Fluffy Hospital 2

Swindle, March 12, 2014; 04:21 / FB 19114
=======================================================================================================================================
Fluffy Hospital 2



You're a fluffy vet, and you've just arrived at work. Your receptionist arrived twenty minutes before you did to unlock the doors, start the coffee maker, and get the paperwork ready, as usual. Until a month ago, you had an assistant, but she quit because she couldn't handle the blood and the crying any more. You have no idea how she made it through veterinary school, since she'd have dissected multiple fluffies, including a couple live ones, before graduating. You really need to hire a new assistant vet though; it's easier with someone to help out, and it lets you take a day off while they cover for you. Oh well, more money for you.

Sliding on your lab coat, you go in back to the quiet room, taking a moment to let your eyes adjust to the dimmer light. You only have two overnight patients currently; one is a mare named Elizabeth who swallowed some yarn and had to have it surgically removed, the other is an unnamed stallion who got r_ped by a human with a gay beastiality fetish. Even as jaded as you've become, that one disturbs the hell out of you.

Elizabeth is breathing softly, sleeping naturally. After one last inspection to ensure she isn't getting an infection, you're going to send her home today. The stallion is deep asleep, thanks to the IV drip you have going into him; in addition to feeding him a steady stream of anesthetics and Ringer's to keep him knocked out and hydrated, you also have a nutrient drip going in. He isn't going home any time soon, and until his badly damaged rectum and anus are healed, you're giving a liquid intravenous diet so he pees but doesn't poop. Both fluffies seem to be doing all right, and you check the stallion's bandages; soaked through with blood.

Sighing, you open his cage, one specifically designed for you to handle injured fluffies on a drip, slide the bottom of his cage out so you can access him, and carefully remove the bandages. Even after operating on him all last night, his ass is still a mess. You clean him up, put fresh bandages and gauze on his rear, gently stroke the fluff on his face, and slide him back into the cage and shut the door. At this point, he should recover, but he's got a long road ahead of him.

Elizabeth stirs at the noise, opening her eyes and squeaking for nummies. You hold a finger over your mouth and shush her.

"Hush girl, there's a very sick fluffy who's trying to sleep here. Your nummies are in the bottle, remember?"

She pouts, replying, "Nu wam miwkies. Miwkies fow babbehs. Wizbeff am big fwuffy. Wan nummies."

You don't want her eating solid food for another couple days, until her stomash is fully recovered from the surgery.

"I told you, you can't have nummies until your sickies are all better. If you're a good girl and drink all your milkies, then you get to go home today."

She perked up upon hearing that, and chugged her way through a third of the bottle before lying down to rest again. You poke one finger through the cage to scratch behind her ear, then remind her to stay quiet so the other fluffy can sleep (he won't wake up regardless of how loud she is, but hey.) and shut the door behind you.

All right. Let's see what the parade of horror, sorrow, and comedy has for you today.

First patient is a little colt named Bouncer. He's already had his immunizations from the pet store, but now he needs to be fixed. Bouncer is young, naive even by fluffy standards, and completely unaware that his special lumps are going bye-bye. Fortunately, his owner wants to him oblivious and pays for the expensive fluffy anesthetics. You give set Bouncer in an immobilizer, which keeps him from moving or turning his head to see behind him, and keep him calm by asking about his favorite games. He loves to play with his owner and a bright red rubber ball, which he is very proud to say is all his; he had to share all of his old toys at the pet shop. You rub in the local anesthetic and he giggles, saying he likes the 'funny tickles', and you rub in antibiotic lotion all over his scr_tum and the surrounding area while keeping him distracted.

"So Bouncer, you like your new home then?"

He very enthusiastically gives you a long-winded, detailed run-down of a typical day for him, which mainly involves sleeping, playing, eating, and pooping. Typical fluffy, in other words. You pinch his fuzzy little sack and he makes no response; deciding to test if the anesthetic is fully in effect, you flick him hard in the dangly bits. No response. Good. While Bouncer continues his diatribe, you pick up your tools.

Bouncer is smaller than the adult stallions you often work on, so you need to go about this a little differently. Instead of a scalpel, you use a pair of small scissors, specially designed for this, to cut a slit in his scr_tum, then squeeze so his left t_sticle pops out of the slit. You repeat this for the right side, then set the scissors down and grab some stiching. Bouncer, unaware that his balls are dangling out in the open, keeps happily telling you about his day and the wonderful nummies (generic kibble) his owner feeds him. The stiching is the kind that dissolves, no need to come back later and remove it. You quickly tie a knot as tightly as you can around the blood vessels going to each t_sticle, cutting off the blood supply, then pick up the scissors again and snip them off. Both of Bouncer's little balls go into a medical waste bin while he happily tells you about playing with his much bigger ball. The irony is not lost on you, and if you were a crueler man it'd make you do more than just smirk. Checking to ensure there's no serious bleeding, you stich up the two slits you made in his scr_tum, then pick up the syringe.

"Ok Bouncer, one last thing and then we're done. You're gonna feel a slight pinch..."

Bouncer, having received over a dozen shots when the pet store sold him, knows what that means and trembles, but he's a good colt and doesn't empty his bowels. Mostly because you held him over a litter box and made him go before you put him on the operating table. You stick the needle into the scruff of his neck, reflecting on how much easier this is on colts and fillies without the thick fluff of an adult, shoot him full of antibiotics, and remove the syringe.

"There, all done! You were such a good boy, Bouncer, I think you deserve a treat!"

His tail wiggles excitedly, his huuhuus at the injection already forgotten, as you remove him from the immobilizer and give him a fluffy treat from the jar on your counter. You carry him up front to his owner, explain how everything went and what to expect, and pass off the happy little colt. More than likely, Bouncer will grow up with no awareness that his special lumps were ever taken away or that he's missing out on anything like special huggies.

Second patient of the day, a morbidly obese mare who is convinced she's pregnant and has gotten bitchy as a result. She's fixed (not your work) and is apparently too stupid to realize that being fat doesn't mean you're going to have babies. You give her a quick physical exam, decide she's otherwise healthy, and write up instructions for the owner. A special diet, exercise, and a video explaining to fatass fluffies that they're not going to be mommies. You write a note to make her watch it at least twice a day for a week straight, then once a day until she finally gets it through her thick head. She should be mentally sound within a month, and down to normal weight within five or six months on the special diet. You hand her and the note off and see your third patient.

Bob is a maroon stallion with bright yellow mane and tail, trimmed shorter than most fluffies. He's in peak physical condition, other than the crossbow bolt sticking through his neck. Bob found a hole in the fence while making his morning poopies and got out, and his owner spent two hours searching the neighborhood for him. He finally gave up and returned home, only to find Bob huddled against his front door crying and with an arrow through his neck. Clearly, whoever's yard Bob had entered had dealt with ferals before, if he kept a crossbow handy that early in the morning.

Fortunately, the bolt is a small one, for a crossbow pistol rather than a full-sized one, and the head isn't barbed. You trim back some of Bob's fluff, grimacing that his owner either couldn't afford or didn't want to pay for the expensive anesthetic, and try to sooth the fearful, hurting fluffy with your voice while you work. Hmm. Just went through the fluff and skin on top of the neck, didn't hit the spine or any major blood vessels. Good. You hold Bob over the litter box, stroking his lower abdomen to coax him into pooping, then as soon as he's done you set him back on the table. One good yank later and Bob is screaming and the arrow is out. You clean out the wound, stitch it up, rub in some antibiotic lotion, and give Bob a fluffy treat. He's too panicked and in pain to eat it, and you pass him and the treat to his owner along with the bill. Not your problem now.

Fourth patient of the day, a filly who needed to be fixed. You empty her out in the litter box, shave her belly fluff, and get ready to put her under when something makes you stop. There was something off here. You knead her belly with your fingers, ignoring her complaints and calming her with some reassuring words, and feel a mass in her belly. Greeeeaaaaat. Either this filly has gotten a very early start on being a mommy, or she has a tumor. You check her teats and there doesn't seem to be any swelling or sensitivity there; at this early stage, it's not a definite sign one way or the other. You tuck the filly under your arm, ignoring her complaints about her belly being cold without fluff, and bring her up front to her owner.
"Ma'am, I think there's a slight complication here."

You explain the issue to her horrified owner and give her the number and address for the big veterinary center downtown; they don't specialize in any particular species like you do, but they do have an ultrasound machine, x-ray, and other goodies that can be used to get to the bottom of the mysterious mass in her belly. Either way, it's out of your hands now.

Fifth and apparently final patient of the day (it's a slow day) is an elderly gelding with graying fluff who keeps squinting because his vision is going. He just needs a checkup and maybe find out why his poop is a little too liquidy. Other than age, he's healthy, and you recommend changing his diet to one specifically formulated for older fluffies before passing him off to his owner. Man, today was fairly easy.

You check up on Elizabeth and the stallion again, then sit at your desk drawing pictures of Al Gore freezing in a blizzard and a giant robot rampaging through Tokyo, waiting for another patient to come in. There's a knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opens and you recognize Bill, the fluffy exterminator. He brings his fluffies to you whenever they need a trip to the vet, and you always twinge in sympathy when you think of his poor, abused mare Sunshine. That Bill has hung on to a fluffy so deeply traumatized is proof to you that he's good people.

"Hey Bill, you come to check up on the little guy? You could have just called."

"Nah, I was grabbing some ferals in an alley behind that Italian restaurant just up the road, so I decided to stop here and check. How is he? Is his, uh, rectum ok?"

"Rectum? Damn near killed him."

You suddenly remember that Bill carries a gun when you see the look he gives you and hastily correct your mistake.

"No, I'm serious. The damage to his rectum, colon, and anus would have been fatal if you hadn't brought him in here. I operated on him for five hours last night. I got home so late, my fluffy thought I'd abandoned him, had given himself sorry poopies, and was begging the sorry box to let him inside. He, uh, has abandonment issues. As it is, I'm going to need to hold on to him for at least a week while he recovers, and then it's going to be a while before he's fully up to snuff. But, he seems like a resilient little guy, so he should survive. I'll keep you updated."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. I guess I'll leave you to it."

You nod politely as he leaves and go back to doodling. Now a badly drawn Steve McQueen is ramping a motorcycle over a pile of shitting fluffies. There's another knock on your door.

"Yes?"

Your receptionist sticks her head in.

"Sir, there's another patient here. Fluffy having some sort of allergic reaction to something she ate, rash all over her face and tongue."

"Bring her in back, I'll need to talk to the owner, find out what she ate."

You put on a fresh pair of gloves and hide your doodles; time to get back to work.