Sometimes friends ask me why I never left West Virginia. “You’re a mincing queer little fairy boy, why not go somewhere where that’s accepted?” I like to firstly correct their outdated lingo and needlessly pigeonholing pronoun choices (gently if they’re a friend), and secondly remind them that bad places don’t become good places by chasing away all the good people.
Days like these make me question my thinking.
Last month a new state law was passed. In an effort to curb “widespread escapes and rape orgies” that were supposedly happening at shelters around the state, any fluffy kept at a shelter receiving state funds for longer than seven days must be pillowed by the end of the next business day. Failing to do so results in fines if we’re caught. Too many and they pull our funding.
I work as a grunt at a local shelter and about half our budget comes from the state. If we lose that, we have to close down. That means fluffies filling alleyways. That means more culls. More crackdowns.
Today is the first day for what my friend Arthur is referring to as “Nu Weggie Time.” At the end of the eighth day, we go and pillow all the expiring fluffies. It’s bound to be a tearful process, and luckily there are only seven today. I drew the short straw, so I have to do it.
On the plus side my boss gave me like a half ounce of weed and some cool 12-gauge pyrotechnic rounds for lighting shit on fire, and her boss gave me what he assures me is really good mushroom tea.
Brad prepped the unlucky seven this morning. He’d spent the last few days turning an old playroom into a sort of “goodbye legs” room. A place where the fluffies could do whatever they needed to process what was coming. We felt it was wrong to just spring it on them, and Brad volunteered to manage that group each day. Guy really has a deep well of empathy, lemme tell ya.
It’s pretty nice in there. There’s lots of different shapes and textures to hug and climb, places to run around, places to jump, even some water for making good splashies! Not too deep of course, but it was something.
The fluffies this morning hadn’t taken the news well, I’m told. During lunch, Brad said that Walter, an older stallion, spent a good two hours desperately searching for something that would make us love him enough to let him keep his legs. When Brad tried to talk him down, he’d just start panicking and run away trying to hide.
There’s videos and shit, happy pillow songs, all kinds of positive nu-weggie based imagery on everything. Apparently a couple of them were resigned to it. Less because it was effective coddling, more because their spirits are already completely broken.
One of them had to kill her lastest babbeh. She wouldn’t talk about why, but the overnight guy said he caught her in her kennel repeatedly banging her head on the door. He went over to tell her to quit making noise and realized she was crying and muttering abuse at herself. Calling herself “wowstest mummah ebba” and saying shit like "dummeh poopie mummah nu sabe nu babbehs at aww…"
The way the system works, I set up at my workstation and flip a switch. This turns on a blue light and an alarm in the saferoom. The alarm is, of course, a chorus of giggling babies intermixed with curated recordings of toddlers being excited about fluffies. Gets them all a little distracted so Brad can pick one and bring them through the door to me.
First one he brings in is the mummah I mentioned. She isn’t looking at me. Isn’t looking at anyone. Her eyes just sort of hang there, like the image burnt into them is impossible to see past. She’s hanging limp under his arm as he sets her up in the immobilizer. He gives me a pat on the shoulder.
“Thought I’d bring the easy one first. She’s barely spoken all day. She was staring at a wall for a while so I picked her up and just sorta held her most of the afternoon. I think she’s basically checked out.”
I thanked him, covering his hand on my shoulder with my own to reaffirm the gesture. He took his leave and I returned to my task.
I looked at the mare, who was now facing me. She had the thousand yard stare still, but at least it’s in the right direction this time. “Honey? I’m very sorry, but do you know why you’re here?” Not sure where to start. Brad may have been trying to give me the easy one, but I don’t have any way of knowing how she’ll react when the machine engages.
It’s pretty straightforward. Set of blades chop about a third of the way from the hips, spindle cuts and pulls meat, and the stitcher sews it all up nice and neat. All the bits even chemically cauterize. It’s great.
Makes it quick. Makes it automatic. Makes it so I don’t have to feel it.
“Ou wan take weggies. Nu cawe.”
Huh. She snapped me back to the present. Not the kind of interjection I expected. “I…well, yes. I have to take them or the government will shut us down. I’m very sorry.” She barely reacted. “Nu cawe. Nuffin mattew. Wan die anyways.” Huh. Hadn’t expected that.
“Now hey, lots of pillows lead very-”
“Nu.” She cut me off. "Fwuffy hafta gib wastest babbeh fowebba sweepies. Fwuffy nu wan wibe nu mowe. Ou am meanie munstah hu huwt fwuffy, su huwt fwuffy!" She’d gotten amped. “Wan die! Wet fwuffy die! Nu wanna be hewe nu mowe! Nu wan bweef! Nu wan wun wound! Nu wan du nuffin! Nu wan-”
I cut her off with a Phillips Head to the frontal lobe. Scrambled it around for a sec, she was dead. Engaged the machine and clipped her, too. Don’t want some shithead calling the state GOP and reporting us for technically violating their pointlessly cruel law.
I hit another switch. Red light, birds chirping alarm. Brad comes in alone. “What’s up, did you…” He sees the mare. “Jesus, what happened?” I don’t look at him. I’m still shaken up. I can’t.
“She wanted to die. She’d done something horrible and wanted to die. Losing her legs meant she could no longer make any independent meaningful progress towards that goal and she knew it. She begged for death and I granted it.”
“So why am I here?”
"Because I didn’t want the next one coming in and seeing a corpse. Ditch the body, let me clean up. Five minutes, tops." Brad nodded and complied. I lit a joint to calm down, cleaned up, and hit the switch.
Next.
Aw man, bummer. It’s the colt.
There was a particularly vibrant and rambunctious young unicorn who got brought in and none of the handful of browsers we get wanted him. He’s blue with a pink mane and chubby cheeks. He’s your classic future depressed pillow, a fluffy who focused all of his growth and self improvement on things like running and hugging.
Brad is not bringing in an apple cheeked and cheery colt. This colt is exhausted. “He was really bumming everyone out. I’ve been doing what I can, but he kept trying to get me to clarify what I meant by” taking away weggies" and I think he was hoping I’d slip up and say something that let him escape his fate? I don’t know, it was all sorta rapid fire." The fluffy sighed and in a low singsong voice added:
“Nu, dat pwetty much wat Boostew was twyin’ tu du…” He’s cried his tears out. At least he’s not gonna beg for death…I hope. Brad brings him to the immobilizer and sets him down, leaving quickly. My part makes him uncomfortable.
The feeling is mutual. We’re both on our proper sides of that door.
"Meanie wady? Hu wan take way weggies fwum gud fwaaafey?" Aw man, I genuinely find it kinda adorably pathetic when they say “fwaffy” to play for sympathy. I’m not sure why it works but it does. “Yes, Booster? What is it?” He looks up with sad eyes and a quivering lip. “B…Boostew weggies huwt. Nu wike meanie weggie boxie, howes tuu faw apawt! Weggies-hnf-weggies…nu can weach!” I took a closer look. He was right.
The poor little fella wasn’t big enough for the immobilizer on its current setting. In fact, he wasn’t big enough for ANY setting. I had to pull out the Lil’ Immobilizer Jr. For Foals! by Hasbio.
“Wady? Pwease nu take weggies way! Boostew onwy wike wun an pway! Nu wan watch teebee an wibe in poopie howsies! Nu wan sweep in hewd poopies aww time!” As I got him moved over to the new block, I apologized. “I’m sorry Booster, but we have to. If we don’t, we have to close the shelter.”
This answer was unsatisfactory. "Nu cawe bout dummeh shewtew! Boostew nu wan be nu weggie piwwow! Wan be wawkie wunnie fwuffy! Jus wet Boostew gu!" He tried to thrash, to no avail. He just managed to dislocate his shoulder.
"OWWIES! Wai huwt Boostew? Meanie munstah wady wan take weggies fwum wittwe babbeh, an wan babbeh hab huwties, tuu? Dat nu faiw! Wet gu! Wet Boostah gu wite nao!" I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t want to do this. He’s a child! He’s a child who could conceivably live another twelve full years and today I have to guarantee that he will be fucking miserable. Some fluffies can handle going pillow. Some can’t. Maybe Booster will surprise us.
“Booster? I’m about to do it. Do you want to hold my hand while I do?” He was panting, worn out from screaming. Probably what had him tuckered out when he came in. “Huuuhuhuhu can…huu can wady put nu-hoofsie in Boosta mouf? Boostew awways make wowstest chompies wen hab huwties ow fwum be tuu scawed, nu…nu wan huwt teefies tuu. Boostah teefies nu huwt wady, pwomise! Pwease? Hewp Boosty?”
Poor guy. I won’t bother correcting him, figures that fucking Hasbio would bake in their bullshit gender binary. No need to stress him right now.
I put my hand in his mouth and he clamps down. His teeth are soft, like harder versions of his hoofie pads. Kibble is about the hardiest thing they can consistently pulverize, and my hand is a great deal more sturdy.
“Are you ready, hon?” He breathes. His breathing quickens and he shuts his eyes. Tears start to push past his squinting and his breathing gets even faster. Then he holds, opens his eyes, and breathes out. He looks up at me, and I feel him try to nod as he tries to say “gu” through my hand. I activate the machine.
It moves quickly. He squeals pretty bad into my hand and really chomps down. He’s right, a foal his age could have seriously damaged his teeth. It’s unfair to do this to him, to any of them. The fucking problem it’s meant to fight both A: isn’t a real problem and B: wouldn’t be in any way solved or alleviated by this draconian new law.
The process takes thirty seconds. I can feel him get hoarse, he’s really really screaming. Young fluffies have their nerve endings both way more concentrated and way more sensitive since they’re still new. When it’s over, I leave my hand there until he releases and pulls away. I’ve taken his agency away from him permanently, letting him feel in control here is the least I can do.
He looks up, tears free flowing out of his eyes now. “P…pwease can howd Boostew? Howd…howd Boostew wike babbeh?” Without daying anything I pick him up and nestle him close to my chest. He buries his face in my jacket and starts full blown sobbing again. “HUUUUUU huhuhuhuuuu nu faiw! Dis nu faiw! Wai Boostew onwy get tu hab weggies fow wittwe bit? Wai wittwe Boostew hafta be dummeh nu weggie piwwow?” He resumed sobbing and I hugged him tight. I could feel his wails vibrate through my sternum. His pain was my pain.
After a few minutes, I sang him a mummah song. I don’t know why, it just seemed the decent thing to do. He tried to sing along but kept crying. Eventually he was just humming along with me. Soon, he was asleep. I placed him in the heated baby seat on the desk and hit the switch.
Next.