previous choking and cracking, and chooses not to ask you about the foal. As you leave, you snatch two more as the clerk looks on: a pink wingie with a purple mane, and a black colt with a brown mane. They look at you with abject horror as they are shoved into the already crowded pocket.
The clerk still says nothing.
Now fully satisfied, you walk to the lot and into your car. Sitting in the seat, you can feel the pressure begin to squeeze the babies in your pocket. Their cries of
“WYDUDIS NYU DADDEH, WE WAN HUGNWUB AN WUBNHUG!!”
and
“BAD HUWTEES! BABBEH NEEDDU BWEEEVE”
as well as
“…pweasebe gooddu fwubbies…”
sent a chill down your spine. Taking them out and placing them in your lap for the ride home, they immediately begin shrieking in pain and catching their breath. Worst of all, they shit all over your seats. They won’t shut up, nevermind fall asleep like Tucker did.
Maybe you were sent to this “abuser’s paradise” for a reason, you think.
Usually, you don’t give fluffies names, given what you do to them.
These ones are gonna be different, you say to yourself.
Nelson. The black colt with brown mane.
Ruby. The pink one.
and Curly. The disfigured form of an animal. The object of your rage and ire.
Their lives will be a living hell.
END PART ONE
Part 2 should be out soon! Let me know if you want to see more!