The suggestion of a fluffy herding game reminded me of this thing I once wrote. Found the notepad saves of all four parts I had up on the Booru a couple weeks ago, and that prompted me to actually post it.
Be a blue feral fluffy pony. Your herd has been traveling through the wilds in search of a safe place for, well, pretty much as long as there has been a herd. Some of the older fluffies tell stories of humans that feed fluffies and give them homes, but even those were passed down, something a sister of a herd friend of a herd friends momma once saw. In the harsh wilds of wisconsin, safe places were hard to come by. Wild notdoggeh munstas big and brown or small and red, big notail kitteh munstas, huge growly black munstas, screechy bird munstas with sharp toes, all hiding among the forests and trees. In the not forest places, where humans might be, the munstas were fewer, but they were harder to hide from.
The herd had found a place near human houses, with tall green grassies and nummie plants growing in neat rows. The smarty friend led the mommas and foals into the middle of the greenest spot, with the rest of the herd surrounding them and the toughie friends keeping watch on the outside of the circle. At least, thatâs what the old smarty friend would have done. You miss the old smarty friend, a big pointy fluffy with grey tail and mane and thick black fluff, except over the old owie places on his shoulders. He always knew what to do and where to hide, how to survive the cold times, until the big screechy bird munsta took him. New smarty friend is louder and orange, and the herd is hungrier and loses more friends to the munstas. But new smarty says things will be better away from forest again, and there are a lot more nummies here. His special friend and her foals are grazing happily in the center of the herd, and other stallions are keeping close to their mares and foals as they graze. But the toughie friends are in the middle, grabbing at nummies without a single glance up. All the herd had many tummy hurties from the tough yellow grassies between the forest and the green places, so new smarty probably just forgot about asking toughies to keep watch like they did in the forest.
There is a slamming noise somewhere, and a loud, harsh sound as something runs out of a nearby building. You look up with a mouthful of nummie leaves, and see the two big, black doggeh munstas running at your herd, barking furiously. You turn and yell, âmunstas coming! Wun awayâ, and try to push your special friend away from them, though you know she canât out run them slowed by the soon coming foals as she is, if any of you could. Half the toughies have already bolted any which way, mummas are grabbing for favorite foals and running after the toughies, some special friends helping their mares or grabbing for foals, the others forgetting and running blindly. The biggest of the toughies and the orange smarty are standing their ground, puffing out their cheeks and blowing razzies at the munstas.
âThis smarty herd land now. All nummies ours. Dummeh munstas go 'wayâ
As smarty as your smarty friend is, you think this might not be the best approach so you continue urging your special friend farther away, trying to stay on the far side of the garden from the munstas and the smarty. There, big leafy bushes, almost the same color as your mate. Maybe you can hide in that. You can feel prickles catching on your fluff, but push farther in anyways. Glancing back, you can see the smarty still yelling at the doggeh munstas, who have skidded into a confused looking stop at the sound of his voice. Maybe he was the best smartyâŚ
One of the toughies tries to sorry hoovies the smaller munsta on the nose, and is given worstest owwies from snarling white teeth. The other toughies turns to run, but is pinned down by a huge dull clawed paw as the smarty stops talking and backs away. Nope. Old smarty was best smarty.
You can see a pair of lost foals stumbling towards your bush, dull grey and red fluff standing out against the grassies, crying for their mummas. The one munsta is still tearing into the toughie, the other bounding after the fleeing smarty. You dash out as fast as possible, nudging one up onto your fluff and grabbing the other before retreating back to your bush. With the doggeh munstas still preoccuppied with the fluffies in front of them, you risk slinking out again, trying to quietly get the attention of nearby mares and foals to call them to the possible safety of the bush, before the munstas noticed them. A few saw you waving, and scrambled over, a dark green toughie and a charcoal wingie fluffy stallion running out further to lead more mummas and fluffies back, loading their backs with foals. Halfway back, a tiny blue foal fell from the wingieâs back, landing with a small squeak.
Munstas are still chasing yelling fluffies on other side of garden, hadnât heard the foal. You race to grab it and bring it back safe with the others.
ânu take babbeh! Babbeh need mummah!â the blue foalâs mumma had seen you grabbing her, and waddled after you, protesting at the top of her lungs. That the doggeh munstas definitely heard, as they turn and charge in your direction. The larger one stops short inches from the mumma, the blocky thing around its neck lighting up and beeping. The other slides farther, knocking into the mumma with a paw before yelping as its blocky thing beeps louder. The mumma scrambles into the bush, whining at the thorns in her fluff as the munstas pace back and forth, the blocky things flashing and beeping.
one of the fluffies on the far side cries, and the munstas turn to run for it, pouncing and crunching a chirpy foal in a single bite on the way.
You stay hidden in the bush for a while, carefully creeping out the other side once the munstas had gone quiet. 'wook! Mow fwuffies!" one of the mares squeals, bolting towards the fluffy white and brown mass huddled behind a pile of leaves. A mass of grey and black fluff raises itself next to the other, trotting toward you with weirdly big ears. It stops by the edge of another garden, and you can see the large grey, black and white fluffy waiting for you, fluffy tail swishing behind it. The other joins it, white and black striped orangish brown fluff, big ears and a weird trot, before its tail curves up over its back and it races between your part of the herd and the prickly bush, barking. Not fluffies, fluffy doggeh munstas! You run forward, away from it, and it drops to the ground, staring at you intently. When you stop, it slinks towards you, never quite within lunging range but never far out of it. The grey mottled fluffy munsta trots around your little herd on stubby, fluffy like legs, barking as all the fluffies huddle together. It feints lunges at fluffies, never quite connecting, driving you further away from the bush and closer together.
A beep and a snarl, the black doggeh munstas are back at the edge of the bush, pacing a straight line back and forth. A young pink mare is slowly edging through a thinner section of the bush, a white foal in her mouth. The stripy fluffy munsta lunges, barking, but at the black doggeh munsta, startling itâs yelping jump into a thorny patch of bush. The filly squeals, dropping the foal and running for the herd crying. The grey munsta lets her go by, continuing the trotted circle around the herd for a moment before driving them deeper into the clipped green grassies, until you see a patch of cover under an brightly colored arch. The munsta lets your herd reach the shade there, and lies down nearby, snarling whenever any fluffy takes more than a few steps away from the rest of the herd.
The stripy munsta slinks towards you from the other side, watching you with mismatched eyes on a half colored face before lunging in and dropping a damp and frightened but unharmed white foal next to the herd. It nudges at the foal with its long muzzle, then backs away, dropping to the ground across from the grey munsta.
The pink filly takes a few cautious steps towards the bigger, longer legged munsta, which lifts its head and stares at her watchfully. ânice munsta saved fwuffy. Gib huggies?â it nudges at her as she hugged its nose, dragging a long pink tongue over her face hard enough to knock her over backwards before turning to bark at the black munsta still pacing.
Be a sport dog handler. Someone(and if you didnât love them enough to maintain a happy marriage there would be the riot act read over that) left your top two dogs outside without latching their dratted run. They know what the yard boundaries are, and you have nearly a half acre, but there is always the chance they decide to go exploring unsupervised. Between the coyotes, bobcats, and that one black bear that wonât leave the area on one side, and the one neighbors intact brats of hunting labs on the other, things could go wrong. At least both your dogs are the wrong gender to get pregnant and too big for hawks to grab, unlike the other neighborâs pomeranians.
âOdin! Tyr! Where did you get to?â? People ask why you named a Scottish border collie and a cardigan welsh corgi after norse/viking gods, especially when you are mostly irish, but it fits. Odin has an brindled eye-patch marked over one of his bi-colored eyes, and Tyr is a short-legged scrap happy brat who likes being the arbitrator of all things fun. Typical herding dog attitude. And they both always look so savage devouring their raw dinners.
The neighbors stupid labs bark at you as you walk by the raspberry brambles you planted just on your side of the yard. Their e fence is all well and good, but itâs reassuring to have something solid between them starting anything, or being taunted into starting anything with your dogs. Or if your cat got out again and their prey drive kicked in. Like the time the chickens got out of the coop. You see tufts of white fur and blood on the other side of the line, and your heart almost stops for a moment before you see the other colors and the scattering of dead and dying fluffies. Poor ferals. They didnât even bother to eat any of the mess, and their owner thinks your dogs are going to turn vicious? Dumb-ass.
Tyr barks, and you see your boys sprawled in the middle of their agility course, oddly focused on the shade underneath the A-frame. And the bits of brightly colored breathing fluff huddled into a neatly managed herd between them. As you approach, Tyr bounces to his feet, barking at the fluffies. Odin falls into stalk position, staring the fluffies down until they run towards you, then reassembling the tight circle near your feet, wagging his tail proudly. âGood boys. Nice job, clearly you have the instinct for herding trials after all. Now what am I going to do with a herd of fluffies?â
Perils of Wisconsin, part two.
Be a sport dog handler who just found your corgi and border collie guarding a herd of feral fluffies from the horrors of the neighbors labs. Asgard only knows why.
Maybe they think theyâre weird mutant colored mini sheep? That talk like brain damaged toddlers. Wonderful. You loved MLP, have all the decent seasons on bluray, a bench full of build-a-bear plushies, and a shelf of recolor toys repainted as minis from the time you talked the gaming group into letting you run a ponyfinder campaign. Yeah, you had cthulu eat all of them in the end, but it was still a fun campaign. But you have cussed out anyone trying to talk you into wandering down to the fluffy shelter. If the thing you hate most about children is the obnoxious tone of their voice, why would you add an almost impossible to housebreak, danger prone babbler to your nice, quiet house? Besides, the cats would murder them, even if the dogs didnât. Well, okay, Paul is like the chillest thing since the gom jabbar. Alia would fuck their shit up, then piss on all your stuff for bringing another unworthy creature into her domain. She still isnât happy about the dogs, even after they learned to stay out of her way.
Husband who can recite the flavor text off every MTG card ever and build you a deck list before even touching his card boxes but canât remember to latch a dog gate wouldnât be happy either. House limit is four pets. Took fast talking to convince him on the chickens before the labs massacred them. The neighbor boosted the hell out of the e fence collars after that, but you still arenât talking to him.
Youâve tried to convince the husband that a small flock of goats or sheep would be perfect for training the dogs on, as well as eliminating lawn mowing and adding free lamb and wool to the budget. He remains convinced that any household goats would eat his clothing. One bad petting zoo incident, and a guy gets soured on perfectly good livestock for life. Really. Dog training tools, lawn care, fertilizer, wool for spinning into your yarn collection, and meat for you and the dogs, what more could you ask forâŚ
You look at the Fluffies again, look at your nice, empty, weatherproof chicken coop with attached fenced yard, and start grinning like the Grinch realizing he could steal Christmas. youâre pretty sure you have enough discount ramen and ketchup somewhere back in the kitchen to lure them. or you could just let Odin and Tyr move them forcibly. Whatever works.
âHi fluffies, what are you doing here? Do you want skettis?â You decide to try an upbeat customer service tone and your best donât scare the children smile.
âNice human give fwuffies skettis ?â A tiny pink filly edges around the suspicous looking blue unicorn in front, looking unbearably hopeful. âNyu human mummah for fwuffie? Give home and skettis?â
âNo, you canât come in the house, itâs, um, not safe for fluffies.â Letâs head that right off at the pass. No reclaimed feral livestock in the house. âbut you can live in this little fluffy house, and I will bring you sketties and other nummies.â you point at the coop. âBut there will be rules if you want to stay here with me as your mumma.â Okay, even using that term is nauseating. Remember, the rewards will be worth the nonsense. Weirdly, the blue unicorn is looking less suspicious with the mention of rules. Huh. Maybe free skettis was too good to be true.
âRule one. You have to stay on this side of the hedge, because the dogs will eat you. Rule two, you will stay out of my garden, because Iâm not fighting fluffies and slugs over who eats my strawberries.â you point dramatically at the wire fenced plot. Really, anything you care about is in the second garden within the fenced dog run off the back porch, because deer hop anything less than a six foot fence. But itâs the principle, even if this garden is just tangles of uncontrollable mint and tarragon surrounding a giant rhubarb and a handful of sad strawberry bushes. âYou can eat all of the grass you want, but stay away from the fenced plants and the roses. Rule threeâŚâ you grab for a section of compost bin fencing and mark off a corner of the chicken yard. âall poopies go in here. I will clean it out once a week. If I find shit anywhere else, I will not be happy. Rule four. Sometime i will need you to move around the yard with the puppies guiding you. Any fluffy who throws a fit will be taken to a special bad fluffy shelter, after I give them a bath.â If you tape a sign to the basement door, you wouldnât even really be lying. âRule five⌠hmm. Rule five is that my yard can only handle twenty-five adult ponies. Foals can stay until they grow up, but if the herd grows bigger than that, then we can vote and the least loved fluffies will go to stay at the umm, hotel California. its nice there, but not as good as the yard, and they canât ever come back.â
If you label the freezer, still not an actual lie. 25 adult fluffies should be sufficient to keep inbreeding low, assuming you add a few new ferals or shelter stock in every now and then for out-crosses, at least to prevent the most obvious mutations and keep foal mortality low. If you can find anyone willing to buy, you might need a second coop and more stock eventually, but twenty-five should maintain enough harvest-able offspring to keep the freezer stocked. No more buying rabbits at $15 each. Still gonna need red meat and varied organs to maintain protein variety for the spoiled canine brats, but husband should be happy that the dog food budget just went down. Even if youâll have to spring for hay and fluffy kibble or something for winter. maybe just dry harvest some of the front yard grass, mini bale it in the shed. Itâs not like they need timothy hay and skettis every day. You make a mental note to look up basic fluffy nutrition requirements, you do want them to stay healthy. Thereâs only about ten or eleven adults right now, more mares than stallions, you think, and about twice that many foals. Time enough to get them fattened up and parasite free before any freezer relocation, you can pick up cheap dewormer at the feed store. Or you could ask the vet, she works on livestock often enough to know what you could use without tainting the meat.
Be a blue unicorn fluffy. Maybe the old tales of nice humans are true. You have been offered a warm safe place to sleep, protection from the doggeh munstas across the hedge thing, and nummies, even skettis. She didnât invite you into her housie, but maybe that is best with kitty munstas and doggeh munstas inside, even if the fluffy doggeh munstas were nice right now. The pink filly was hugging the taller munsta again, and he was licking her mane quietly. You look at the safe nestie with its ramped door and sectioned poopie place, then to your little herd, your special friend almost ready to have foals, and back at the human. You wish the old smarty was here, he would know what to do. Even the new smarty would be saying he knew what to do. âNice nyu mummah? fwuffies wiww stay and fowwow wuwes fow safe pwace and sketti nummies. thank yu fow saving us with the good doggeh munstas.â
Perils of Wisconsin, part three
Be a sport dog handler who has embarked on a new hobby of fluffy farming. Cheaper than the chickens you used to have. cheaper to feed too, given that apparently dried grass saved out of your mulcher bag is better than half the fluffy kibbles on the market. More or less.
Disappointingly, it has been two days, and none of your new stock have broken any of the rules yet. In fact, that little pink pegasi filly has been stupidly cute. Somehow, a brief video of you practicing herding trial maneuvers yesterday that ended with her hugging Odinâs nose again ended up on YouTube, and is going viral. You will be known for having fluffy herding and loving dogs forever. Wondermere.
On the bright side, five different people around the county have contacted you. The farmers and gardeners with feral fluffy problems and someone in the house too squeamish to let them call hunters or exterminators. Surely, your marvelously sweet natured sheepdogs can herd up their nuisances harmlessly and relocate them. For a fee, naturally. You term it re-homing to the more tenderhearted of them, explaining that they can join your flock back home once you get them looked at.
One old farmer takes you aside while his wife is cooing over your dogs. âYouâll be culling most of the ones that leave with you, Iâll bet.â
âIâve only got so much room for breeding stock. The biggest and the best tempered, maybe a couple of nice colored ones. Iâve already had requests for the meat, once Iâve had them cleared.â You shrug apologetically, but he claps you on the shoulder.
âSmart girl. No sense feeding useless mouths too long. Just donât tell my granddaughter, sheâs been leaving lefse out for them before the ungrateful brats went after her flowers. She thinks theyâre precious, but her parents put their foot down on her getting one of her own.â
âUp to you, but I could keep an eye out for a good tempered, pretty foal while Iâm collecting all the local ferals. Or I have a purple maned pink filly, good with dogs and too friendly for her own good.â You half joke, checking off places on a map to run by and estimating how many crates youâd need to borrow over the three or five large ones already in your garage.
âThe one from the video? Youâd lose your best publicity. Iâll think about asking her parents again closer to her birthday. Have fun out there.â
When you find them, your first contracted bunch of ferals are holed up in the orchard on the far side of his property. You park your borrowed truck with itâs bed full of secondhand dog crates on the nearest road, then call your dogs out of the back seat. Along with Odin and Tyr, you decided to bring Njord, your mostly retired cattle dog/corgi mutt, a 8 year old 20 lb short coated merle tri with ears like a bat. Heâd always done well enough at herding classes in his competition days, but tended to a bit too much gripping on the sheep for trials, or for the semi tame practice fluff-balls at home. Prey drivy as he is, you think heâd have fun helping with any excessively stubborn ferals.
Also, squeamish, fluffy loving granddaughter of landowner is at summer camp, so you just have to avoid any carnage or fluffies dying on site.
Step one. Roust subjects from hiding. âIâve got a big bowl of skettis for any good fluffies around here!â You hold up the Tupperware of ramen and ketchup, doused with oregano for scent, above your head. Oh, look, bright colored heads poking out everywhere and a vast murmur of âskettis?â across the wind.
A florescent green unicorn stomps over in your direction, a handful of other assorted colors following him. âDis smawty wand now. Dummeh human give smawty all sketti now and smawty not give sowwy poopies.â You make mental note of him and any of the others nodding encouragement for the first wave of culls. More fluffies are creeping out of hiding, and you realize the crates are going to be a little tight. Meh, who cares, especially with this lot.
âNo, I said the sketties are for good fluffies. Good fluffies ask nicely.â Give it just a few more moments, let the stragglers get farther out of hiding so you donât need to dig them out like rabbits.
âSmawty do wat wan. Give sketties nao!â He puffs his cheeks at you, stomping his leathery little hooves. Those would make excellent dog chews, wouldnât they? âSmawty give dummeh human sowwy poopies if human nu give skettis!â He turns around, glaring at you with still puffed cheeks over his shoulder as his once fluffy tail swishes. You can see the crusty hole trembling as the matted length shifts out of the way.
Yeah, you are so done with this bullshit. âHey, Odin, Tyr, round them up. Away to me.â Happy dogs. running, squealing fluffies. âNjord, get bye!â you point an already growling mutt at the fuming herd leader in front of you. At the first hard nip to his tail, the green fluffy shrieks and races back to the center of his herd. By the way Njord is sneezing, you suspect the smarty tried sorry poopies mid charge, and only managed to annoy the dog.
Maybe Njord could ride in the back with the fluffy crates until you find a creek he can swim in, the truck being borrowed and all. Some of the fluffies flinch too far from Njordâs extra snappy approach, and you see Tyr skidding briefly through a patch of liquid shit. Or probably all the dogs can ride in the back as far as the next creek. Note to self, next time, steady the dogs a bit farther away from fluffies on the fetch. There are a lot of fluffies being chased out of assorted crevices in this orchard,maybe thirty or forty adults,but surprisingly few foals. You glance up to see a tuft of bright color in a rough nest, and a fat crow watching you and the moving fluffies. Okay, a lot of fat crows, and a lot of bits of fluff and tiny skulls in nests and under trees. Eh, they can find a new food source somewhere else, youâll warn the farmer to watch his crops.
After a great deal of wailing and circling, you start loading fluffies into crates. Foals and mummas in one huge plastic crate, weaned colts and fillies in their own wire cage, a bigger towel padded crate for pregnant maresâŚ
âDummeh human! Nu touch smawty speciew fwiend! Fwowew neeâ stay with speciaw fwiend!â You glance over at the screeching green stallion, then back at the very pregnant pale yellow maned white mare you were about to load. That guy from the card shop did say newborn foals would be the best size for his new snake, perfect. The mare does have gorgeous coloring, though, hmm.
âOkay, Flower, did you want to stay with the other soon mummas and eat the sketti, or is that bad fluffy your special friend?â you decide to test how salvageable the mare might be.
âFwowew soon mumma to smawty foals! Fwowew neeâ speciaw fwiend and aww the sketti! Dummeh human put Fwowew down nao!â There are always other good colored fluffies, but none are worth that level of obnoxious. Just as bad as he is, you decide, as her tail lifts and you barely get her turned around in time. Thoughtfully, you put her into a smaller, currently empty crate by herself.
âAlright, knowing that I already said sketti is only for good fluffies, how many of you want to call me a dummy human?â letâs weed out the extra stupid and arrogant at the start. A sadly unsurprising number chime in, yelling demands at you. âHow many of you want to give me sorry poopies or sorry hoofies?â Tails and feet are waved in a pathetic attempt at threatening gestures that earn a low growl from dogs. âAny stallions that want sketti and havenât answered the last two questions, go sit quietly in that box,â you gesture to one of the bigger remaining crates.
You suspect that one or two of the subdued fluffies scrambling into the crate did, in fact answer yes to the test questions, but one thing at a time. âAny mares that want sketti and donât think Iâm a dummy who can be threatened with shit or your ridiculous feet, go sit quietly in that box.â Definitely at least three that had tails lifted at you filing into the box. Youâll have to deal with that later. âAny of you that really want to stay with your smarty and never get sketti, stay here, and everyone else in that crate.â It takes a few threatening moves from Odin and a lunging nip from Njord, but they cram themselves into the crate and you shove the door closed, a little past standing room only. The bare handful standing behind the still fuming smarty, and mister nuclear green himself, get shoved into the poodle crate with flower. If they can complain, they can breath, and they have enough room. Now you just need to get them sorted and processed.
Perils of Wisconsin, part FOUR.
Be a dog sport handler with a side job of fluffy farming and âhumane and environmentally friendly feral fluffy relocation.â You finally get home with a truck-bed full of tight crated fluffies and wet, slightly muddy dogs. You leave the crate of expectant mummas open in a puppy padded ex-pen in the garage to settle themselves in. There are three more ex-pens already set up in there with rabbit water bottles and bowls of fresh cut grass and fruit, as well as some now cold oregano and ketchup covered ramen. Distributing out the bait âskettiâ as promised costs you jack shit at this point, and might mean a modicum more cooperation.
You pull the nursing mares out of their crate into the light one by one, gauging their reactions and behavior as much as their colors. A large dark emerald green earth mare with pale blue mane nuzzles into you at the sight of the prepared pen, babbling thank yous for the nummies. Keep, you decide, setting her down gently with a pat. When she politely asks for her babbehs, and indicates a very pretty unicorn and pegasi, each with her dark green fluff and a bright golden mane, you amend that. Breeding stock immediate admittance. In fact⌠âAnd umm, Emerald, you said your name was? Which one of those fluffies over there is your special friend?â As long as he isnât in the poodle crate with the idiots⌠Huh. Stallion crate one, and you donât think he was one of the sneak in past the dummy human ones either. Silver fluff, bright gold mane, excellent. Let them stay and breed you many packer fluffies to sell. Teach the foals to say âtouchdownâ and âgo, pack, goâ, everyone would want one. Except the viking fans⌠On the other hand, there are probably a few viking fans that would love a packer pony to murder. You should keep an eye out for a purple mare to breed with him as well, cover both markets.
They curl happily around their meal-ticket foals, humming, and you go back to sorting fluffies. when you get all the foals returned to their respective mothers, excluding one puke green and eye-burning pink pair who decided to try biting you, you move on to the next crate. The five brightest colored and biggest fillies and colts get pulled out and settled in their respective pens, the rest shoved back into the crate, with any aggression or whining at you defaulting the spot to the next in line. You repeat the method with the stallions and mares, keeping the best three pegasi and unicorns and the best five earthies. You do make a point of separating out the sneaky idiots out of the other culls, shoving the five of them in another tiny crate next to the example idiot cage.
You consider for a moment starting the cull harvest in here, weighing the benefit of setting examples against the drawbacks of frightening the currently docile stock. You decide to split the difference and haul one of the ugly biting mares out of the crate with her three foals, setting them along the edge of a table. She dangles by her scruff, hollering about âbad upsies!â while you regard the rest of the room, where the penned inhabitants have stopped scarfing imitation spaghetti in favor of staring at you.
âThis is not only a bad fluffy, but a very bad fluffy. In this house, bad fluffies donât get skettis, and very bad fluffies get the âworstest hurtiesâ I can think of. In addition, she is a bad mumma, because instead of being polite for five more minutes and getting nummies to make milk for her babies, she bit me, and lost any right to get nummies at all, or have babies. Very bad fluffy, do you have anything to say for yourself?â you ask, letting her look between you and the babies on the table.
âdummeh human, put mummah down and give mummah babbahs now! or fwuffie give sorry hoofies!â she attempts to flail her soft hooves at you, missing entirely and only swaying from side to side. You pick up a skinny blue foal, dangle it by the scruff in front of her for a moment as she tries frantically to grab for it, then smack it firmly across the table edge to snap its neck. ânuuuuu, nu huwties babbehs, dummeh human munsta!â Small tan colored foal, neck snapped in an instant. âwhy, why huwties babbehs? why babbahs forever sweepies?â she looks back at you finally, tears in her eyes.
âBecause that is the worstest hurties i can give to a bad mummah.â You snap the last foalâs neck, then tap it against her nose before throwing her back into the crate and lugging the rest of the culls to the shed behind the house.
You finish neck snapping the other culled motherâs foals, tossing all five in a bag to go in the freezer. The dude from the card shop might want live newborn foals, but most of the other reptile owners interested in buying from you are asking for frozen/thawed as easier to keep on hand. A separate bag is filled with the rejected fillies and colts, for the customers with larger pets on whole prey. The more intact, the easier to deal with, and you can advertise the clean neck snap as humanely killed. Some of those willing to set up raw diets for their pets are general animal lovers enough to care about that.
You pull Flower out and tuck her in a tiny rat cage with barely enough room to turn around in, but make sure she does have a water bottle and dry grass to nibble. Card shop dude wants newborns, not fetuses. Making her watch what happens to everyone else, bonus.
You hose down the larger cull crate, spray in some soap, and hose them down again. Cleaning gunk out of pelts is three times as difficult once itâs off the animal, for some reason. When they seem as clean as they are going to get, you turn the hose off and start moving fluffies to the skinning hooks. Just like cleaning rabbits, hang them by the back feet, slice down the inside of the back legs, and peel off the hide like a tight sweater, more pulling than cutting. Of course, the rabbits were dead when you had them on the hooks, but whatever. You crank the speaker in a free moment, letting your YouTube lists meander from death metal to pop to dubstep at earsplitting volume in the small space, drowning out the pathetic plees of ânu, why huwties fluffies?â and similarly useful comments. When you have all the hides off, you pile them in an extra cooler out of the way so they donât get dirty, and start gutting.
All three dogs wait hopefully in the doorway. They know what you setting up in the shed means. You laugh at their optimistically wagging tails and upturned faces, and start tossing them chunks of gut. While they happily play tug of war with lengths of intestine, you bag the other useful organs up in their own freezer bags, quarter the carcasses, and get them paperwrapped and stacked in the freezer.
Well, then, that only leaves you with the idiot crate. You could just do the efficient thing and process them like the others, but they really pissed you off, and really, every now and then a girl need to just have fun without thinking of the costgain ratios. What to do with Smarty and crew? You scan around the shed, and start evil grinning again.
You duct tape the smartyâs front hooves together, hobbling him so that he keeps falling forward with his ass in the air. Then his tail is tapped at the base, keeping it raised. You smear his rear liberally with the canine female heat pheromones someone included in a sex doll for dogs gag gift, and carry him outside to the dogâs run. Njord sniffs the air briefly, licks his ball free rump, and goes back to sleep. The pair of show and sport dog for whom stud duty is still a possibility are far more interested.
âYou two can practice on him so you donât embarrass yourselves humping ears and ribcages if you actually get to go for a bitch. Smarty, meet your two new special friends. Iâm going to go water your other friends so they donât die before I need to send them in for their turns being bait bitches.â
Iâm really sorry to anyone who got this far and wants more. If I ever finish this, it will be completely rewritten. I was new to fluffies and the Booru, and shifted the story to account for comment creep. I got that last bit written, looked at it, and the idea of writing more made me very unhappy, enough so I ghosted out of the Fandom for months, and went back to strictly lurking when I did come back, until I found the sub-reddit and thus eventually here. Maybe someday, if I get the Pack to a good stopping point and hit the right mood.