You are Bubby, and you’ve woken up earlier than usual. You’re not entirely sure what woke you, but you take a moment to stretch out the sleep from your leggies before trying to lift your head to take a look around your room. Your head is very, very heavy, especially considering your sleepiness, but you’re able to look out over the top of your nestie-- Well, no, it’s not a nestie. Your mummah always said it was something called a “crib”. You’re not sure what the difference between a nestie and a “crib” is, but your mummah is always right! You look over the bars of your crib and take in the sight of your room. Your room is special- Most fluffies have safe-rooms, but you have your very own room. On the other side of the door, there’s even a little sign with your name on it! You assume it’s your name, at least. You can’t read.
The sun has just begun to rise, lighting up your room and making it not so scary- which is good, because you don’t like scary things. A lot of things are very scary to you, but your mummah is always there to make them go away, and to give you huggies and give you warm milk to cheer you up. You love your mummah so much, and you can’t wait for her to wake up.
For a moment, you consider crying and peeping until she wakes up- Her room is the room directly next to yours, and she always comes running when you call. Before you can fall onto your back and start making noise, a different noise scares all of the ambition out of you! It’s the sound of someone walking around in the house!
That’s when you realise, that’s the noise that woke you up! There’s someone in your house, and you KNOW it’s not your mummah- her footsteps aren’t that heavy!
You accidentally make scaredy-peepees, but the padded diaper your mummah put on you before you went to sleep manages to catch it so your blankies don’t get messy. You’re shaking too much to move off of your back as you continue listening to the other person in your house.
You don’t know many words. You wish you did, though, because the person- or maybe people- in your house have started to talk. It’s muffled through the walls, but you can just about hear them.
You don’t know what a “Heart-Ah-Tak” is. It doesn’t sound nice. It sounds like heart-hurties, and those are the worst things in the world. You feel them every day when your mummah leaves to get her breakfast, or her drink, or answer the phone, or make you food… Does your mummah have heart-hurties because you aren’t with her? You feel terrible that you can’t walk by yourself. You love your mummah so much.
It feels like forever, listening to the strange men in your house talking to eachother. The words they say are confusing, many-syllabled and scary. You’re sure they’re talking about your mummah, though. You’re not sure what time it is, as you’ve been stuck on your back for a long time. Your head is starting to hurt a little.
Your door opens, and your exhaustion is overtaken by fear. You peep and chirp, hoping your mummah will be able to hear you now your door is open. Someone walks up to your crib, and you see their face as they lean over you. He looks sad.
“Oh, no.. She had a fluffy.” The man says, reaching his hands into your crib. “It’s.. A baby, I think..?”
A voice from your mummah’s room- though the voice isn’t your mummah’s- replies to him.
“Damn. Empty Nest Syndrome’s a hell of a thing. Call Sandra.”
The man picks you up. His hands are more calloused than your mummahs, and you don’t like it. He doesn’t hold you like your mummah does. He doesn’t support your little head, and he doesn’t even look at you. He walks out of the room, holding you under his arm. You try your best to wriggle, but your leggies are just too clumsy to do anything. The man continues to do his best not to make eye contact with you.
The man pulls out a weird black boxie-thing as he walks. He taps at it for a second, as it makes weird beeping noises, and then he puts it up to his hear-place.
“Sandra…?” He says. His voice seems tired. “Yeah. Some old girl croaked during the night. ..Yeah, another fluffy.”
He pauses for a moment.
“You should probably know..” He continues “I don’t think this one’s.. Right. In the head, I mean. It just kind of chirps and rolls around..” He trails off.
“Thank you. Seriously. I owe you one.”
Sitting on the curb with the man isn’t so bad. He sits you on his lap, and finally starts to give you some attention, scratching behind your ears. You coo, and suck your hoof. It’s still not nice being away from your mummah. You hope she comes back soon. It’s nice to be outside though- You don’t get to go outside often, only when your mummah puts you in the stroller to take you into the park. You love going to the park, and you love your stroller.
After a while, you hear a noise coming from your house. You try and crane your neck to see, but the man is blocking your view. You hear a scary rumbly noise coming from your house, and it gets closer and closer to you. You try to peep and cry again, hoping that someone will stop the monster before it gets to you. Nobody does, though, and a weird human-bed-on-wheelies is pushed past you. Theres a strange white blankie over the top of it. You can’t see what the blankie is covering, though. The bed-on-wheelies is rolled onto the road, and into a big shiny metal-munstah. It’s doors are shut, and it growls to life before running away. You’re not sure why it left.
You end up falling asleep in the nice man’s lap. It’s not as comfortable as your mummahs, but it’ll do. The morning sun warms your fluff and lets you drift off into a slightly-uncomfortable sleep.
You’re woken up again by a voice. It sounds like a humin-mare- Could it be your mummah? No, no, your mummah’s voice didn’t sound like that. Her voice was more gentle.
“This it?” The lady says, bluntly.
“What do you think?” The man replies.
The lady reaches out and picks you up. Her hands are even more careless than the nice man’s. You try to wiggle around in protest again, even letting out some scaredy-poopies, that are once again caught by your diaper.
“Christ. Why is it wearing a fuckin’ diaper?” The meanie-lady grimaces as she holds you under your arms. “It’s so.. Ugly.”
“I know, I know. Just..” He falters slightly as he talks. “You said you’d take it to the shelter?”
“Yeah. I will.” She stops looking at you, and it helps your heart-hurties a little bit. “You alright?”
“I’m fine. I just.. I really don’t like fluffies.”
“Me neither.”
You don’t like the meanie-lady. You really, really don’t like her. She kept giving you bad upsies until she carried you to another metal-munstah. It was smaller than the one from before, so it wasn’t as bad. It still wasn’t good, though. The meanie-lady took off your diaper, and you accidentally made peepees again because of how cold the air was against your no-nos. The lady made some kind of disgusted noise, and she threw you into a meanie sorry-box!
You hate the sorry-box. You’ve never had to be put in one before. Your mummah never, ever put you in a sorry-box- You don’t even think she had one. She never hit you, either. All you’ve ever known is warmth and love, and your mummah. Your wonderful mummah. She gave you so many heart-happies. She made everything that was bad, everything scary, go away. You don’t know why she isn’t making them go away now.
You try to call out for her again. It’s one of the only words you know. You love saying that word.
“Mummah!”
It rolls off your little tongue so nicely, and it always makes you feel so warm. It reminds you of being held, being given your bottle of milkies, being burped, being read to.. Everything your mummah did. But now, the word feels dry on your mouth and you’re not sure why. You try again.
“Mummah! Mummah! Peeeep!”
You even try chirping and peeping to get her attention. You even try throwing in a few of the other words you learned over the years of living with mummah.
“Bub-bee nee’ mummah!”
Nothing happens. The munstah continues to growl. Your sorry-box is as dark as ever, and you miss your mummah.
You’ve been crying for a while now. You don’t know how long- You’ve never been good with time. Your talkie-place feels drier than it ever has. You miss your bottle and your milk.
After what seems like forever, the munstah stops making noise, and light enters your sorry-box! You’re finally being let out!
Your box is picked up, and you can just barely see out of the bars as the meanie-lady lifts you up.
“Damn, you survived the trip?” She chuckles, seeming impressed. “I thought you had died when you shut up… Oh, well.”
You hate her. Every time she talks, it gives you heart-hurties. You feel sorry for the fluffies that she must own. You can’t wait to go back to your mummah.
You’re taken into a boring gray building, and your sorry-box is placed on-top of a counter. Another lady, on the other side of the counter, immediately turns the box to look at you.
“Where’d this one come from?” She asks. She sounds nice. You hope she’s nicer than the meanie-lady.
“Heart attack down on booth street.” The meanie-lady replies. “I think she spoiled the thing into mental collapse.”
“Yikes.”
The door to your sorry-box is opened, finally! The nice-lady reaches in, and pulls you out. She’s gentler than the meanie-lady, but still not as gentle as your mummah. Don’t they know you need to be handled with care?
You stink. Your butt stinks, and all of the fluff on your lower half is covered in poopies. You should be wearing your diaper.
“Putrid, right?” The meanie-lady laughs. “I say it goes to the terminal pen.”
“No. It..” The nice-lady rolls you onto your back, and you peep in protest, she lifts your leggies and looks at your no-nos! It makes you feel so embarrassed, and you lift your tail to give yourself some privacy. “He, looks to be in decent health. No point in sending him down there now.”
“Nobody’s gonna buy him.”
“Don’t think like that. Look at his coloration.” She gives you scratchies under your chin. It gives you the first heart-happies you’ve had since you were passed over to the meanie-lady. “Someone will want to use him as a stud.”
The nice-lady stops giving you chin-scratchies, and that makes you sad. Her hands open your talkie-place, and you try to make some noises of protest.
“Hm..” She pokes and prods at your teethies, and it really, really hurts. “His teeth are basically non-functional. Looks like he’s been fed milk his entire life.”
“Christ. How long d’you think that is?”
“I would say..” She picks you up by the scruff of your neck. You want to scream at her for giving you bad-upsies, but you don’t know the words! You just peep and scree as the fat around your neck is yanked upwards. She looks at you again, but her gaze is cold and clinical. “A year, maybe two. He’s reached sexual maturity, at least.”
You blush furiously, curling your tail up to hide your no-nos again. Your mummah told you that nobody should ever see them!
“Right. Take him to the adult pen.”
“Since when did I work here?” The meanie-lady pipes up in protest. “I’m not gonna be the one to taxi it to its new home.”
“Take him to the adult pen, Sandra.”
“…Fine.”
You’re unceremoniously dropped back into your sorry-box, landing in a puddle of your own filth. However, you don’t get long to process your heart-hurties, as you’re brought into a room filled with the sounds of.. Other fluffies!
You’ve never met another fluffy before. Not in recent memory, at least. You know you had a fluffy-mummah, and probably brothers and sisters too, but they couldn’t have been better than your real mummah, because she was the bestest. But that’s besides the point. You don’t know if you’re scared or excited. You let out scaredy-peepees to split the difference.
Your box is carried for a little while longer, and you’re dumped out onto some soft not-grass. Once you recover from the shock, you instinctively nuzzle your snout into it. It’s not warm, but it’s soft and it smells… Well, it doesn’t smell pretty, either. It is soft, though, and you take comfort in that.
“Right, little freak.” The meanie-lady shouts to you. You lift your head up from the not-grass. “Shit in that box. Or don’t. I don’t work here.” She vaguely gestures to a corner of the room you were dumped into. It’s sectioned off, and instead of the colourful not-grassies, the floor is made of a weird beige gravel. Not that you even know what gravel is.
Before you can really register it, the meanie lady walks away, and you’re left to take in your new surroundings.
You’re in a safe-room, you think. A safe-room full of other fluffies. One wall of the safe-room is not as tall as the others, and you’re able to see through it into a moderately sized shop floor.
You notice that a few of the fluffies are staring at you.
“Why fwuffy smeww wike babbeh?” A purple mare comments, stepping backwards and using one of her hooves to cover the eyes of a younger mare by her side.
“Dis fwuffy nu wight!” A stallion behind you shouts.
Now most of the fluffies in the pen are conversing amongst themselves in worried tones. You can’t understand them, of course- But their words give you heart-hurties, because you know they’re being mean to you.
You don’t like other fluffies. You don’t like them at all, and you miss your mummah. Why did she leave you? Why did she let the nice-man give you to the meanie-lady? Does she not love you anymore?
You don’t know. All you can do is wriggle around on your belly and cry.
It’s been so many forevers since you were put in the “Aduwt Pen”. You stopped counting after a while, and even when you were counting, you kept losing track. Your mummah had tried to teach you numbers, but after you threw a tantrum and made poopies so bad they leaked out of your diaper, she didn’t try again. Your mummah was the best. She never made you do anything you didn’t want to.
Nummie-Times, as your penmates call them, are the worst. You used to love being fed, your mummah holding you in her arms and cooing as you suckled on your bottle. You never took your eyes off of her. But now you hate them. You learned to wriggle your way across the not-grass to the nummie-bowls, but most of the nummies were gone by the time you got there, so you learned to start sleeping next to the bowls. The food was bad even when you got it, though. It was hard and bland, and it hurt your teethies so, so much. You could usually only manage one or two pieces before you had to drag yourself into a corner to cry your hurties away. You always imagined your mummah when you did. It made you feel a little bit better, but the memories of her were starting to get fuzzy. You cursed your dummy thinky-place for making you forget your mummahs face. You knew she was pretty, but that’s all. She had brown hair, too.. No, maybe blonde? No, No, the meanie-lady was blonde. You’re thinking about her, instead. So her hair was brown. It could have been black, though. You’re sure her hair wasn’t blonde.
Sometimes humans walk up to your pen. Those are the times when your penmates start to get loud, and you don’t like loud things. They always make you have scaredy-poopies, and one of the mares in the pen has to begrudgingly give you lickie-cleanies afterwards. Sometimes one of your pen-mates is lifted up, out of the pen, and away into the oblivion that it “outsides”. You hope one day your mummah will come and take you home. You hope she comes soon.
Today is a day like any other. You lay next to the nummie-bowl on your stomach, with your face against the not-grass. It’s the only comfort you really have anymore.
“Yeah, the pink one.” A man’s voice comes from the other side of the glass not-wall.
One of your penmates is lifted up, her voice is happier than anything you’ve heard before.
“F-Fankoo su mush, nyu-daddeh!” The pink mare chimes “Bumbuw-bee wub yu!”
Your heart hurts so much.
The man walks away, and you can faintly hear a conversation from the shop floor.
“…We’ll even throw in a friend for free!” You recognise the voice as the short lady from the front desk. She gives you scratchies on the back sometimes, where she knows you can’t reach yourself.
“No, I’m.. Not planning on breeding Bumblebee here.” The man who took your penmate replies.
“Are you sure..? It’s on us, really.” The lady’s voice trails off for a moment before she continues. “To be honest… He’s.. A bit of a leech. Unsellable. You can just throw him into the biowaste bin outside.. We aren’t allowed to do it ourselves.”
The man doesn’t respond.
“I’ll throw in a bag of kibble for your work?”
You’re given bad-upsies again, this time by your mane. You try your best to scree for help, but all of your remaining penmates back away from you, not wanting to draw the ire of the worker picking you up. You’re handed to the man, who holds you under his arm. The pink mare from earlier is sitting on the counter, a brand-new collar fixed around her neck. You feel something tingly in your body, and you give her your best smile. She’s so pretty.
“Why nyu-daddeh bwinging big babbeh?” She remarks, a frown on her face. “Bumbuw-bee nu wike big babbeh.”
Your little heart hurts so much. She’s the prettiest mare you’ve ever seen, and she said such mean things about you!
“Don’t worry, Bumble. I’m just bringing him outside for the nice shelter lady.” The man says, as he uses his free hand to pick up Bumblebee and place her gently on the ground, allowing her to trot alongside him as he carried you outside.
“Whewe nyu-daddeh take big babbeh tu?”
“Ah.. I’m just leaving him here. Don’t worry, Bumble.” He chats ambiently “He won’t bother you for long.”
You try to chirp to talk to Bumblebee. You hope she doesn’t think you’re too bad to talk to, but she just puffs her cheeks and turns her head away, muttering something about not wanting to talk to you, and it gives you even more heart-hurties.
The man walks to a big yellow boxie with a black top. The boxie is decorated with lots of big words that you don’t understand, but there’s also some pretty pictures on it, too. You think they’re pretty, at least- Anything is more pretty than the drab walls of the pen you’d been staying in for the last few forever’s- However long that was.
Before you can react, the man lifts you over the edge of the box and lets you fall in! You tumble down, bumping your smell-place and your leggies on so many ouchie objects as you fall. You eventually land with a thud at the bottom of the box, and the light from the top slowly disappears until you’re left in total darkness.
“Right, all done. Let’s head home, little Bumble!” The man says through the wall of the box. You can just about hear the pretty mare reply to him as they walk away.
It’s cold in the box. Somehow you know it isn’t a sorry-box, but that doesn’t make it any better. It’s just as dark, uncomfortable, and unpleasant as one. And it has a weird smell, one that your body seems to react badly to. Something in your thinkie-place tells you it’s a very, very bad smell.
You can’t do anything about it, though. So you curl up into a ball. You try sucking on your hoof to comfort yourself like you did when you were trying to sleep through the night at home while your mummah was in another room, but there’s a nasty sticky substance on your hooves that tastes icky, so you don’t try again.
You miss your mummah. You miss her warmth and her smell. Like as many flowers as you could possibly imagine, the prettiest flowers in the world- That’s what she smelled like. She was so kind, too.
You let out a small peep. It’s gotten even colder now, and you can faintly hear the rumble of another munstah outside. You wonder if it’s the same one that you saw when you were taken away from your mummah. Maybe it was here to take you back to her!
For now you wait. You try your best to hold hope that your mummah would open the top of the not-sorry-box and let you out, but a part of you knows it won’t happen. All you can do is curl up and cry.
You miss your mummah. You miss her so much. You hope she comes back for you soon.
Sorry if any of this was formatted wrong, first time posting a story so bare with me lmao!
) 10/10 would wish frantically to adopt Bubby again