Sam and Will Open a Shelter
By: Turboencabulator
The sky was deep grey, the dark iron of a threatening storm, but only the wind came down. A
blustery day, with a chill in the air, making Chad shiver despite the heated seats in his
car. He rolled down an ill-maintained road, following the blinking blue dot on his
phone. Frankie’s shelter, as Sam called it, was along here somewhere.
Eventually a drab concrete structure came into view, the familiar dingy pickup truck parked out
front. Chad pulled up alongside it, stepping out and holding his clipboard close to his chest
against the high winds. A few steps and Chad pulled the heavy steel door open, fighting the
wind, until he stepped in, the door pushing against his back like a sail and forcing him
inside.
The front office area smelled of cigarettes and burned coffee, with a thin sheen of vinegar
under it. On one wall was a glass viewing area, divided into pens for pregnant or disabled
fluffies, under a banner proclaiming them to be particularly needy of a home. One dam was
apparently dumped from an unethical breeder, her inability to get more than two hooves on the
ground evidence of the absurd level of hormones they had dosed her with. A pair of pillowfluffs
pressed together and talked quietly, comforting each other, their stitches still visible through
the thin fuzz of regrowing fluff, red from minor irritation.
Chad watched as a three-legged chirpie was carefully guided to a teat on a milk-mare wearing a
vest identifying her as a worker. He jumped as the swinging doors to the back area banged open,
a short man stomping out to behind the counter. He lit a cigarette and poured a cup of coffee.
“You Chad?” He asked. Chad nodded.
“Frankie.” The man said, shoving his hand out. “Youse gunna need to wait a minute, Sam got
sprayed.”
They shook hands, and Chad winced, grinning. “How bad?”
“Bad enough. You checking out our special cases?”
Chad turned back, looking at the array of fluffies behind the glass. “Yeah, not many shelters
do that sort of thing. What’s up with the chirpy?”
Frankie sighed, offering Chad a cup, which he took, putting in sugar. “Got rejected, his mother
tried to kill him but just smashed up his leg. Sam got the leg off before it got infected.”
Chad sipped at the coffee. “Ok, what about the others?”
“Well da preggo is a super-breeder, might have twelve or thirteen in her. She’s also going to
need to be cared for special ‘cuz she’s basically dependent on being a mother. Go too long
without gettin’ her knocked up and she goes a bit nutso. The pillows are uh, they’re kind of a
sad story. The stallion ran away and got a mate, then came back and tried to get back in wit’
his family. Apparently what they got instead was eight chops with a cleaver and dumped at a
shelter. Sam did the amputation correctly so they have some relief in a weird way but they
can’t be separated.”
“Shit, you have special cases like this often?”
“Often enough the case is worth maintaining. It keeps 'em separate from the rest so they have
some peace and gives them priority. The chirpy’s mother is in the general area. She’s
particularly salty since we hadta take her babies from her for bein violent.”
Sam walked out of the back at that moment, dour and freshly laundered. “Chad. Welcome to hell.”
Frankie let out a short bark of a laugh and finished his coffee. “I’ll let you two have at
it. Need ta’ go get ready for the next intake round.” With that, he wandered back through the
swinging doors.
With a glance at the coffee pot and a wince at the smell, Sam leaned against the counter. “So
where do you wanna start?”
“Run me through how this place fits in?” Chad said, clicking out his pen.
“This is, unofficially, the dead end.” Sam said, gesturing to a flowchart on a cork
board. “Every fluffy that hits a shelter in the state system has a fixed amount of time to get
adopted, or they go to a terminal shelter. Except you’ve never had to vet a terminal shelter,
have you.”
Chad paused in his notes, then glanced up. “No, I haven’t.”
“Due to a weird little lawsuit, the state cannot compel a fluffy shelter to be a kill shelter.”
Sam said, shrugging. “Makes sense since you’d be compelling killing sentient fuzzballs. So
officially the shelter only has an in, not an out. So unofficially, places like this
exist. Shelters that are high capacity, low comfort, and if a few fluffies go missing every
day, who gives a shit.”
“So you’re opening a terminal shelter, but this isn’t it?”
Sam shook his head. “No, this is the shelter we draw from. Think of it like a filter. If a
fluffy is chipped, the family is notified. If they don’t claim it, it’s still a domestic, and
gets looped back in to the rest of the system. If the fluffy isn’t chipped, it’s either born in
the system, a feral, or nobody gives a fuck about it. So it goes to the terminal shelter.”
Chad nods, taking notes. “Ok, so where do they stay?”
Sam gestured, and walked through the back door. Chad followed, looking around the shelter. The
sliding doors were partially open, the small cages inside in various states of disassembly. “I
take it with the lower capacity requirements this place is getting nicer accommodations?”
“Yup. No more one foot cages.”
“Good.” Chad nodded, taking more notes. Eventually they went out the back door, and Sam got on
an electric cart, soon joined by Chad.
They rolled along, past a waiting line of fluffy transport trailers, empty and clean. A wide
and rolling field stretched out on either side of a fresh asphalt road, a new wall enclosing
the space.
“You planning on letting the fluffies out to run?” Chad asked.
“Nah, it’s in case of escape attempts. Or people dumping fluffies.” Sam said, a wry grin. “Any
fluffy on the property that isn’t a worker is fair game outside of the shelters.”
“I saw one of the workers, the milk mare?”
“Yeah, that’s Sandy, she’s one of our best milk mares. Since we train them on the breeder’s
side of things they get all the practice they could need taking care of abandoned juveniles.”
After a minute they pulled up to the larger of two shelter buildings, and went inside. A garage
door was in one wall, the inside well heated and painted soothing colors. A row of individual
pens with open tops were built into the floors, yoga-pad like floors and plumbed in water, but
no food bowl or bed.
“So,” Sam began. “This is our intake, the fluffies are penned and get a little presentation.”
Chad blinked. “Most places just … take them in.”
“Yeah well we have a slightly different pattern going.” Sam said, with a wry smile. “The
presentation is pretty simple. They get told that first, soon-mummahs go to birthing pens to
have their babies. Special friends go with if they’re good about it. This is when we take the
pregnant fluffies out of the mix. Smarties get ignored for now. Then every fluffy get a health
check. We do the usual, check temperature, take a cheek swab, check for strangles…”
“Strangles?”
Sam nodded. “It’s basically the fluffy and horse version of strep throat.”
Chad made a huh sound and continued writing.
“After the cheek swabs are sequenced any rare genes are pulled out as well under the pretense
that the fluffies need medical stuff. And if the breeding side needs specific, this is where we
can find pairs that have the traits we want.”
“You’re going to use the shelter fluffies for breeding?” Chad asked, glancing up.
“After which they immediately go back in. Their babies get placed with families though.”
Chad nodded, writing, brows furrowed this time.
“Then the fluffies get to pick. Inside or outside fluffs.”
A glance, and Sam continued.
“Outside fluffs get to live in basically a herd area, but it’s outside. Inside fluffs get
individually penned, but it’s climate controlled and they don’t need to deal with herd issues.”
Chad nodded. “Ok. Let’s start outside.”
The pair looked over a grid of sixteen walled off areas. The thigh-high brick walls enclosed a
large area each, with covered shelter areas, troughs for water and food, and floors like smooth
astroturf. Drains were tucked under the water troughs, and night-lights lined the walls, a foot
off the ground.
“Why so many?” Chad asked.
“We separate the males and females. Each day’s intake has a week before they get the axe, and
we have one set extra so we can clean the one just vacated.” Sam said, gesturing at he open
top. “They are exposed to the elements, most of the time, though when it gets really cold we’ll
pull the cover over the top and turn on the pen heaters.”
“How do you uh ‘terminate’ them?”
“Dosed pasta. We use a mixture of a sedative and a blood thinner. They all get comfy and sleep,
then don’t wake up. The bodies get loaded in a medical incinerator and fwoosh.”
“Any pain?”
“Only if they fall on their face passing out.” Sam said, shrugging. “Though we expect that
since this is a herd area there might be some infighting. They’re on their own out here, but as
long as they behave they won’t get any grief from us.”
Inside, Chad looked over one of eight identical rooms of pens, neatly arranged in rows, each
one with a bed, food bowl, water feed, and a small speaker.
“What’s with the sound stuff?” Chad asked, leaning down and examining the inside of a pen,
feeling the floor.
“We let them choose if they want to listen to music. There’s a switch panel they can nudge to
turn the sound on or off. It’s why the beds are all as far apart as possible, to give others
peace if they have music on. We pick what they listen to though.”
“Same rules in here, seven days then they get the spaghetti of the long sleep?” He asked,
standing upright, looking around.
Sam nodded. “Though in here they also can be adopted. They’re told this in the induction
briefing but we’ve found that if the fluffies pick to be available for adoption, they usually
are better behaved in their new families.”
“Ok, and you provide medical facilities?”
“At the breeder’s office. A change in environment while recuperating is beneficial but honestly
it’d probably just be to euthanize them early.”
“It counts. Security here?”
“We keep no meds on site, video monitoring on entrances and in the pen rooms, the outdoor area
has video monitoring and locking gates.”
“Right, gold stars all around.”
“Thought the outside bit would have raised some questions.” Sam said, leading Chad back to the
cart.
“Nah, the bar on a terminal shelter is so low you could have a room of barrels you dump
fluffies in until they suffocate and it’d still pass.”
“Oh good, we’ll do that next.”
A cart ride later, the sky clearing and the sun starting to shine down, and Sam took Chad into
the new breeder housing. The open plan area was cleared away, the concrete floor now covered by
durable industrial carpeting between six by three foot family pens, each one providing a
hip-high playroom like environment. Overhead, cables and pipes were racked and tied, providing
lighting, video feeds, water, and a controlled atmosphere.
Chad blinked and looked around, walking between the groups of family pods. “This is a bit more
high-end than I anticipated.”
Sam chuckled. “Well our prices start at five thousand a fluffy, high-end is what we do.”
“You think people will pay that much for a fluffy?” Chad said, opening one of the pens and
leaning in, feeling and checking things. “Is that a television?”
“Educational programming only.” Sam said. “And people will pay twenty thousand for a pair of
sneakers.”
“Ok, so, this is for fluffies that keep their children, what about the alternative?”
Sam gestured and walked next door. Inside the smaller building were several open pens,
connected at one side with a waist-high walkway. A pair of milk-mares were in the front pen,
quietly playing hoofie-pats while a gelded stallion napped nearby. The mares were being milked
by machine.
“Chad, this is Millie and Bubbles. The lazybones is Mick.”
“Hewwo Chad!” Millie said. Bubbles giggled and waved.
“Hello.” Chad said, making notes.
“These two are our milk-mares, when we have babies still needin milk, these two come
in. They’re also very good at teaching the young ones.”
“And uh Mick?”
“Mick assists with the milkers, breaking up foal fights, teaching the colts how to behave
themselves, and generally being a big strong stallion.”
Mick giggled and flicked his tail. “Daaaaat wite.”
Chad nodded, taking notes. “And what about smarty foals?”
Mick picked his head up and looked at Chad. “Dey hab wun chance. Fiwst, da sowwy-box. Den, dey
gu wai tu da Nu-Happies pwace.”
Chad blinked and nodded. Mick huffed and lay his head down again.
“That would be isolation.” Sam said. “The best treatment for early smarty syndrome is
isolation, lessons, and a sort of asceticism.”
Sam gestured and led Chad to a back room, going in. Inside were a few small pens. There was a
single occupancy space in each, done in simple grey tones.
“Three or four days in here, no toys and minimum interaction, and even all but the worst smarty
foal will be sobbing and asking for huggies. The programming is specially designed to enforce
that smarties don’t get loved, or people who like them.”
Chad nodded. “Better than the last breeder. They just castrated them and put them in the
discount bin.”
“Eh, if our smarties are really lost causes we find uses for them. Sometimes we might have a
guard fluff that needs a bit of frustration relieved, sometimes there might be a stallion who
can’t have huggies with his mate for some reason.”
Chad takes notes, nodding quietly. “And where are the medical facilities?”
Dead silence. Chad walked the lab, blinking and taking notes, confused and speechless. “I don’t
even know what the hell this is.” He said, pointing at a device.
“It’s a Rotovap. Used in chemistry.”
“This is Alenix branded.” Chad muttered, looking at a large machine.
“Yeah, I called in a favor for one of their rapid gene analyzers. Traded a vending machine that
tweets when it’s restocked or out of a certain drink and a Back to the Future pinball table for
it.” Sam said, picking his nails with a plastic spudger.
“You have leeches.”
Chad was staring at a tank, short black leeches wriggling around inside.
Sam wandered over, grinning into the tank. “They’re a perfect tool for corrective surgeries on
foals and chirpies. The microsurgery can cause problems with the veins not draining blood
correctly. A little leech time before making the incision fixes that. Also helps clean the
skin.”
“I don’t even know if that should be included in equipment.”
Sam leaned over and read the equipment list. “Oh if you’re going to list all of what we have
you’re going to need more forms.”
Deftly taking the board from Chad, Sam struck out the list and wrote ‘Assume we have it.’, then
handed it back.
Sam and Chad sat at Sam’s kitchen table, working through paperwork.
“You know you might wind up getting police visits.” Chad said absentmindedly, writing in a part
of a form.
Sam glanced up. Chad looked up after a moment. “Well sometimes the police get fluffies in
cases. Since this is a state shelter technically, they might drop in with you as a ‘fluffy
expert’ to assist.”
With a moment’s pause, Sam nodded and went back to signing things. “As long as they call ahead
first.”
Chad made a note and began assembling the file. “Well I’ll make sure that’s known. You can bill
your time to the department for it.”
Sam grinned quietly for a brief second, then went back to a straight face.
Five days later
Will swore heavily, trying to get the framed licenses hanging level on the newly-christened
lobby of the veterinary office. After every small adjustment, the level read off-plumb by
enough that he could see when he stepped back.
Sam was nearby, trying not to be amused while he reviewed the getting started packages of
documents that had flooded in. Fluffy accounting requirements were lax at the state level, but
he found as he read that there were several independent hugboxer organizations that could
provide ‘endorsements’.
“Delusional.” Sam muttered.
“What?” Will asked, taking the level from Hickory, securely tucked in to the hood of Will’s
hoodie.
“All these groups that think they’re an authority. Asking to perform independent inspections in
exchange for a little gold star.”
Will glanced over. “I mean, it doesn’t seem like they’re that bad? Independent oversight might
benefit the business.”
“They want a hundred dollars per inspection. Or more for some.” Sam said, going through packets
and tossing them in the trash.
“Oh fuck that.” Will said, going back to the framed licenses. “Any of them being more militant
than others?”
“Just one,” Sam said, flipping through the sheaf of papers. “Apparently they’re some hugboxer
network, if you aren’t ‘approved’ by their board they don’t like you.”
“Let me guess, most expensive?”
“Nearly.” Sam said, turning a billing and price sheet around so Will can see. “Four hundred
dollars for a ‘priority endorsement evaluation’. With required quarterly re-evaluations.”
“Nice.”
The bell rang as a car pulled in to the gravel lot, making both Sam and Will look over. Hickory
giggled and made a quiet ding sound. A patrol car, dusty and a few years out of date, with a
pair of tired-looking officers inside. They got out, and one walked in, the other futzing
around in the trunk of the car.
The officer was a weary, red-faced man. He looked around, blinking at the shined and cleaned
surfaces. “Uh. Is this a fluffy clinic?”
Sam stood up behind the counter. “Yes, I’m the fluffnician on site. What brings you down?”
The other cop came in with a fluffy carrier, and plunked it down heavily on the counter. A
growling sound came from inside. “This is yours. I am done with this little shitpig.”
With that, the officer left and went outside to smoke. The first one, a sergeant by his
sleeves, winced and walked up to the counter. “Sorry about him, this uh, specimen is unusual.”
Will peered into the carrier, and jerked back as a high-pitched squeal and thrashing sound
started, making the carrier jump a little bit. “Jesus christ is that a fluffy?”
“You guys came quick.” Sam said, taking out a form and filling things in.
“Beg pardon?” The officer asked, curious.
Sam gestured vaguely while writing. “Chad from Agriculture said officers would be in
sometimes. I didn’t think it’d be the day we opened.”
“Just us, actually.” The officer extended his hand. “Belker.”
Sam and Will both shook and made introductions.
“So what did you mean by ‘just us’?” Sam asked, handing the form over.
“We get the cases that involve fluffies.” Belker said, absentmindedly filling in the
form. “Nobody else in the department wants to deal with them, we only agreed to handle them for
a boost in pay anyways.”
Sam turned the carrier around and peered inside. “So what’s the story with our little terror
here?”
The growling started again. Sam growled back. The carrier fell quiet.
Belker sighed, handing the form back. “Raided a fluffy brothel. This was found in a basement
room.”
Will winced. “Ew.”
“Yeah. Not even legal in Nevada.”
Sam banged his head against the wall quietly while the form photocopied. “Goddammit I haven’t
done one round of paperwork and I already want to chew my own arm off.”
Belker laughed, leaning heavily on the counter. “Oh god I know that feeling. You best automate
or get someone fast.”
Sam looked at Will. Will gave him the finger. Sam sighed.
Sam and Belker walked down a hallway and to a small exam room. Sam set the rattling, jumping
carrier down and opened a cabinet.
“Ok, officer. If you’d be so kind as to get the fluffy as far to the back of the carrier I’ll
give it a nice little calming aid.” Sam said, filling a syringe and stepping around.
Belker thought a minute, then took out a nightstick and banged it heavily in front of the
door. Sam swiftly injected the fluffy within, making it screech loudly and scrabble about
inside.
After a moment, the sounds settled down, and Sam moves to open the door, but jerks his hand
back as the scrabbling and thrashing starts again. “Shit. Must be used to drugs.”
“Now what?” Belker asked, concernedly watching he carrier.
“Simple.” Sam said, and opened a cabinet, taking out a gutted and modified record player. A
board was set on top, and the carrier was strapped on top of that.
“Now, just set this on ‘78’ speed.” Sam said, turning a dial, and plugging it in.
The growling carrier began to rotate, slowly building speed, and the growling grew
confused-sounding, the occasional thrash settling down as a hoarse fluffy-like whining sound
started. Soon the carrier was rapidly spinning, and the sound of a fluffy plopping down heavily
was heard, a woozy peeping sound accompanying.
Sam waited another minute, then unplugged the turntable. Belker watched as he set the carrier
down and put the turntable away, and then swiftly opened the door on the carrier.
A mostly shaved, scarred, and huge fluffy stumbled out, falling in a pile and snarling, head
rolling from dizziness. Sam swiftly flipped the fluffy on its back and began spinning it again,
this time much faster, making it breathlessly ‘eeeeee’ until Sam stopped, the fluffy slowing to
a stop, dazed. In a flash Sam had it in an immobilization stand and strapped down, muzzled, and
corked.
Belker sighed. “I’m going to guess that this thing isn’t going to be useable as evidence.”
Sam glanced between the cop and the fluffy. “I doubt it. Just from what I’m looking a here
you’ll never get it to cooperate. This fluffy’s been jacked and abused to hell.”
The fluff was already writhing and snorting, trying to struggle and buck in the board, eyes
bugged and bloodshot.
“How long ago did you pick this thing up?” Sam asked.
“Five or six hours.” Belker said, then sighed. “I guess we’ll just surrender it to you. If we
can’t use it, there’s no way it’ll get adopted.”
Sam nodded, and Belker left.
After a moment of thought, he sat down and turned the fluffy to face him. “Ok. You. They’re
gone.”
The fluffy glared at him, nostrils flaring, snorting and struggling in the frame.
“Yeah no. Not until you calm down.” Sam said, looking the fluffy, now identified as a stallion,
over. Big, even for an earthy, and strong. After a moment, Sam took a blood sample from the
fluffy’s side and carried it and the fluffy out and into the main lab. “Let’s see what they’ve
shot you up with.”
A few minutes of being glared at, and the analyzer spat out a sheaf of paper. Sam flipped
through it, nodding. “Yup. Yup.”
He scootched over to the fluffy, rolling up the paper. “See these?”
Glares.
“These papers tell me the things that the bad humans from before put in you to make you feel
angry all the time.” Sam said, gently tapping the fluffy on the nose.
Glaring. Then a glance at the papers.
“Yes really. Right now let’s just nod or shake heads. You feel very tired, right?”
The fluffy slowly nods, making a hoarse rumbling growl.
“The people before liked it when you were angry?”
Nodding, louder growling.
“They made you hurt other fluffies?”
Slow nods, and the fluffy looked away for once.
“You didn’t like that.”
More nodding.
“Which is why they gave you the angry medicine. Because you were good at it.”
Soft nodding.
Sam sat back, thinking. After a moment he went over to a cabinet and began filling another
syringe, prompting the fluff to thrash and snarl again. Sam sat down in front of him, holding
the syringe up. “Look. Look at this.”
The fluffy glared daggers at Sam, growing enraged again.
“This will stop the angry.”
The fluffy calmed down slowly, eyes flicking at the syringe. Sam swiftly spun the fluffy around
and gave it a shot in the haunch. It made a snarling scree sound, thrashing for a moment, but
then began to settle, and Sam turned it around again.
“I’m going to take this off. You behave yourself.” Sam said, removing the muzzle.
The stallion was panting quietly, the rage fading as the drugs were cancelled out.
“So, why did they pick you?” Sam asked, leaning back.
After a minute, the Stallion growled, looking around. “Whewe Poundew?”
“Pounder. You started as a stud then?” Sam said, amused.
“Poundew wib in fowwest. Wus tuffie. Da enfie-pwace wost a smawty-mawe. Wowstest
smawty-mawe. Poundew KIWW bad smawties.” He said, eyes widening as he began to get angry
again. “Smawties gib su many ob hewd fowebba-sweepies. Hate smawties.”
“So you killed one of their divas, they decided to take you and use to discipline their stock
in case they tried to escape again.” Sam said, thinking. “Interesting.”
Pounder watched Sam, tense, calming down again.
Sam got up and uncorked Pounder, unstrapping him. “How abou you get some rest.” Sam said,
picking the heavy fluffy up, and putting him in one of the adult observation pens.
The stallion turned, watching Sam, then looked around. “Nu basement?”
“No, you’ve been through enough. Time to relax.”
He stared at Sam, then looked at the bed. Four steps and Pounder just tipped over on his
side, groaning heavily, and was asleep.
Sam closed the pen and wandered out, cleaning up and putting things away. A wry smile was
forming on his face, as plans came together in his head.
Pounder would be a useful addition to the family, he concluded.