“Mummah wub babbehs, babbehs wub Mummah—”
“No, they don’t.”
Ice Cream looked from her swollen tummeh to Daddeh. She giggled. “Dat am siwwy! Siwwy Daddeh! Aww babbehs wub Mummah!”
Daddeh shook his head as he knelt before Ice Cream, right in the middle of her pretty green safe room. He was just back from taking a cake to the nice old hoomin next door. “They hate you, sweetie. Why do you think they kick you? Sometimes, they even kick bad poopies and peepees out of you.”
“Buh.” Ice Cream stared at her tummeh. She winced as her babbehs squirmed inside her, like the meanie stallion had squirmed on her back at the fluffy park. “Dey am do tummeh dancies!”
Her heart sank as Daddeh rubbed his eyes. He stroked her white mane and brown neck. “Good babies who love their mothers stay still, and never cause any hurties. They don’t kick your insides and make you have bad poopies.”
“Nu!” Ice Cream leapt (or rolled) to her feet. “Mummah wub babbehs, an’ babbehs wub Mummah!” She stomped all four hooves to make her point.
Still, Daddeh sighed as he stood. He patted Ice Cream’s pretty mane. “It’s OK, Creamy. It’s not your fault. They’re just like that stallion.”
Ice Cream flinched. Every night, she woke whimpering, her thinky place full of sleep pictures about the terrible stallion on that terrible bright time. “Nu! Babbehs am gud! Nu am wike stawwion! Daddeh make him gu fowebah sweepies. Nao babbehs am all gud!”
“Maybe.” Daddeh pulled the door to. He paused, the knobby thingy in his not-hoofsie. “But I’ve seen them hurt you enough to know better. They’re just like their father.”
Were Ice Cream a bad fluffy, she might have made sorry poopies before the door shut. But she was a good fluffy, with extra, extra-good babbehs. They did lots of tummy dancies (they made worstest stompies everywhere), and she made the odd bad poopies despite herself (they made it fly out, like the meanie stallion did), and she ate her Special Mummah Super Kibble (which tasted icky, not like Mega Skettie Kibble, the one that made tomato sauce when Daddeh added wawa); and she watched Good Mummah Afternoon on FluffTV.
“Aww babbehs am gud babbehs!” Cinnamummah said as she and her babies danced with one of Bad Mummah’s lackeys, a purple mare who had learned her lesson—
Ice Cream jumped as her babies danced, too. They danced so hard, their tiny hoofies bulged against her skin. Cinnamummah never had hoofies kick her that hard. Neither did the other mummahs on teebee. Any of them. But they had special friends, not meanie feral stallions who hurt mares at the fluffy park. They all had good, happy babbehs, full of huggies and—
No. Ice Cream was silly! Her babbehs were happy babbehs. Happy dancie babbehs! Chock full of huggies and wub. Ice Cream waved her front weggies, too big to dance for real, and joined the happy babbehs and mummahs dancing on teebee and in her tummeh.
Still, when Daddeh came home from workies at the bay-cuh-ree, Ice Cream dragged herself and her happy, huggie wubby babbehs across the housie to meet him. He scratched her head. His smile dimmed.
“What’s wrong, Ice Cream?”
“Daddeh.” Ice Cream ground her hoof against the floor. “Why Aisekeem babbehs dancie suuuu hawd?”
Daddeh knelt and gathered her into his arms. “I told you, poor little sundae. They’re bad babies. They hurt you because they hate you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.”
“Nuuu.” Ice Cream looked away. “Dey am gud babbehs!”
“You’ve never seen babies on TV be so mean to their mummahs, have you?”
“Yis!” Ice Cream squirmed until Daddeh put her on the floor. “Aww da timesies! Aisekeem show ‘ou!”
But Good Mummah Afternoon was over, replaced with Skettie Stompies. It was a stupid game show, where contestants had to knock things over to find the real sketties. Ice Cream’s babies stomped harder, as though trying to get to her tummy sketties. She sighed and went to lie down. A babbeh kicked extra hard, and a glut of peepees soaked her nice, soft bed.
“Sowwy! Sowwy, Daddeh!” Ice Cream dragged herself from her bed and to the corner. “Huuhuu, nu mean tu make bad peepees.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetie.” Daddeh took the bed with him, to make it nice and clean. At the doorway, he paused. “Bad, bad babies.”
As soon as Ice Cream dragged herself into her second best bed, she got stuck. Daddeh brought her some kibble and a drinky bottle. “Looks like you’re here until the foals come. It won’t be long.”
“Yay, bestes’ babbehs!” But Ice Cream couldn’t keep her voice steady. Daddeh looked sad, but brought the witta box close enough to make her tail icky if she poopied.
For two days, Ice Cream sat in her bed, watching teebee. She peered at all the soon-mummahs. They sang, wiggling all their leggies, their swollen bodies smooth. Free of the churning hoofsies and headbutts that strained Ice Cream’s skin. More and more bad poopies shot into the witta box as her babbehs danced and played, and kicked and stomped and bit like the meanie stallion. Ice Cream put her chin on the big foam blockie Daddeh gave her so she could rest without mane-place hurties. There were enough hurties inside. Worse, something else was happening. Or going to happen. It was like her whole body was getting ready for the biggest, worstest, sorriest—
Ice Cream closed her eyes and begged, in silence, for her babbehs to be good.
That night, she shivered on a nestie of towels while Daddeh stroked her sweaty mane and murmured things. “It’s OK, Creamy. It’s just your babies coming out. G-d, you poor girl! Look at you!”
Daddeh wiped his hand on his knee. Ice Cream’s sweaties left a dark spot on his not-fluff. He got to his feet. “Hang on, little sundae. I’m going to find some more towels.”
Ice Cream nodded. As soon as Daddeh was gone, another awful crush made her tummy burn and her special place ache. Yet more poopies shot into the witta box. A snap, and funny peepees drenched her towel nestie.
“Gud babbehs wub Mummah, wight?” Ice Cream shifted on her sodden nestie. The whole world was too hot. Too sweaty. Ice Cream lapped at her water bottle. The wawa spurted from her nose at the next tummy squeeze.
“Huuu.” Ice Cream put her front hooves over her muzzle. “Wan’ Daddeh.”
One more squeeze ripped through her and out. She screamed. The biggest, worstest poopies anyone could ever poop spattered across the witta box. Something awful filled her special place. Ice Cream pooped as hard as she could. Even worstest poopies were better than everything happening now, so much like when the meanie stallion shoved inside her. But bigger. Harder. A thousand thousand times worse.
The pressure peaked. Ice Cream squealed. Something slopped into the litter box. Ice Cream’s weggies shook too much to let her see what it was. She yelped at another munstah sliding out.
Another wet slap.
Another.
Another.
More.
And each time, she screamed.
By the time it stopped, Ice Cream lay shivering, her fluff foamy with sweat. Behind her, her babbehs peeped. They squirmed in her litter box.
Ice Cream dared not move. Her babbehs had hurt her. They hurt her more than a dozen meanie stallions. And now, amidst piss and shit, they wanted to do it again.
“Bad babbehs.” Ice Cream hid her face. “Wowstest, meaniest babbehs. Huwt Mummah. Jus’ wike meanie stallion!”
The saferoom door finally opened. “Sorry, baby girl. I had to go out to the shed to–oh! Your foals!”
“Nu.”
Daddeh dropped the clean towels and sat next to Ice Cream. “What?”
“Nu am babbehs. Am meanie poopies.”
“Oh.” Daddeh shook out a towel and rubbed Ice Cream all over. “I’m sorry, Creamy. I was afraid of that.”
“Teebee?”
“Yeah.” Daddeh turned on Skettie Stompies. “I’d better clean your litter box.”
Ice Cream nodded, once. The outraged chirping of her meanie poopies quieted as Daddeh put them in a towel. “Give me a few minutes. I need to get rid of these.”
Ice Cream only stared at the teebee. No tears soaked into her fluff. Her heart had turned as empty and sore as her aching special place. How could anyone think babbehs were a good thing?
Still, as the saferoom door closed, and myriad tin peeps vanished behind it, Ice Cream relaxed. For the first time in fowebahs, the meanie stallion seemed to go away.
It only took a minute for Gracie to answer the door. “I thought it might be tonight.”
“Yeah. Well.” Chuck handed her the towel full of foals. Nine foals, all of them peeping for food, for Ice Cream. Cute little guys, but. “You’re sure this is for the best? All the ‘bad babies’ stuff, and taking the foals away?”
“I’ve seen it happen dozens of times in the shelter. Raped mares need to forget. She can’t do that with the little ones.”
Chuck stepped back and rubbed his arms against the February chill. “Thanks again. You’ll find them good homes?”
“Yup. Go home. Pet her for me, poor thing.”
“Sure thing. Um. Spaghetti tomorrow, if you want dinner?”
Gracie smiled, the wrinkles on her cheeks and around her eyes stretching. “I’ll have to take a raincheck on that.”
With that, she took the last physical reminder of the feral stallion and closed the door.