The Interview Process

FractalFluff, January 21, 2014; 06:26 / FB 16773
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The Interview Process

(Hugbox warning)

The woman has The Look. You know it well: furtive yet still self-righteous, the expression of someone who's only doing what's best, and has a long dramatic speech prepared for those who would try to rain on her parade by pointing out how fucked up it is. The perfect clothes, the immaculate hair and the tastefully expensive handbag suggest someone who's used to getting their own way.

"Oh, good morning," she says, with the brittle sweetness of an instinctively rude person who needs to wheedle something out of someone she regards as underling. "I'm a fluffy pony owner, and I heard that this was... that you, uh... you'll perform the procedure here." She drops her voice on the word "procedure" even though there's nobody else in the reception area. Guilty conscience.

You're not about to make this easy for her.

"This is a specialist vetrenarian practice for fluffy ponies," you tell her. "We do a lot of procedures."

"Well, I was looking for someone who'll... I was hoping I could have my fluffy pony..."

"Spayed? Neutered?" you say, deliberately misunderstanding. "Of course. It's nice to meet a responsible pet owner who doesn't just dump unwanted foals by the roadside. Haha."

"Ha, ha," she agrees, twitchily. "No, that wasn't the procedure I was thinking of. You see, I got her as a foal, and now she's so terribly hyper... I'm at my wits' end trying to keep her off the furniture..."

"Most people have a saferoom for their ponies. It's not a good idea to let them loose in the rest of the house unless they're exceptionally docile."

"Well, yes, but if I leave her in there all day she gets awfully irritable. Starts tearing up her bedding, biting her own fluff..."

"Sounds like she's bored. You can get those kinds of behaviours in neglected ponies sometimes."

"Neglected..?" She bridles, and you see the veneer of forced politeness begin to crack. "Well, I can assure you that she's got plenty of toys. Blocks, balls, plushies..."

"How about something she can scramble around on? HasBio's PoniJyms are getting very popular these days. We're an authorized vendor, if you wanted to —"

"Oh, I don't have room for something like that." She waves you away and gets back to her speech. "I just need her to... well, I'm concerned about her safety."

"Sure."

A silence. You raise an eyebrow. Finally, she fills it.

"I'd like her made safe. That's all."

"You want her amputated," you say, flatly.

"Well — yes!"

"I see. Well... we do perform amputations, although usually it's a last resort when there's been a serious injury and the limb can't be saved. Most owners try to avoid it. The distress to the animal, you know."

"She's already injured herself several times anyway! Falling down the stairs, toppling off the back f the settee..."

"And breaking a few ornaments, I don't doubt." You let her deal with the implication that she cares more about her knicknacks than flesh and blood while you pretend to riffle through some papers on the reception desk. "Well, we do sometimes perform elective amputations... but only after the applicant completes the interview stage."

"An interview? What kind of interview? I assure you, I'm a perfectly responsible —"

"Oh, the interview isn't to convince us of anything. It's just to make sure that you understand all of the implications, and that you're serious about going ahead."

"Implications..?"

"You'll be speaking with one of our resident experts. If you're still keen to have the procedure done after that, we can move forward."

"Well, how long to I have to wait for this interview of yours?"

"I can take you through now, if you like. She's got no appointments today." You get up from the desk and head towards the office. The Responsible Fluffy Owner follows in your wake; when you pause and hold the door, she hesitates slightly.

"But I don't see anyone —"

"Hewwo, nice wady!"

The fluffy is an incredibly cute monocolour white pony, with purest sapphire blue eyes and perfectly curling lashes. She's the epitome of fluffy perfection: every little girl's fantasy pony come to life. Until you get to the bowl, of course. Most little girls' fantasies do not include useless stumps and a bowl lined with incontinence pads.

You usher Ms. Responsible through and invite her to sit in front of the table where the fluffy's bowl rests. The fluffy beams happily at you both, fluttering her eyelashes bewitchingly.

"Meet Crystal," you say. "Our resident expert on the procedure you're contemplating."

"Nice wady gif petties? Wike petties!" says the fluffy, adorably. The woman can't resist; she reaches out and gently strokes the snow-white silk of the mare's mane and pats her downy muzzle. The fluffy cranes up to meet her hand and coos sweetly.

"Wady nice! Wan gif huggies fow nice wady. Nice wady gif weggies?"

"I, uh... I..."

"Gif weggies? Cwistah miss weggies... nee for huggies an pway!"

"I..." the woman looks at you desperately. You simply gesture towards the fluffy.

"Go on. I'm sure you can explain in a way she'll understand."

"Your legs... your, uh, leggies... Well, you see, Crystal, your leggies are gone."

"Whewe gu weggies? Wen come back? Cwistah nee' weggies for wun an pway baww wif fwens!"

"No, you see, your leggies are..."

"How time tiw weggies? Cwistah wan wun. Cwistah haf saddies if nu wun."

"No, Crystal... I'm sorry, dear, but..." she trails off, looking to you for support. She finds none.

"Tell her," you say, folding your arms. "Tell her what you'll tell your own fluffy, once it's done to her."

She swallows and squirms in her chair. She begins petting the fluffy again.

"Crystal, I'm afraid your leggies are never coming back."

"W... w... weggies... nu come back..?" says Crystal, tears beginning to well up in her blue, blue eyes. "Buh... buh.., how hug fwens? How wun in pawk? How Cwistah pway wif baww if weggies nu come back?"

"There, there, Crystal. You can still play with your ball and have fun with your friends, I'm sure..." the woman doesn't sound sure. She's experiencing serious doubts for what you suspect may be the first time in her life.

"Cwistah nu can pway!" says the limbless fluffy, more loudly now. "Cwistah nu can pway nefuh again! Huuhuuhuuuu! Cwistah nefuh gif huggies again! Buuhuuuuhuuu!"

"Now, now, Crystal," says the woman helplessly.

"Cwistah nefuh haf speshuw fwend. Boy fwuffies nu wan be wif Fwuffy if nu haf weggies. Cwistah nefuh be mummah, nu can be mummah if nu can hug babbehs! Huuhuuuuhuuu!"

"There, there, I'm sure —"

"BUUUhuuhuuuhuuu! Fwuffy wan weggies! Come back weggies! Huhuuuhuu! Nice wady, pweeeeese gif back weggies! Huhuuuhuuhuu!"

"Fluffy —"

But the fluffy is in full flood, now, and can't be stopped. "Why wady take Cwistah weggies? Cwistah gud fwuffy! Cwistah gud fwuffy, nee' weggies, whyyyy take weggies? Cwistah haychoo! Cwistah wan weggies! Cwistah wan weggiiies! Gif Cwistah weggies NAO!" Her voice is rising to a penetrating shriek.

"But I don't have your weg — your leggies! I'm sorry, fluffy, but there's nothing I can do!"

The fluffy pony writhes in its bowl, tossing its head from side to side. The bowl rocks dramatically on the table. "Cwistah wan weggies! Cwistah wan weggies! Cwistah haychoo! Yu meanie, yu bad hoomin, yu nu wuv Cwistah! Cwistah nu wuv yu! Cwistah haychoo! Cwistah haychoo FOWEVUH! Cwistah wan WEGGIIIES! WEGGIIIIIIEEES! WEH-HEH-HEH-HEG-IIEEEES!"

You decide it's time to intervene. "I'm sorry, Crystal. This lady didn't take your leggies, it's not her fault. But your leggies aren't coming back. You'll just have to get used to your bowl."

The fluffy shrieks like a wounded child, a raw, shrill howl of devastating grief. "YEEEEEEEEEE! WAN DIE! WAN DIE! CWISTAH WAN DIIIEEEEE!"

One of the other assistants bustles into the room, holding a syringe. "Is she upsetting herself again? Poor dear. You'd better step outside while I give her a sedative shot."

"Okay, Nance. See you in a few."

Outside the office, you notice that the woman's hands are shaking. "I never — I didn't — how long ago was she amputated?"

"Over a year," you tell her.

"Don't they forget about it after a while?"

"Not really. Even repeated electroshock treatments often don't work; they forget almost everything else, but not that they once had legs. Something about the somatic template, apparently."

"I never thought..." she shakes her head. "It never occured to me that it could make them so unhappy. Will she always be like that?"

"Amputees do have their good days, and the sedatives help. But much of what she says is true; amputees can't play or hug, so they have a hard time socializing with other fluffies. They often get rejected, even if they were very popular with their own kind before. It can be a lonely life."

"Oh, dear..."

"So how's that procedure looking now?"

She appears thoughtful for a while. Then: "Tell me about those pony gyms. They are _washable_, aren't they?"

"Completely washable, covered in soft silicone plastics, modular, come in a range of colours. Here, why don't you come and take a look at our catalogue..?"

***

A little later, when the woman has left (tucking the recipt for her PoniJym into her expensive shoulder bag), you return to the office. The white fluffy and the assistant, Nancy, are sharing a donut and giggling. "'Nother satisfied customer?" asks your colleague.

"Yep. Put her off the chop for life, I think." You ruffle the white fluffy's mane. "Well done, Superbowl. Another Oscar-winning performance."

Superbowl beams. She ducks her head, bowing to an imaginary audience. "Fwuffy wana fank deh Acabemy, anna diwecty, anna wittew hoomins make dis possibew!" You both applaud, laughing. Then your colleague goes to take over reception, while you carry your beloved runt back to the fluffy pens in the back of the building.

"Put Supabow' inna waceycaw?" she begs.

"Of course, baby. Then you can play with your friends."

You lift her from the bowl, a crude item that's nothing like the specially-constructed cradle where she spends her resting hours. She tucks your wrist under her chin and wraps her muscular little boddy around it. "Huggies!" she says happily. Then you gently strap her into the converted toy truck that serves her as a battery-powered wheelchair. Pretty soon, she's zooming around the play area, chasing her friends, racing after a ball, and distributing her own brand of huggies.

You watch contentedly. Of course, Superbowl wouldn't be nearly this well-adjusted if she hadn't been born a limbless runt. Ironically, she's one of the most active and, well, productive fluffies you've ever encountered. Distressed fluffy amputees brought in to meet her always improve to at least some degree when they see the happy fluffy playing with her friends. They're especially reassured to see her exchanging huggies with her "hubby," Soccer, and their now-grown foal, a handsome young earthie called BigMatch. Then there are her bravura performances as the devastated "Crystal," which help to guarantee that there are fewer and fewer amputees in the first place. Thanks to your resident expert, nobody who comes in asking about fluffy amputations ever asks again.

Lying? Meh. There are plenty of real Crystals out there; Superbowl's performance is taken from life. Those phoney sobs and screams are the echoes of ones she's heard as she tries to comfort victims of the procedure. You don't really have a lot of sympathy for would-be elective amputators. To your mind, they deserve a lot worse than Superbowl's little shows.

And those PoniJym sales commissions certainly help assauge any remaining pangs of conscience.