Judgment: The Other Side of the Coin

>You are a worker for the Department of Fish and Wildlife's Division of Fluffy Pony Management.
>Otherwise known as the 'Fluffy Pony Judgment Squad'.
>You've been dispatched to assess a herd that's been trying to access a fenced field of turnips.
>The farmer says they haven't really been belligerent, but she can't get them to leave and is becoming frustrated.
>When you arrive, you have to drive down a winding dirt path to find the scene of the crime.
>The fences around the fields are barbed wire.
>You know you've arrived at the field in question when you see a fence bearing a rainbow of fluff.  It's adjacent a stand of tall pine trees.
>That must be where they've sheltered.  You park the truck on the side of the path and walk the rest of the way along the fence.
>You creep into the pine stand.  At first, you don't see any fluffies.
>Only when you've traveled deeper into the area do you find them.
>This herd is relatively small, only about forty fluffies total.
>The fluffies are asleep, waiting out the heat of the day in the shade of the pines.
>Oddly, you see no pregnant dams at all; extremely unusual for any wild herd, even one this size.
>Since they're snoozing, you use the chance to make your initial assessment.
>First and foremost, they're not swollen.  Quite the opposite; they look severely underfed.
>They also lack the heavy fluff of wintered-over ferals, but it's late enough in the year that they may have shed it already.
>Their fluff is mottled with dirty patches, snagged twigs, leaves.
>You can see collars with tags on some of them.  Wait...
>They all have tags.  Every single one.
>Besides looking underfed and missing tufts of fluff, you see no apparent physical injuries.
>This looks like an urban herd, but those hardly ever leave the cities they came together in.
>They also never get this large.
>You can't figure out what's going on.
>Better ask the fluffies themselves.  You step on a branch to wake them up.
>They scramble around and over each other with fright, yelling for help.
>When they see you, however, they huddle together and become very quiet.
“How did you get out here?”
>”Pwease, no huwt fwuffies, fwuffies sowwy, fwuffies good fwuffies...”
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
>They shuffle backwards away from you as you approach.
>”Pw-pwease no huwt...”
>You're a bit confused about why they're acting like this.
>They don't look like they've been abused at all.
>They have all their limbs, eyes, ears, wings, and tails; everything is physically intact.
>None of them even limp.
>Besides the fluff that the fences ripped off, they look fine.
“Did someone hurt you?”
>A jade green unicorn waddles forth.
>”Hooman say no wan' fwuffies, make fwuffies go in dawk pwace an' go 'way...” she sniffles.
>Just one?  Why the hell would one person have forty of these things?
>You find a clear spot in the undergrowth to sit down.
>A couple of the thinnest fluffies approach you gingerly, bleating sadly for food.
>You gently take one into your hands and check her for injuries.
>”Pwease no huwt, fwuffy sowwy, fwuffy sowwy!” she wails, squirming weakly.
>You part her lemon-colored fluff to look for bruises and find none.
>Her wings are unharmed and buzzing with fear.
>Everything seems fine until you get to her tail.
>Her little fluffy vagina is absolutely destroyed.
>She squeals in terror when she feels your fingers even get near it, causing the herd to drop to the ground and cover their eyes.
>While they attempt to 'hide', you continue to examine the lemon pegasus.
>She's trying to shit, of course, but nothing comes out; a sure sign she hasn't eaten in at least forty-eight hours.
>You set her aside and take up the other fluffy that approached you, a tangerine earth.
>”N-nuuu!  Munsta fin' fwuffy!  Fwiends pwease hewp!” he yells.
>He screeches when you place a hand on his lower abdomen.
>”Pwease no huwt no-nos!  No-nos haf big owwies!”
>You turn him over and part his fluff.  His genitals are totally scarred over.
>You show them to the other fluffies.
“Are you all hurt like this?”
>They all chatter anxiously in confirmation.
>”Hooman say fwuffy wif no-no owwies bad, hooman take fwuffies an' weave in scawy dawk...” the lemon pegasus says.
>You look at her collar tag.  No address, no phone number, just a name: Lemon, appropriately enough.
>The tangerine earth fluffy's collar is the same.  His name is Sherbet.
>You can guess what's happened by now, but you need to complete the assessment to be entirely certain.
“Why are you trying to eat the turnips?  The farmer said you couldn't.”
>The jade unicorn steps forward again.  “See nummies, fwuffies hung'y, nee' nummies...”
“Why didn't you eat the grass?”
>They look at you with confused eyes.
>”Gwassies nummies?” a couple ask.
>Only a fluffy kept indoors constantly would lack – or forget – that knowledge.
>You take out your phone to make your report.
>The fluffies huddle together five feet away in an uneasy clump.
“County, I've got your assessment for the herd on the Jacobson's property.”
>”Let's hear it.”
“Looks like all of these got dumped by someone running a fluffy mill.  They've been in captivity so long, they didn't know grass is food.”
>”Your reccommendation?”
>While you talk, you do a more accurate head count.
“They're not trying to bother anyone.  I think they'd be good adoptees; they're not belligerent, they're just scared and starving.  Does the shelter have room for...forty-one?”
>”Hold on...yeah, they're basically empty.  Strays and ferals don't stick around here lately, for some reason.  I'll let them know you're coming.”
“All right, I'll round them up.  Send another truck out here, there's no way I can carry them all.”
>You hang up and stand, dusting off your pant legs.
>”No...no huwt fwuffies?” the jade unicorn asks.
“No hurt.  I'm taking you to a place with food.”
>You expect them to cheer, to run in happy circles.
>They still look wary.
>”Fwuffies haf nummies an' no haf owwies?”
“No owwies.”
>They still don't run and cheer.  They're too weak and nervous.
>Instead, they gather around your legs, giving your a shins a trembling hug.
>”Fank you, fwuffies wan' nummies...”
>When you don't kick them, or yell at them, the hug becomes more genuine, more firm.
>By the time the other truck arrives, they're behaving more like normal fluffies do, babbling about nummies and saying they love you.
>When you go to meet the other worker, the herd shuffles along after you.
>You count the cages in your truck as the herd greets the 'new fwiend'.
>The two of you pick up fluffies and begin putting them into cages.
>”No wan' sowwy box!  Fwuffy sowwy, fwuffy sowwy!”
”Calm down, you're not in trouble.”
>”No wan' sowwy box!  Fwuffy sowwy twy take nummies!”
>Soon, your truckbed bears twenty crying fluffies in cages, begging and pleading to get out.
>Once the other truck is loaded, you drive out of the farm and get on the highway.
>Twenty minutes later, you're unloading upset fluffies in the shelter parking lot.
>The two women that run the shelter are horrified about their injuries and hug them.
>It takes you half an hour to unload.  The other guy has to leave on a call, so you wrap up here.
>The younger of the two women, a dreadlocked, slender girl with a watch cap, eyes you with some disdain.
>”Looks like you'll have to find some other fluffies to kill.”
>A lot of people who really have no clue hate your line of work.
>They consider you State-sponsored butchers, a reputation not helped by the behavior of a vast majority of the people in your department.
>They seem to forget, or perhaps ignore, that nearly half the fluffies assessed are either left to their own devices or brought in for adoption.
“If I wanted to kill them, they never would have made it here.”
>She sneers at you, but her face grows blank as she realizes you're right.
>You give the older woman the State's paperwork when she comes back out and return to your truck.
>As you get in, you look the younger woman right in the eye.
“There are two sides to every coin, ma'am.  Good day.”
>With that, you drive off.