You waited your whole life to have your precious foals, but your evil daddy threw you out on the street along with your litter of beautiful babies, two beautiful unicorns and three beautiful pegasuses, not a single munstah baby or poopie baby, all perfect, but your daddy was too stupid to know that. It doesn’t matter, you’ll find a better home. Fortunately, you were close to a house where they would surely take you in.
You put your five chirping babies on the floor and gave them lots of “wickie cleans” so they would look their best. They were so beautiful that whoever opened the door would surely be unable to resist adopting them and you, so you could all be a happy family.
You put them in that place very close to the door, knocked, and shouted with all your might, " NEW DADDY, comhe fwast, babbys nedds new housie and nummies." You quickly positioned yourself behind your children so that your new daddy could see what a good mother you were, or that would have happened if it weren’t for two situations: you chose the box belonging to the most bitter guy, and the old man’s door opened outward instead of inward.
Without your mind processing it, you just feel like an immense force is pushing you and your horses, moving you and then crushing your body against the wall where the door hit when it was slammed open. The man shouted, “I already told you damn girl scouts that I don’t want anything,” The man saw that there was nothing but a trail of poop on his floor. “Damn fluffies,” he said, closing the door and returning to his room.
Even without knowing what happened, you wake up half an hour later. It’s getting dark. In your mind, at this time, all your foals and you should be in a comfortable home. But you are here with several broken ribs, your hind legs useless and your front legs functional but sore and at a strange angle. If you could still feel your rear end, you would feel that your anus is prolapsed. And your five beautiful foals are destroyed, turned into mush, so mangled that you cannot tell where one begins and another ends.
And that’s not the worst of it. Little buzzing monsters and screaming monsters are devouring them. You want to be a good mother and rescue them, give them “huggies and wub” and fix their “foreva sleepies,” but you must flee. You can always have more. You drag your broken body up the stairs. each small step is torture, but you must flee to a house where they can heal you, and if you are quick, maybe they can repair your babies… but you cannot move forward, something is stopping you. If you could see it, you would see how your prolapsed intestine is stuck on a nail in the floor (which fortunately did not hurt a child or animal) and is preventing you from moving forward. You cry, begging the evil floor to let you run away, that you are a good fluffy, but your crying only attracts the attention of so+mething. A “barking monster”…
“You are Jebediah, a retiree with very little patience. You would love to be locked up in the house you bought with the sweat of your brow when houses cost what a box of cereal costs now, But every so often you have to go out, you open the door and see the same trail of shit from yesterday, swarming with flies. When you come back, you’ll wash it away. When you open the door completely and step outside, you can see that the front of your door is stained with blood. And stuck to the wall is a semi-devoured amorphous mass that you assume was a medium-sized fluffie or several small ones, considering how little is left, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. You’ll have to buy a strong cleaner, because the smell of a fluffie’s corpse is very difficult to eradicate”.
You walk a few more meters and see the Johnsons’ dog, an American Akita. A lovely dog. If you still had the strength, you would have one. It is sleeping in your yard, as you often find it. The Johnsons say he probably knows that deep down you’re a good guy, but I doubt it. Maybe it’s because I’m the only one in the neighborhood without an anti-fluffies system. Those things are expensive, and my pension can’t pay for them. It seems to confirm the theory when I find him chewing on the head of what you assume was a mare, split in half (judging by the pair of half-eaten teats on the ground).
“Come on, boy,” I say, “that thing is dirty,” grabbing the half-chewed body… “Come with me to the store. I’ll give you a dog treat.” The dog, seemingly understanding that he could get something tastier, lets go of his prey.
The old man throws the bruised mare’s body into the trash can. “I hope those anti-fluff systems come down in price soon. This is the third mare with foals this week.”