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whumpinthepot · 2 months

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@febuwhump 2024

Day 19. “Please don’t”

Content: BBU adjacent pet whump, caretaker is new master, child oc mentioned? (mouse),

Thank you @ilasknives for looking it over <3

…

Ratty waited on the staircase for Mouse to come home from school. They leaned their head against the bottom of the railing poles and watched the door. They had been sitting there since Mum left this morning, and would continue to sit until someone came home.

There was a sound of a car pulling into the driveway, then footsteps coming up to the door. Ratty perked their head up, watching as the doorknob rattled with the movement of a key. It turned and opened.

Doug walked through it, wearing an unbuttoned suit with a loosened tie around his neck. His locks were pulled up into a bun. He was home early today, and Ratty leaned their head back against the poles in disappointment.

“Hello, sir,” Ratty greeted half-heartedly.

“Oh, Ryland, I didn’t see you there.” Doug sounded surprised. “Where’s your mother?”

“She left to run some errands. Said she would be back later and to wait for Mouse to come home.”

“I see…” Doug sat down beside Ratty on the staircase. It weirded Ratty out, and they shifted an inch away from him. He was too close to them.

Doug was staring at his hands in his lap, and kept his voice quiet. “I know you miss August, and that your mother won’t let you talk to him. I don’t think that’s right of her. I tried to talk to her about it but she, well, it might take some time for her to accept the idea.”

Ratty didn’t know how to respond and just stared at him with distrust still clouded over them.

He continued. “So, what I was getting at is… If you want to call him on my phone while everyone is out, you can. If you don’t tell your mother or sister.”

Ratty blinked. “Wait. Really?!” Was this a trick? “Really, sir? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. You can call him right now if you want.” Doug pulled out his cellphone and held it in front of Ratty. “But it can only be a small phone call for now. Is that okay? I’m sorry it can’t be longer but maybe next time.”

“Yes, sir!” Ratty practically shouted. Their hands trembled with anticipation. Was he really going to call Auggie right now?

“Okay then.” Doug winced and tapped in August’s number. He put it on speaker and handed the phone over.

The phone rang a few times until a nervous voice picked up. “Um… Hello?” It was Auggie.

Ratty’s words were caught in their throat. “Hi,” they managed to croak out.

“Tee? Is that you?” August asked incredulously.

“Yes, Auggie. Mr. Doug let me use his phone in secret. He told me not to tell Mum.” Ratty curled inwards against the phone.

“Oh. Huh. Are you okay?” He asked.

Ratty assured him that they were more or less okay, and the two had a little back and forth of worried small talk.

Ratty was building up to their main question until they finally dared ask. “Auggie? Can you come and get me now? I did everything you told me to. I've been good. I’ve been here for so long, when can you come and get me?”

A pause, then he sighed. “Ratty, I can’t come and get you. You know that. You’re going to have to stay there a little longer. I’m sorry.”

Tears welled up in Ratty’s eyes, fogging their glasses. “Please don’t leave me here, Auggie. Please don’t…”

“I’m sorry, Tee. It’s not that simple. Keep being good for them, alright? You just have to wait this out. I’ll see you as soon as I can, I promise.”

Ratty clutched the phone with a lump in their throat as tears dripped off their chin. “Please come soon…”

“I’ll try. I miss you.” August’s voice gripped around Ratty’s heart.

They gulped in some air. “I miss you too, Auggie.”

Doug waved to get Ratty’s attention, then tapped his smart watch. He put five fingers up then closed his fist.

Ratty got the gist and sniffled. “Auggie? I have to go now. Please come soon, okay?”

“I’ll try, Tee. I’ll try…”

—

General writing tag list: @frogkingdom @coppercoyoti @alittlewhump

Febuwhump tag list: @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @blackrosesandwhump

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highwaywhump · 1 year

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Would you be up for writing a little piece about kill shelters, from the pet’s POV? I saw that you said you wouldn’t write about pets actually being PTS - completely understandable! - what if someone were to come in at the last second with the news that the pet’s original owner had been found? I’m so curious on what the process would be for the shelter handling this- since it would technically be murder, how would it be done in a way to remain ‘legal’? And what would the pet be told? Would they tell them what was going to happen, or just ‘get on with it’? :o

TW/CW: A CHARACTER THAT IDEALIZES DEATH/HAS SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. to be clear, he doesn't die, but another character does (this comes through very vaguely - never voiced outright). brief and vague mention of a gun, talk of scars, low self image, talk of collars and chains and cages/kennels, description of a hit and run victim (still alive), brief description of a dislocated hip, talk of restraints, talk of syringes and needles.

i know our community has suffered these past few days, and i was seriously debating whether i should post this piece or not. in the end, i figure that writing has been my way of overcoming difficult feelings for many years now, and i have been dealing with a lot of them lately, including intense stress and depression. if anyone feels i am doing something wrong in posting this piece, please let me know and i'll see what i'll do about it.

i am also painfully aware this ask was sent over a month ago (in reference to this ask), but i had to sit down and think about how i wanted to go about it. BE AWARE that the following piece features a character that idealizes/wishes for death - please sit this one out if you are struggling with such thoughts. i'm putting everything under a read more so that you can avoid reading a single word if you don't feel comfortable. my dm’s are always open if you want to talk about anything. <3

this character might seem familiar to some. spoiler, this is how poker from this piece ended up. he was about 35 when joey met him and he’s a few years older in this piece. and i'm sorry but there’s just something about men in cages… (also, let’s ignore that i add a bunch of details here that weren’t present in the first piece with him. also also, i don’t know what happened to the verb tenses in this one. it’s the middle of the night. roll with the punches i guess)

It might’ve been months since the guard dog saw his owner last. He doesn’t know. He’s stopped counting.

Well.

He never really started.

He doesn’t remember much about him. He’d lost another fight, the last one in a long row of losses. He’d been pulled into the back of a car by his thick collar afterwards, dazed and hot and sputtering blood all over the leather seats. They’d hit him in the ribs for it and he knew he’d deserved it.

Whoever was driving had been given orders in his owner’s rough voice.

“Go down to the docks. Get rid of him.”

He knew there was a lethal piece of metal stuck down the waistband of the driver’s jeans.

He’d been taken a few hours outside the city instead, deposited on the wet asphalt outside of a brick building and chained to a drainpipe. The driver had gotten back in the car and sped off.

The guard dog had leaned against the hard brick, watching as the brake lights disappeared. He didn’t think much, other than okay. As if he had anything else to say about his situation.

His surroundings turned into a shapeless blur from there. Hands touching him, cold and unfeeling and clad in blue rubber. A couple were soft and took their time to stroke his hair, scratch the hard to reach place between his shoulder blades. He savored those moments, and tried to remember the hands and the face they belonged to, but none of it lasted.

Nothing ever lasted around him, it seemed. He couldn’t keep an owner for more than a few months, never more than a year. Couldn’t keep winning. Couldn’t keep anyone safe, even though that was the thing he was made for. The only thing that kept, were the scars.

And the fucking tattoo on his wrist. Not even the facility that had made him, wanted him back when the shelter called them about him. Too old. They had no prospects who would want someone like him.

That was what the visitors said too, few and far between as they were. Too old. Too big, too many scars, too scary, too ugly, too old, too dumb, too old again. They talked about him as if he wasn’t even there, huddled up in a corner just on the other side of the chain link.

He knew it was his fault. He should be, or at least seem, happier to see them. Smile. Wait at the kennel gate, like all the others did whenever somebody stopped by.

But to what end? Another owner who would put him in the ring again, just to be angry at him when he loses? Or someone he can take bullets for again, even though he isn’t quick and bright enough to anticipate them anymore?

He doesn’t dare hope that anyone else would want him, not in his condition. It’s true, what they say. He’s old. Scarred, slow. There are sunshine stories of even the most unwanted of pets, expenses in every way, who somehow end up on the couches of kind people who just want a companion, their head resting in their laps, petted by soft fingers.

Those people get platonics, though. Domestics. Even the occasional romantic can adapt to such a lifestyle.

But not an old ex guard dog, like him.

He’s no use to anyone, not anymore.

They remove him from the kennel one day. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster. He can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement, but it turns out neither is warranted. He’s taken to another room, a chain attached to his collar, the other end pin shackled to a ring in the wall. Another pet, younger and prettier, is put in his kennel. He can see them through the frosted glass on the door.

He turns away.

He doesn’t cry.

Visitors don’t come through this room, he realizes, and for the first few days he’s happy for it. Nobody talks about him now. It’s quiet and the cold linoleum floor is almost comfortable on his joints. The only bad thing about this room is the other pet, chained to the wall opposite of him. The man is curled up, breathing shallowly through dried blood in his nostrils, and the sound is annoying. He’s younger than him, and he was probably very pretty once, but now his face is bruised and swollen, and bloody in the crevices even though they washed him with a damp cloth when he came in. Hit and run, somebody had said in passing.

That was four days ago. The guard dog watches him, mostly because there isn’t much else to look at in here. His leg is in a weird position, he’s noticed. It’s as if the thigh has rotated where it attaches to the hip. He wonders if it’s supposed to be that way. It doesn’t look very comfortable. His stomach is weirdly distended, too. It looks out of place on a body that is otherwise slim and smooth.

Two workers descend on him one day, kneeling down beside the misshapen figure. They talk to him, sweetly, as they gently lift him over on a gurney and start wheeling him through another door. “You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up,” one of the workers say, a vinyl clad hand patting his shoulder. The one part of him that isn’t broken.

The guard dog catches the faint smile visible through a swollen cheek as they pass him. The other pet is happy they’re coming for him, making him feel better. Finally.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed when the workers come back. One of them wipes their hands on their worn jeans. “Glad that’s over,” he mutters. "Should have been done when he came in," the other says. The guard dog meets his gaze as they pass. Neither of them say anything.

They’d come for him a few days later. They wear the same smiles and the same gloves as they did with the other pet, but he doesn’t need the sweet talking. He goes with them willingly. He’d stopped eating a while back and his muscle tone had disappeared a long time ago, so it was easy for them to help him up to his feet. He’s taller than them, still, and keeps his head down the way he’s always done.

He’s known cold. Heat, pain, pleasure even, in small stints. Grief, fear. Rage. As he places one bare foot in front of the other on the beige linoleum, obediently following the worker in front, he knows he will soon know death.

And he isn’t afraid.

“You won’t feel a thing,” one of them says as they help him sit on the steel table in the next room, as if anyone has ever cared about how he’s feeling.

“You’ll feel much better after,” the other worker says, without specifying exactly what was supposed to be better, as they gently lay him down. The table has leather straps hanging down the sides, ready to restrain its more unwilling cases, but he doesn’t move and they don’t use the straps. In the corner of his eye he can see two syringes on the counter. One of them is skinny and filled with clear fluid. The needle is small and will slip into him easily. He’s had many needles before. This won’t feel any different, he decides. The other syringe is larger, the needle too big to be used on somebody who was awake feel it.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll feel better after. The guard dog refocuses his gaze on the bright light overhead. He closes his eyes.

“Small pinch, now,” one worker says, and he can feel a pinprick at the crook of his elbow, the cold liquid fanning up his arm as it is being pushed in. His heart beats a few more times before the serum reaches it. He can feel his pulse, docile to begin with, calm down even more. He feels sleepy, his body heavy, as if he’s being pushed into the table from above. The hard metal digging into his joints doesn’t matter anymore. He knows he won’t even notice the other syringe. He knows he’ll feel better soon.

A grating ringtone interrupts his silent mind. One of the workers picks up, speaking in a low voice. Sleep tugs at the edges of his mind, and he wants to follow. Right before he goes under, the sound of hard plastic hitting metal and a few words make it through the fuzzy walls inside his head.

“No trouble at all. You’re just in time, sir.”

to answer your other questions, anon: in the legal sense it wouldn't be murder, as the pets aren't people anymore, they're only human at the biological level (again, in a legal sense). it's necessary :) and humane :) euthanasia :). the pets aren't told anything/they're gently reassured and told they're going on for surgery, or something similar. i think "you'll feel better when you wake up," is a classic in these circles. i'm sure some understand what is about to happen (hence the restraints on the table), but the majority goes quick and silent. i have no idea what happens to them after though so don't ask me about that :)

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