You are Greg. You live in the countryside, just on the edge of a major metropolitan area. You breed fluffy ponies for pet stores, and deal with feral ponies as a side gig.
Swinging your legs out of bed, you attach your prosthetic leg and get dressed for morning chores. Plodding downstairs to the kitchen, you pour a large mug of steaming black coffee and head down to the basement. The finished basement is warm and dry, with the vague scent of the old-growth cedar rafters. There is a couch and TV, a weight machine next to a washer/dryer combo, and in one corner, a children’s playpen. You amble over to the playpen and swing the gate open.
“Mawning Dahdee!” the fluffies inside raise their sleepy heads and smile up at you.
You reach down to pet each of the three fluffies in turn.Pickle, the oldest, is a vibrant emerald, belying her namesake. You scratch her warm snout and are rewarded with a tiny glowing horn and happy flaps of her tiny wings. Pickle is an alicorn, and easily your most prized fluffy. Her daughter, Cocoa, is also an Alicorn, and nuzzles your leg warmly. Her pale brown coat glistens from careful preening. Pickle’s other baby is Midnight, purple with a gleaming black mane and tail. Midnight is a big boy, but he is only an earth pony, unlike his mother and sister. His mother loves him just the same though.
The fluffies follow you upstairs, where you fill their bowls with soft kibble and mixed vegetables. They tuck in happily while you fry up some chorizo and eggs for breakfast. Once breakfast is over, you curl up on the couch to check your emails, Pickle nestled beside you while her children play quietly on the living room rug.
Your email is full of spam: ads for viagra, online dating websites, knockoff fluffy care products. They go on and on. There is one work request though: The Johnson’s. You sigh. The Johnson’s are nice people, third-generation blueberry farmers. Once again, some ferals have taken up residence. The Johnsons are older folks, and they just aren’t spry enough to deal with the problem themselves. A chain link fence would solve their problems permanently, but they refuse to ‘fortify’ their fields. At least the repeat business keeps your bills paid each month. You look down at Pickle.
“Do you want to come work with Daddy today?” Pickle nods happily. She will do anything for the man who took her in. She gestures with her chin towards the fluffies
‘We take babies, too?” She asks. She is eager for her full-grown babies to learn the family trade.
“Sure! They can come along and see you work.But now it’s time to check on the others.” you leave the couch and the fluffies follow you out the back door.
You live in a small, older house on a narrow lot. You have lived here since your grandpa passed several years ago. Behind the house is a fenced-in yard. Running past the house and yard is a gravel driveway, leading to a garage. Past the garage, you can see your destination: The Barn. This is where the Magic Happens, you could say.
As you flick on the lights, you are greeted with a chorus of chirping, whining and crying.
“Wite too bwite, huwt fwuffy eyes!”
“Fwuffy hungwy, tummy huwties”
“Why fwend make bad poopies? Nuu smew pwetty!”
“The Barn” is a prefab steel structure, roughly rectangular in shape. To the rear, a ceiling-height wall splits the space equally, ending about halfway to the front door. A waist-height wall with a gate divides the front half from the back. To the left is a desk with computer, some storage racks, and several glass-fronted pens, empty for the moment. to the right of the door is a space penned-in with wire mesh. A stainless bench with various bottles, jars and tools on it is visible, along with a pair of deep stainless sinks. Against the front wall is several stacked rows of tiny cubicles.The front of each is curtained, and you can hear muffled crying from within.
Pausing only to retrieve your tool-belt from a hook by the door, you walk further into the barn. Letting yourself and your entourage thru the gate, you pad on over to the left. Opening the gate, you greet the fluffies inside.
“Good morning, ladies.” you exclaim, as you fill a trough with kibble and top-off their water bottles from a hose.
“Good mawning mistah. Good mowning Pikul-fwend!” They chorus. Pickle and company make their way inside the pen, and there is much hugging and nuzzling.
These mares are all former broodmares who have behaved themselves well. As a result, the half-dozen on so of them get better food, nice soft blankets instead of woodchips, and special toys to play with. When they aren’t working, of course. Everybody earns their keep here. You keep these experienced ‘mummahs’ around to nurse rejected foals and deal with ‘problematic’ breeding mares.
Speaking of broodmares, its time for you to check on your moneymakers.The left half of the Barn is set aside for nursing or expectant mothers. It is lined on either side by spacious cages, stacked two high. Each cage has some kibble in a dish, a large water feeder, and off to one side, a litter box for the mare. The bottom of each cage is lined with soft wood shavings, and most of the cages are full. Each row has a dozen cages, for a total of 48. You try to keep things going here, but right now about ⅓ of the cages are empty. This happens fairly regularly, when a batch of mares all wear out at once. You push your work cart down the row, checking each cage carefully. Each food dish gets filled with special, high-vitamin “Mumma Kibble” and the water bottle refilled.
You come down to cage 207. Inside is a pinto. You don’t give them names, because names are for pets. It appears 207 has given birth overnight. Four foals: two pintos, a bright pink earthie, and a pegasus the color of baby vomit.
“Fwuffy am good mummah, hab bestest babbehs!” She warbles happily as you open the cage. You shake your head sadly, but your face remains stern.
Her smile vanishes as you reach down to pluck the green foal from her fluff.
“Nu take babbeh! Too small for upsies! Need miwk an wuv!”
She darts forward to bite you, spilling her other foals from her tummy. Her bite is harmless, and you are wearing gloves anyway. You switch the foal carefully to your other hand and smack her snout firmly
“Hu huuu! Why gib hurties?!” blood drips from her nose and her remaining foals chirp loudly.
“Quiet!” You bark at her. “This is a bad baby, and Mister makes bad babies go away.” You explain firmly to the sobbing mother.
The little vomit colored foal chirps and nuzzles your gloved hand softly, curled up in a warm little ball. You have nothing against the little guy, but nobody is going to buy something this color. Its mother sobs and hugs its remaining foals tightly while they chirp in protest. A last look, and you toss it in one of the tubs on your cart, moving on with your work. Farther down the row, you notice that two of 117’s new foals are nibbling on her kibble instead of joining their remaining sibling at their mothers teats.
“Nu eawt kibble siwwy babeh, babbeh need mummy’s miwk!” The rainbow-maned mare giggles as she tries to coax them back to her breast. Her smile fades as you stop and unlatch the cage.
“Babbeh stiww need mummah! Stiw smaww! Need wuv!” she pleads as you open the cage and reach for them. They burrow into her fluff. While this mare knows the score and would never dare bite you, nevertheless she will not let go of her babies. You sigh and reach over for the remaining foal, which has fallen off her teat in the commotion.
“Nu fwen?” it bleats at you from its milk-slick snout. It hugs your hand softly and you stroke its head and beautiful rainbow mane. This foal will earn you a decent chunk of change in a few weeks, but right now you need to give its mother a lesson. You pinch its ear softly with your gloved hand. On a person it would barely register as a pinch, but the foal bleats sharply, crying for its mother
“Nuuuu huu huu! Gib baby! Nuu huwt baby!”
It releases the others and you toss her the screaming foal, snatching the twins from the cage while she is distracted. You bop her on the nose for good measure and slam the cage shut. The now weaned twins go into the other tub on your cart, their squeaks of protest muted as the tubs other inhabitants greet and hug them. All have been weaned from their mothers milk and will now join the other weanlings in one of the holding pens, after a quick detour. You take the cart back to your office, and bring it into the fenced-off area to the right. There is a long steel workbench with a non-skid mat atop it, right up against the wall separating your office from the pens. The tub of weanlings is placed on the workbench, and you reach down to grab a contraption from the shelf underneath.
The device is simple: a sheet of plywood with 4 holes in it, sitting on short legs about five inches off the table. You slip on some latex gloves, put on an apron, and lift the first foal, a bright white colt with blue mane, from the fluffpile that has formed in the carrying tub.
“Fwuffy wuv upsies! Wuv daddee!” he squeaks happily, until you carefully guide each fuzzy leg into a corresponding hole.
“Fwuffy nu wike, pweese down?” He begs, his stubby legs jerking uselessly around.
“Nuu wan. Fwuffy nu can move. Daddee hewp fwuffy?” You barely suppress a snort of derision. The little guy is clueless about what comes next. From the tool rack on the bench comes a special pair of pliers. The pliers consist of a pair of opposing, wedge shaped jaws whose narrow, rounded ends meet when the pliers close. Taking the pliers in one hand, your other hand parts the fluff of the youngster’s behind, locating his fuzzy little balls.
It giggles as you prepare “Dat tiwkles daddee!” However, its tone changes quickly as the pliers crush the base of his scrotum, destroying the blood vessels permanently.
“Screeeeeeeee! Tewibble owwies!” It screeches, wriggling uncontrollably “Why huwt wumps? fwuffy need wumps!”
“Quiet!” You command the foal to cease its whining. unsurprisingly it doesn’t stop, and you remove it from the hobble to place it in the deep sink to your left, where it begins licking desperately at its ruined “nonoes” and quietly sobs.
You repeat this procedure on the other two colts, this time placing a loose rubber band around their snouts to cut down on the screaming. After the blood vessels have been crushed, the colt’s tiny balls will shrivel up and wither away harmlessly, rendering them sterile and biddable for their future owners without the risks of surgical removal. When they are done, the colts try in vain to lick away the pain. In a few days they won’t be sore anymore, and you turn your attention to the fillies in the tub.You grab a bright yellow filly and carefully place her in the leg board, stroking her softly to keep her calm. You put away the pliers and grab a long, match-like swab from a plastic container. You dip the end in a little dish of water and part the fluff of the fillys behind.
“Why mistah touch speshul place? Fwuffy nu wike!” She chirps nervously.
You stop and place a band around her mouth before continuing. This will not be pleasant. She squirms as you again part the folds of her “special place” and carefully illuminate her tiny cervix. Quickly but carefully, you wipe the swab all over the opening and surface of the cervix. The fluffy arches its back convulsively, its screams nothing but high-pitched mumbles thanks to the rubber band. The silver nitrate on the swab causes a chemical burn, which will cover the opening of the cervix with scar tissue as it heals, making conception next to impossible. You stroke the poor thing’s fur and place it in the sink, where the other fluffies have formed a sobbing hug-pile of mutual grief. The last filly is spared this particular pain, but you chuckle to yourself. She is destined to be a new breeder, as one of your other rainbow mares is getting a bit long in the tooth. After running the tap to make sure the water is warm, you methodically rinse the piss and shit from the wriggling foals.
“Nuu! Wawa ib bad for fwuffy.” several cry as you lather them one at a time with childrens shampoo.
Nobody likes a smelly fluffy, and poop-sweared tushies can lead to diseases. Eventually after much anguish and resistance, all of the weanlings are warm, dry, and smelling of bubblegum. Back into the tub they go, and you wheel the cart back out onto the floor, heading to the right. The right hand side of the Barn is split in two, with a walkway down the middle. On either side of the walkway are several pens with plexiglass gates. Each pen has a floor of soft wood shavings, several big water bottles to drink from, and a feeding trough for kibble. You roll your cart full of newly-neutered fluffies down the aisle, and stop at one large pen. This pen has several dozen small foals, running and playing and giggling happily. walking among them are two older mares, gently prodding apart fights and happily watching over all the babies. One by one, you deposit the new arrivals into the pen, and the newcomers are noticed by the other fluffies. Several foals surround them and begin to hug and play with the new colts and fillies. One new arrival seems overwhelmed, and promptly shits itself with fear. It cries despondently as the others back away in disgust at all the poop on its bottom.
“Huu Huu! Why new fwends leave fwuffy?!” it bawls.
“Why new fwend make bad poopies?” They squeak in response,
“Nu smew pwetty! Pwese huggies?” it pleads, reaching out its tiny legs for comfort
“Bwown Mummah! New fwuffy hew make bad poopies!” They each say, all at once.
A full-grown, light brown mare with a bright pink mane and tail waddles over to the shit-covered baby.
“ Baby nuu make poopies here, poopies go in wittabawks!” She huffs at the rainbow foal. She picks up the foal by the scruff of its neck. It screams in fear as she drops it in the litterbox, and squatting over it, gives it sorry-poopies. You pat Rosie when she is finished. She nuzzles your hand appreciatively, but does not speak. The foal renews its pleading for huggies, but the other foals back away.
“Fwuffy nu smell pwetty, no wan gib huggies. Smewwy fwuffy am bad fwuffy, nu pway with good fwuffies” Rosie states authoritatively. You will deal with the ‘example’ fluffy later.
The incontinent fluffy sits dejectedly in the corner and begins to cry. The other new arrivals have been watching, struck with fear. One begins to quiver, but manages to dash to the nearest litterbox before unleashing a stream of milky diarrhea.
“…colt nu am bad fwuffy.” It squeaks triumphantly, grinning unassuredly.
“Dis fiwwy am gud fwuffy. Rosie gib huggies to good cowt” Rosie coos, hugging it tenderly.
Satisfied, you move about, filling water dispensers and food troughs alike. Every pen gets plain old kibble, the cheapest available. In addition to pens for future breeders and merchandise, there are multiple pens for adult fluffies. One holds stallions, a mixture of bright colors and varieties, who devour their kibble appreciatively. Next door are the breeding mares, likewise every pattern and color imaginable. Here is where they rest between litters. After weaning their foals, the mares can kick back and relax for a month or so, as they will not be fertile again for several weeks. Meanwhile, they can eat, sleep, and play with each other and the many toys scattered throughout their pens. Several of the newer mares look up from their kibble as Midnight joins you at the gate, and promptly bolt for safety at the opposite end of the pen. A bright yellow pegasus with a purple mane pleads with you from behind the gate.
“Pwese mistah, nuu wet big scawee fwuffy huwt fwuffy? Sunshine am good mawe, make gud babbehs fo mistah.”
“Nuuu, nuu gib special huggies to Daffodiw!” Squeels a battered-looking pinto. Her ears are notched and there are several rough patches of fur on her hindquarters. She poops a little, and the other scared mares back away from her.
“So many pwetty mawes!” says Midnight. He is sniffing the air appreciatively, and you can swear he is drooling.
“Not right now, Midnight.” You motion him away as you drop the young rainbow filly in with the seasoned mares. In another month, she will be fully grown, and ready for breeding. One way or another, the other mares will teach her the ropes.
By now, all the fluffies have food and water, and all the litter boxes are empty. Well, that’s almost correct. There is, of course, the isolation pen. You smile as you walk over. The isolation pen isn’t so much a pen as it is a series of sorry boxes, all grouped together in rows. The fluffy is stuck in, its rump protruding from the rear, its head in total darkness, too tight to sit down. There are very few fluffies here, only three right now. One has died, a stallion that refused to give special hugs. He was no big loss, a regular earth male with pastel pink coloring. Another stallion goes back in the pen with the other males after offering an apology for bucking you yesterday, and you move over to open the last of the sorry boxes. The unicorn mare inside has fine white fur and a black mane. Her tail has been docked, and her nose is scarred from a sorry stick. She blows a raspberry at you.
“Dummy humman, Oweo no gib mo babies! Wet Oweo go! Wan mah babbehs!” She makes an attempt at sorry-poopies, but with nothing to eat for 24 hours, nothing comes out of he bruised posterior. You sigh. ‘Trouble’ would be a better name for this one. Constant biting, bucking of stallions and smarty behavior in the holding pens have worn out your patience. One of her last litter, a black and white filly identical to herself, will be ready for breeding in another week or so.
“Three strikes and you’re out, shit-rat!” you smile and reach into your pocket. Oreo squirms in your hands as you walk over to the stallion pen. From your pocket you remove a small spray bottle, the size of a bottle of mace. Removing the safety cap, you spray some on Oreo’s bottom, and toss her none too gently into the stallion pit. There is a snap, and one of her front legs breaks. Normally you would care, but not today. This bitch has been nothing but problems, despite three healthy litters of foals.
“Wostest owwies! Pweese, gib huggies! Oweo hab tewwible hurties!” she squeals. Blood leaks slowly from the compound fracture and she licks herself carefully while crying.
The stallions stop eating and come to investigate. Once they get about two feet away, however, they are no longer merely curious.
“Pwetty mawe smeww gudd! Wan gib special huggies!” Several of them begin to nuzzle her, and one moves to mount her: a big, orange earthie. He puffs out his chest and climbs onto her. Oreo tries to nip at him and kick, but he puts his full weight on her, biting an ear to hold on. Nonetheless, she manages to squirm violently as he enters her.
“Nuuuuuu! Nuuu wan speshul huggies, nu wan more babbehs!”
The stallions do not care. One after another, they take turns mounting her as she is reduced to quivering quietly. Enf, enf, enf it goes. Eventually every stallion is laying down, panting and dozing. Oreo’s white fur is smeared pink with blood, and blood-tinged spunk oozes out of her hindquarters, while more is matted in her fur. Her ears are torn and frayed, and her snout is dripping blood. You pick up her battered body and drop it over in the sink, into a pile with the discarded foals from earlier.
“Oweo need huggies! Tewwible owwies! Pwease hewp fluffy?” you hear her whimpering, but you really could care less. The foals chirp and complain about Oreo wriggling on top of them.
Rebellious behavior spreads like wildfire in the pens. Once some mare thinks it’s running the show, you’ll be knee-deep in sorry poopies and screaming dams demanding spaghetti for their “tummy babies.” You nip this behavior as soon as possible with smacks and the sorry stick. You have quite a bit of patience with mares, but sometimes you need to make an example. The other mares murmur quietly in their pen and hug each other. They have received the message. As you hang up your gear and usher Pickle and company from the barn, you can hear Oreo crying from the sink:
“huu huu huu! Oweo wan die.”