Your weekend morning routine was coffee, scrolling aimlessly through social media, and enjoying the cool morning air out on the patio deck. One of your neighbors was jogging on the sidewalk along your fence, cars were just starting to populate the streets, birds songs above and chirping below.
Chirping below?
Mug set down, you hang over the side to look. Under the deck is a green mare with a small brood surrounding her. She whispers softly to them, too quiet for you to hear, but the soft nuzzling she gives them speaks volumes. Somehow she found her way there and had given birth.
Quietly you set yourself down on the grass, turning the phoneâs flashlight on. The mare visibly âeeepsâ and freezes.
âDonât worry, I wonât hurt you,â comes out as you examine the scene. Four bits of fluff surround her; blue, green, red, and yellow. They mustâve just nursed and are settling down for a rest around their mother.
âWould you like to be somewhere warmer?â
She nods.
You go up the side of the deck, getting a large cardboard box from the discount grocery store from inside the kitchen. Last night was shopping night and you hadnât thrown it away yet. Remnants of the Sunday paper get tossed in as liner, and you make your way back down to the new mother. The box is sturdy, with low walls and built-in handles, previously serving to hold plastic cartons of fruit.
âCome on in here, girl,â you say, patting the inside of the box. âBring your babies.â
One, two, three, four she brings them. Youâre about ready to take them up until you hear a faint âpeepâ off to the side.
A little brown foal.
You frown. Youâve read online how some fluffies have very strong color preferences, with certain colors deemed âpoopâ or something like that. Gently, your scoop the tiny creature up and put it in the box with the rest.
âNuuu,â you barely hear. âDat am bad babbeh.â
The mother looks at you, then points to the brown foal.
âNo, its a good baby. I like its color. This one is my favorite. Bestest.â
âNuuu.â
âI have food and a warm house for you and your babies. And I can be your daddy,â you say before pointing to the brown one. âBut only if this one comes too.â
She looks at you surprised, then sadly turns away.
âOtay,â she sniffs.
âDummeh daddeh.â
Blue and green colts. Red, yellow, and brown fillies. Theyâre all fairly small, the brown one especially. The mother sits on your garage floor in a make-shift pen with a small space heater aimed at the lot. Old weight-lifting floor mats covered with towels arenât the nicest, but its better than cold cement. The mare coos silently, singing a mama-song that perhaps only she can hear. While she drank well, water didnât seem to help the fluffâs voice any. But she was visibly appreciative of the food you gave her - oatmeal with fruit - eating it slowly but surely.
The foals all gathered around, awake again, trying to get milk from her two teats. Each gets fed as they come to her, she doesnât seem to have favorites. But, sadly, the brown one canât quite muster the strength to wiggle her way to mama. Picking her up by the scruff of her neck, you help the little one up to the rest.
âNuuu,â again. âDat am bad babbeh.â
âIts a good baby,â you reply. This fluffâs lack of a voice is a little disconcerting. Maybe its a birth defect? Or an abuser got to her? Perhaps she was sick at some point?
âNu am gud babbeh,â she replies, eyes looking deeply into yours. The green mare is visibly upset which gets you a little annoyed as well. Recalling an article you saw on Facebook, two unfed foals are cradled into your hands.
âFeed the brown baby, then Iâll let these two have milkies.â
An open-eyed gasp escapes the fluffâs face. The two of you look at each other for a moment, assessing the situation. You know youâve won when she scoops up the little brown foal, bringing it to her teat.
âDrink up, sweetie,â you say, a little triumphant. âDaddy loves you.â
âHuu huu huu,â is almost heard while milk dribbles out the side of the now nursing foalâs mouth. You tune her complaints out while you watch.
âMeanie daddeh,â she cries to herself.
Monday morning arrives, and you were able to get an early morning vetâs appointment to get the fluffies checked out. Even over the weekend the foals put on a fair bit of weight. Except for the little brown filly who youâve named Cookie. She put on a little weight, but is still scrawny compared to the rest. It peeps and chirps and cheeps all the time, clearly crying for its motherâs love.
You named the green mare Apple, and she practically rejected Cookie all weekend. You had to blackmail her with the other foals to let Cookie feed. She would cry, watching her brown baby drinking, milk always dribbling down the side of its mouth. Do fluffies hate the brown ones that much?
Dr. Mulligan looks the mare over, remarking she seems to be in good health for a feral. Her lack of a voice is, from what he can tell, a birth defect. No signs of sickness, no indications of abuse.
âTo be quite honest, youâve got yourself quite a nice fluffy there.â
The foals get examined. Its a bit early to bring them in for shots, but he gives them a once over each. A nurse fluff keeps watch over the ones awaiting examination, but holds Cookie the closest to her, almost cradling the little fluff.
Hopefully Apple would learn from this.
Mulligan gives the stamp of approval on Blueberry, Basil, Pepper, and Lemon. But when he goes for Cookie? The nurse fluff doesnât want to let her go.
âCome on McCoy, please let me have the baby.â
âNu nee, doctaw,â the fluff says. âBabbeh no nee doctow.â
âWell, McCoy,â you reply. âYouâre not a doctor so I donât think you should be saying that.â
Dr. Mulligan looks at McCoy, then Cookie, then back to McCoy.
âI want to see the baby, McCoy. Thank you.â
The nurse fluff relents, handing Cookie to the awaiting veterinarian. A practiced hand runs down the fluffâs body, gently stroking her back, legs, head and jaw. Cookie coughs a little before resuming her peeping.
âHer mother wonât feed her willingly,â you volunteer. âI donât know why fluffies hate the brown babies so much.â
He puts a finger to his lips, looking at you. Reaching around his neck, the doctor brings his stethoscope to Cookieâs chest, the cold metal instrument barely raising and lowering with her. A pause, then he turns to Apple, leaning in closely.
âIs this a poopy baby?â
She whispers something to him.
He nods.
âTold you, doctor.â
âShe said âno,â actually.â
âExcuse me?â You ask, face turned with confusion.
âShe said its a bad baby.â
âRight. A poopy baby.â
Dr. Mulligan rubs his temples. âNo, theyâre not the same thing.â
âMy research on the internet disagrees.â
He looks at you, mad at first, but his expression softens as Cookie begins chirping loudly.
âDid your research tell you want a runt is?â
âA runâŚ? Well, yeah, I guess.â
âWell, Cookie here is definitely the runt of the litter. But thatâs not what makes her a bad baby.â
He hands you his stethoscope, placing the metal head against her. You hear her breath, short and shallow with a near wheeze to it. There is silence as he puts Blueberry up against the head. The colt foal breathes in long and deep, with a soft cooing audible as he snuggles in Mulliganâs hand.
âNow, I want you to feel along his jaw with your thumb. Then his legs.Gently.â
You oblige. His jaw feels smooth to the touch, his legs short but straight.
âCookieâs turn.â
The brown foalâs jawline feels strange compared to her brotherâs. The lower jaw ends sooner than it should in comparison. When you get to her legs the foal cheeps sharply. Theyâre bowed.
âIâm sorry to tell you, but Cookie seems to have some serious birth defects,â Dr. Mulligan sighed. âTo be honest, Iâm surprise she even lasted this long.â
âWell, is there anything I can give her to help?â you say, feeling your stomach plunge. âSome medicine, special diet, anything like that?â
Apple starts stamping her hooves against the table when you say that. The vet leans over, listening to fluff as she tears up in front of you.
âUh huh.â
Apple points to you, saying more.
âWell, she says she tried to tell you Cookie was a bad baby. And you wouldnât listen,â he said, speaking for the mare. âSo she wants you to put Cookie to sleep.â
Apple wouldnât look at you.
âOkay doctor. Iâd rather not, but what do you think?â
âI think sheâs right. Her cheeping like that isnât normal for a foal at any age. Sheâs in pain. Its really the only humane thing to do. Cookie isnât going to get any better.â
You wince at that.
âOkay, uhm⌠do you charge for euthanasia?â
âWell, there is a nominal fee of course. But, I donât think you heard what she said,â Mulligan said, looking at Apple. âShe wants you to do it.â
âWait, what? Why me? Youâre the doctor!â
Apple stomped harder this time, her face screaming what she couldnât.
âApple said wants you to feel the same pain youâve made her go through. You keep saying you love Cookie but wouldnât let her die. Apple couldnât bring herself to stomp Cookie to death herself, but you kept her alive. Suffering.â
You blink.
âSo, Apple wants you to have hurt like she did watching her baby suffer like that.â
You hold Cookie in your hand, staring at the peeping brown fluff. Tossing, turning, never quite in a good spot to just rest. As your gut wretches, you take one more look at Apple, her eyes a mixture of anger and sadness.
You take a deep breath in andâŚ
(made it this far! Cool! I am looking for feedback and would appreciate any you might have! I donât do sadbox very often!)
But⌠THATâS IMPOSSIBLE! How can his level of subversion be this high?
especially since itâs helping me see where I went wrong or couldâve communicated better!