Seeing once treasured (or not, in this case) fluffies pushed to the extremes of emotional and physical abuse is the most cathartic experience one can do, second only to taking out your frustrations on the fluffy itself.
I wonder what they think about on death’s door?
Are they smart enough to remember everything?
In any case, who cares? They were built to die.
Outside of the post, this may be my last one for a bit, but I am not sure. There will likely be intermittent posts through the fall, or as I get acclimated to the new job.
The abuse will never end.
