Milly

Milly

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Warning:  This story contains fluffy abuse both giving and taking.  Viewer discretion is advised.


My sister bought me Milly, a light yellow fluffy pony with deep blue in her mane and tail because she thought there should be more living in my house than myself and the spiders. I was a little standoffish about it when I heard, and the transition did come with a bump or two.  She was energetic and bubbly, I'm a quiet and practical person.  It was months before we formed our own groove but I finally began to understand her ways and needs.  Over time, I suppose that constant cheer grew on me.  She's always active, very affectionate and thinks hugs will fix any problem.  I've heard that's typical of the breed, and being a pegasus means she's always shuffling around the house quick as she can with those stubby little wings outstretched, calling for me to pick her up.  We go flying around the back yard sometimes, belly resting in my hands while her hooves and wings reached out as far as they'd go.  It only took one bad jump off the deck to realize she can't fly without daddy, I'm glad she didn't break anything.

My sister passed away seven months after giving me Milly, on her headstone I made sure they inscribed "giver of joy and caretaker of all things great and small."  Milly understood her auntie was gone, we consoled each other, it helped a lot.

For eight months we'd been happily coexisting in my modest house, her ground floor safe room spacious enough for an active fluffy.  Far more that my friends fluffies apparently.  They were surprised at how long Milly could run and flap her wings, I guess my fluffy has a little extra stamina compared to the norm.  It shows too, right when my alarm goes off she starts tapping on the safe room door, waiting for me to haul my half asleep ass out and give her breakfast.  She's well behaved, well trained and sometimes even calls me smarty instead of daddy.  We've had some very good days.

But it only took one bad day to change things forever.  I told that witch next door her dogs were dangerous and should be on a leash at all times, one almost got the mail carrier before he maced it.  That stuff's so strong even Milly was rubbing at her eyes and she never even went outside!

Well, I had her out back with me while trimming the ceder hedge, doing that almost-run-but-not-quite thing fluffies do, kind of like a real horses canter.  It's about as fast as they ever get, but it wasn't enough to satisfy her sense of exploration.  At first I didn't hear her screaming over the electric clippers and hearing protection but I caught on in a few moments.  She'd found a little spot in the white picket fence separating my place from the wenches and decided to go give the dogs huggies.  They didn't see things her way.

My out of shape ass was over the fence as quick as I could, but by then the damage had been done.  She'd tried protecting her face and those beasts just obliterated her legs, tail, wings and one ear along with all the shaking and tearing dogs do.  They barely even backed off when I charged in and scooped her up, she was too busy screaming hysterically to form any real words.  God knows how many traffic laws I broke getting her to the vet, the entire time thinking of ways how I could mangle those monsters back every bit as hard.  The weed whacker sounded like a good choice.

They took her in immediately, she'd stopped screaming but her constantly crying and begging for the hurting to stop was terrifying none the less.  Quickly sedated despite her struggling the vet seemed as cold a woman I've ever met, even worse than the ex wife.  She said putting her down was the best option but how could I accept that?  Almost a year together and I'm supposed to shrug my shoulders and say "oh well?"  I did ok for myself, the bill didn't scare me, I wanted her saved and that's what they were going to do despite this block of ice telling me to let her die.  After a brief stare down nurse ratchet backed off and prepped for surgery.

Five very tense hours later she gave me the good news, and the bad news too.  Milly survived and likely would recover, but at one hell of a cost.  They could only save one half of her rear left leg and the right ear, everything else had been too badly damaged or missing entirely.  No more waddling around the back yard, no more flapping her wings in daddies hands, she faced a life completely different from the one she loved.

While the vet worked I found myself torn between worry for Milly and rage against that bitch and her fucking dogs.  I envisioned smashing her knees in with a hammer and locking the wench in her garage with those brutes.  As days go by they get hungrier and hungrier, no one comes to help the bitch until they've turned on her.  I guess that's they found me smiling when the nurse came to inform me of Milly's fate.  Once she did, I wasn't smiling anymore.

With several prescriptions, bandages, gauze and well wishes from the staff I took my groggy fluffy home and let her sleep, she really needed it.  I'd kept her in my bedroom and placed her into a wide, low bowl like they suggested.  Supposedly some fluffy owners have theirs amputated on purpose!  It blew my mind at the time but I had other things to worry about.  As she woke I made sure to be the first thing she saw.  She looked up, smiled and said good morning just like always, then tried reaching up for a hug.  I watched as the little frown on her face contorted into a display of terror despite my reassurances, she screamed and with half of one one leg left managed to almost shove herself right out of the bowl.  I righted her and set myself to the horrible task of telling Milly exactly what had happened, and what her life would be.  I'll bet you've never seen that kind of sorrow on an animal, she wailed and begged me to get her legs and wings back.  Trying to explain why that wasn't possible was like explaining quantum mechanics to a three year old.  All she knew was her wings and legs were gone and she wanted them back.

Whole days were spent crying and pleading with me.  I'd lay her down on my lap and try different ways of explaining, nothing ever worked.  Just more tears, wiggling about and a constant stream of liquid poop.  The pain meds were doing that, its one reason she had to stay on the upper edge of my candy bowl.  Often I'd scoop my fuffy up and gave her a hug, despite the bandages I could feel her little muscles contorting and conforming to my body, she tried to hug me back.  Playing little games, long talks, even taking her "flying" did nothing, she wanted her legs and wings and nothing would change that.  For the hundredth time I wondered if I'd done the right thing, if I was selfish in desiring her to live no matter what.

Days turned to weeks, then months.  Fall neared it's end, nary a leaf left on the maple tree out back.  I miss that tree, the factory I worked for shut down and I'd had to downsize my living costs considerably.  Leaving our modest home really hit us both hard, she just didn't understand why daddy couldn't keep the house she'd known most her life.

Over the months Milly changed quite a bit, especially her attitude towards me.  Instead of talking about how she lost her legs and asking if somehow I could get them back, they were becoming demands.  She'd ask why I didn't save her, why I let the mean doggies hurt her so bad.  Our talks became arguments when I'd counter, bringing up how she slipped through the fence and tried to make friends with those dogs despite me telling her no over and over.  Every time I won an argument she'd glare and blow raspberries, what was once smiles became scowls when I'd enter the room, followed by a demand for new wings and legs if I really loved her.  The guilt trips were frequent and laid on thick.

Work wasn't going any better, if your town isn't building anything they don't have much use of an engineer.  Now I was working 12 hour shifts punching holes in sheet metal to make ends meet.  She accused me of not wanting to be around her and spending my time hiding her legs and playing with her wings.  Christ, it was almost like being married again!  Except then I could at least find solace in my work.  Now, every day I'd hobble home with back pain, sore hands and a newspaper devoid of an employment section.  But Milly didn't care, all that matters to her is her damn legs and wings and what kind of awful person would let such a thing happen to a good fluffy.

So I was trapped in the middle, I couldn't take the stress Milly gave me to work, and couldn't bring the stresses of work home with me.  In one fateful night I turned from social drinker to alcoholic.

October 11, I remember the day.

Got so plastered I forgot to feed Milly or empty out her bowl.  Woke up on the kitchen floor the next day with her hollering directly into my nerve center about being a horrible daddy and how she hated me for taking her legs and pretty wingies away.

Taking her legs and wings away.

It'd finally come to this, she'd forgotten the circumstances and was left with blaming the entire disaster on me.  Imagine taking a screwdriver and ramming it into your heart, that'll give you some idea of how it felt.  When I tried reminding her of the truth she called me a liar and demanded her legs back or I'd be sorry.  I was too hurt and tired and hungover to respond, numbly I shuffled to the bathroom.  By the time I got back it was clear what she'd meant.  Her bowl must have been half full of saved up shit and the limited motion one half leg was enough to make it tip over onto my library books, the only form of entertainment I could afford anymore.  Of course she was half covered in it herself but that smirk on her face told me Milly couldn't give half a damn, so long as she got me somehow.

After the initial attack I spent all my time with her, reassuring her, comforting her, caring for her wounds and cleaning up after the many accidents she made.  At first my friends were supportive and there for me, even bringing their own fluffies to cheer her up.  As time passed the visits became fewer and fewer, they all knew coming to see me meant little more than talking with a sobbing fluffy and a distraught, broken man.  I hadn't even tried dating, there was no time with all the care and demands Milly made.  And my drinking proved to be the ultimate surrender, anything to get away from a life that less than a year ago I was proud of.

From that day on I spent as little time with her as I could.  Just plopped her down in the bowl, faced the tv and left it on while I worked, or drank, or did anything rather than go home.  When I did eventually I was greeted by screaming about legs and wings and food and what a horrible daddy I was.  "Whea' Miwwy weggies?  Gif weggies bak nao, hate daddeh!!!  Wan' meanie daddy to woose weggies too!"  This was my life.  For another four months this was my life.

I'm an atheist but even I looked up from time to time and ask my sister for strength.

Pounding back drinks at some shit hole dive, I got to thinking while waiting for the buzz to hit.  Life is kinda fucked up in a way.  The worst person I ever knew, a true, true bastard in high school now runs a company worth billions.  It's amazing how little good deeds matter in the grand scheme of things, or how a fluffy who's only crime was trespassing wound up without legs or wings, and the bitterness and anger that've replaced what she was. I had to admit by then, she did have a point.  Why couldn't this be fixed?  I'm a handy guy, surely I can work something out with the couple tools I hadn't sold yet.  All the materials needed have sat unused on the porch for months.  What an idiot, I could have repaired her and had a happy fluffy again if I'd just used my imagination a a bit!

Wooden dowels, a little bit of this, a little of that, 70+ hours without sleep and a bottle or two of Jack later, all was ready!  I grabbed my bitter, foul mouthed, struggling fluffy and flopped her onto an old cutting board with four holes drilled in where her legs would go.  And to make sure things went off without a hitch, wrapped duct tape around her and the board several times, ensuring a tight fit.  She pooped and peed, insulted me and blew raspberries, looking for the usual reaction.  I just smiled.  It isn't her fault, she's angry about losing her legs and wings but we were about to fix that!

Clamping the board to my kitchen table and checking everything was tighter than a German nun, the operation could begin and my happy, loving Milly would be back in a jiffy!.  First off was her front right leg.  I'd drilled a long, wide, flat head wood screw right through the center of a 1 1/2 inch dowel, leaving just as much extra screw sticking out the other end.  Then I coated the base that'd make contact against her stump with hot glue, that'll make for a nice seal.  When I asked if she was ready to have her legs back it was like flipping a switch, her butt started wagging furiously like it used to all those months ago, back when she was happy.  I was happy too, and pressed down hard on her right shoulder with one hand with shoving upwards hard as I could and screwing her new leg into place.

She shrieked and thrashed and pooped again, but I knew a little discomfort would have to be tolerated for the sake of my beloved fluffies happiness.  Once the wooden base met flesh I ran another ring of hot glue around it to keep that seal sturdy and moved on to the next one.  And oh how she begged and pleaded with me to stop but what sense did that make?  After half a year of unhappiness and being a grumpy fluffy I was making everything better!  Oh well, in the end I knew she'd thank me for persevering.

Ten exhausting minutes and enough screaming to reduce her voice to a dry husk later, every new leg had been successfully installed.  There was a bit more blood than expected but the hot glue would close up any wounds tightly.  Tired, hungover (or drunk, kind of that in between period), but most of all satisfied, I left her in the isolation board overnight so the glue would set.  Her voice shot, all she could do it look up at me and shed tears of joy, I almost cried too it was so beautiful.  What a fool I'd been not doing this the very day of her accident.

Next morning I practically ran to the kitchen despite my pulsing headache, eager to watch Milly walk again for the first time in almost a year.  She lay in place, resting after such an ordeal.  She's such a trooper for enduring it.  After a little pulling and one or two solid knocks from below, glue that'd leaked onto the board gave up and out she came!  My heart was in my throat as I set her down the floor, new legs and all for the first time.  The screech of agony was disappointing but surely all she needed was some practice to get the hang of things.

So we tried again.

And again.

And again.

By now she was begging me to take her new legs away and I have to admit, that set me off a bit.  I'd put in a lot of time on these things and she wasn't even trying to make them work!  Again and again I lifted her sobbing body off the ground and let go, watching the legs skitter out from under her and ignoring the hoarse shrieking.  Over and over and over, expecting a jubilant fluffy after everything I've done, everything I've put up with... my whole fucking life going down the toilet and she doesn't even have the common fucking courtesy to say THANK YOU when I fix a problem SHE'S been wailing and bitching about for half a motherfucking year!  Every time I stood her up she'd wail and cry and shit, my moment of triumph was being ruined by a spoiled little brat who refused to put in even the smallest effort!

The non stop screaming and moaning was really getting to me, this wasn't going at all like I'd envisioned.  Disillusioned, angry and a little hurt I dropped Milly back into the safe room, dumped some kibble on the floor and stalked off to work.  Damn near got myself fired that day too, one guy decided he was a funny man, I respectfully disagreed.

Seeing no reason and having no desire to head home right away it was off to the bar instead, the one place I'm actually glad to be.  Eventually I shambled home and opened the door, greeted by the sounds of Milly crying and little clacking noises.  Being as stealthy as a man drunk off his ass can be, I crept to her safe room and peeked in, hoping beyond hope at seeing a walking fluffy.  What I got instead was bitter disappointment.  She lay next to the kibble pile, wiggling her wooden legs fast as she could and bawling.  She was trying to shake them off.

The next ten minutes consisted of me screaming at her for being bad and ungrateful, trying to force her into walking, and eventually tossing her back to the floor when my temper started boiling over.

A year ago I'd been... content.  Decent job, decent home, some good friends and a little peace and quiet.  Then my sister brought me two things, a fluffy pony and a promise.  A promise that this little ball of fluff and giggles would make my life happier and more fulfilling.  Now that same fluffy spends her days crying and clacking as she drags herself from bed, to the litter box, to the food and water bowls, and back.  Lately she's been acting lethargic and the space where wood and flesh meets is reddish and puffy.  And I don't give a damn.

Does that surprise you?  It surprised me when I first realized, but the realization was undeniable.  It's been a year of setbacks, disappointments, failures and constant verbal abuse from something that'd be dead without me.  Hell, someTHING that would never have existed if it weren't for humans and our fucking bad ideas.

My sister wouldn't recognize me.  I'm a terrible person with a shit job I despise, an apartment not fit for fucking roaches, and a pet who lives in agony because of my drunken, misguided, sleep deprived attempt at "helping" her.

And you know what the most damnable thing of it all is?

I'm glad she hurts just as much as I do.