Animalslave Rescue

The Facilities

The van pulled into the unloading lot of the SPCP first, and Mike and his camera crew got out first. "Start rolling," Mike instructed Lenny as the investigators began unloading the petslaves that had been confiscated that morning.

The ponyslaves were the first ones out, since they'd been the last one loaded. They had been freed from the shafts impaling their asses and cunts, and they kicked out their feet as if grateful for the chance to be allowed to stretch.

Doctor Derring looked at the ponies cursorily as they were offloaded one by one. "Malnourished. Take that one," she said of a stumbling red-headed ponygirl, "to a stall and hook her to a drip feed; she needs some vitamins and fluids." Most of the others were ambulatory, and a few didn't look too bad except for their excessive thinness. "They look okay, most of them, let's get them settled in a stall, and fed, and we'll see if the owner took this 'stand-up-sleeping thing that seriously. And if any of them are backsliding, let me know." She turned to Mike. "The SPCP has a ponyslave training facility just outside town. Sometimes we get petslaves who have been neglected for so long that their former training has become rather fuzzy, and they start backsliding into improper habits. We send those to the training facility, to be 'reminded' humanely of what their responsibilities are as a petslave." She watched the last ponyslave being led out of the trailer and into the barn, then indicated that the catslaves should be brought forward. "They don't look too bad," she said with relief. "A little skinny, but not bad. Catslaves are the most expensive, so they try to keep them in as good a condition as possible before a petslave auction. Catslaves are usually destined to become pampered, spoiled pets to some rich person. Take them inside, to the cat wing," she said to the petslave handlers. "It's the dogslaves that are abused most often, the dogslaves and ponyslaves. Because they actually do work, they're in contact with people more often and people can be cruel to a petslave. I've seen petslaves.." she shook her head as she broke off, and Mike nodded sympathetically at the frown.

The dogslave cages had been loaded into the trailer, Felicia having found that in many cases (especially the big male canine that had barked at her) the slaves had been kept confined in their cages for so long that the flesh had garnered sores. There was a mechanical system in place behind the trailer that allowed for the stacking of cages, and now this was employed to bring the cages out one by one. "Ugh. The cages are filthy. You!" Dr. Derring said as she motioned to one of the handlers. "Get wire cutters and start cutting the cages apart. We can't leave them in there, the cages are simply too small. They should have puppyslaves in there, not full-grown dogslaves!"

She turned to Lenny. "It doesn't happen often, but occasionally we do get puppyslaves in here. The youngest we ever got was about eight years old, and had spent her entire life as a puppyslave. Her mother was apparently a bitchslave, and her owner chose to breed himself another puppyslave instead of buying one. Puppyslaves are illegal," she said harshly. "At that young age, they can't consent to what they're being told to do. But the advantage with puppyslaves is that they're completely docile; there's no backsliding with them. All they've heard is barking and whining; you'll never hear a born puppyslave talk. They're considered highly prized. But because of their value, people keep breeding them. That's why our female and male dogslaves are spayed or neutered before they leave, to prevent any unwanted puppyslaves from being born. Now some owners might get hold of a particularly submissive dogslave, and they'll try to find one of the opposite gender with the same submissive level in hopes of the bitch's puppy having an even higher degree of submissiveness. But the ones who are doing it legally have a license to do it, and they raise the puppy as a perfectly normal child until the child reaches the age of majority, at which time it chooses whether to become a dogslave or remain a human. In cases when the child chooses to become a puppyslave, the owners either train it themselves or submit it to a licensed training facility to be trained. And when it graduates from the training, it usually returns to the home of its Master, to serve the rest of it's life there because the owner has made a huge investment in its raising, training and care in terms of time and money. Rarely do we see puppyslaves here."

The big male that had caught Felicia's eye was whimpering and whining as Felicia maneuvered the wire cutters between the bars of his too-small cage. Felicia cooed to it, soothing it as the last bar was cut and the sides of the cage fell away. The raw, oozing sores on its flanks were readily apparent now, and the slightest movement seemed to pain him.

Felicia snapped a lead onto his collar and started to lead him into the building. Mike, curious now about where she was going to take the big male, signaled Frank to follow him as he followed Felicia.

They went down a white, well-lit corridor. Felicia walked down about three doors, and stopped in front of one marked 'exam room three'. She led the big male in, and Mike and Frank followed, Frank carefully taping everything he was looking at.

Felicia tugged on the leash gently. "Come on, Big Guy, come on up," she said, patting the steel exam table. The male followed her gesture, putting his hands on the table and springing off the floor with his hind legs, until he was situated on his hands and knees on the table. Felicia took a seat next to the exam table, still holding the end of the leash and cooing.

It wasn't long before Doctor Derring came in, and she went immediately to the table. "There now, let's have a look at you," she said. The male woofed happily and sidled up next to her, rubbing his head against her arm. She patted him gently and began to run her hand along the bony flanks. The dogslave whimpered as she got closer to the wound. "See all this inflammation?" Derring pointed to the red, swollen lines radiating outward from the sores on the male's lower ribs. "The sores are infected, and it's spreading into the bloodstream. He would probably have died in a week if we hadn't picked them up." She picked up a syringe, filling it with fluid from a bottle of medicine, and brought it over to the table. The male saw the needle and began to whine, his eyes wide with fear and pleading. "No, no, it's not going to hurt you," she said soothingly. "It's medicine, it'll help you feel better." The male's trembling eased, and he remained still while she injected its shoulder with the liquid. "It's a broad-spectrum antibiotic, to combat the bacterial infection, and also contains a mild anesthetic. It'll numb the pain enough for us to put stitches in his side before we put him in a holding cage for the night."

Moments later, when she touched the male's wounded side, he didn't even flinch. Derring nodded in satisfaction and took out suture needles and thread. She sewed up the male's side carefully, neatly, using the smallest stitches she could. "We don't want him to scar too badly," she said. "There are some owners who don't like their petslaves too badly scarred. It doesn't matter to some, but if they ever want to show him in a petslave show, scars will count against him in the judging." When she finished, she signaled Felicia to take him to the back.

Mike followed the female cruelty officer toward the back of the facility. There were the holding pens for the petslaves…and they were extensive. Each petslave had a narrow run, maybe ten feet long and five feet wide, with a pethouse, much like a regular canine doghouse, in the back of the run. Food and water dishes were provided, and a few of the kennel keepers were busy filling the water and food dishes for the new arrivals. "How many pens are there?" he asked. "And how many can you keep at any one time?"

Felicia smiled at him as she fumbled for the key to one of the empty runs. "We have adequate facilities for one hundred petslaves in the main building," she said. "Out in the back we have two other buildings with fifty runs each that we put the less-critical cases in, the ones that don't need to be watched. It's also close to the road, and those runs are open so they can wander out and run around in the fenced field behind the SPCP main building. It also fronts the road, so people passing by can see the petslaves at play, and can also see what we have up for adoption. The road outside goes directly to the petslave markets, but probably half the people who drive by the road outside and see our petslaves at play stop in and adopt one of ours instead. It's better to adopt than get a petslave from a breeder or seller at the market. We guarantee the petslave's heath, guarantee all their vaccinations, and there's always the satisfaction of knowing that they've rescued a petslave who has been cruelly mistreated." Felicia took the big male into the run, unsnapped the leash from his collar, and patted his head before she stepped out of the pen. "All right, sweetie," she cooed. "Eat, and rest, and I'll come up later and see how you're doing, all right?" The man wagged his tail, then bent over the food and drink, lapping thirstily. Felicia smiled, closed the run, and looked around for Mike, who had wandered down the row of pens, looking at the occupants. 'Wait, don't go near that one…" she said as Mike reached one pen and looked in. Her warning came too late, and Mike jumped back as the huge, muscled, heavily-scarred male dogslave inside leaped for him, snarling and barking ferociously, trying to reach him through the chain-link fence. Mike leaped back with a shout of alarm, almost colliding with the cameraman behind him in his haste to step back. The dogslave, sensing that they were satisfactorily intimidated, sat back on his haunches and growled intimidatingly.

"Surely you're not planning to adopt that big brute out!' he exclaimed as Felicia came up.

Felicia shook her head. "No. This male and two others were taken from the home of a petslave fighter. They surgically modify their petslaves, then train them to be ferocious fighters, just like some people do with dogs. Dogfighting has been mainly replaced by dogslave fighting, since there's more excitement." She directed Mike's attention to the dogslave's hands. "The owner grew those nails long, then had them filed to points. We clipped them when he came in, but he still tries to get at us. And there's always the teeth." She uncurled the whip she carried coiled at her belt and snapped it at the dogslave meaningfully. "Open!" she commanded. He opened his mouth and displayed a row of sharp white teeth, painstakingly filed down to sharp points and coated with silver and gold. "He was a pretty valuable fighting petslave," she said sorrowfully. "They don't put gold on the teeth until he's won at least ten matches. And to your question, no. We won't adopt him out. Dogslave fighting, just like dogfighting, is illegal here. We're only keeping him here until his owner's trial finishes up, and then he'll be humanely euthanized. We don't let those be adopted out." She sighed. "It's a pity. He might have made a good ponyslave."

The door at the far end of the runs opened, and a haed poked in. "Felicia!" Snyder called. "We got another call, an emergency one. Some neighbors reported hearing a petslave screaming for help, for mercy, from a compound that keeps big cats as well as petslaves."

Felicia turned away from the ferocious dogslave in the pens, coiling her whip and heading for the door. 'Coming," she said. Mike followed, after a last look back at the still-snarling dog.