It had begun to be a common occurrence. Maybe once or twice a month? Sometimes thrice if it’s during the summer. Dave Johnson was the proud owner of a rather large property out in the heart of Appalachia. A man of leisure, due in part to his family’s wise investments in fracking and coal, Dave was afforded a lifestyle many would be envious of. Without having to work, Dave was able to focus on his one true passion: gardening. He had his peach tree that his grandmother had planted when he was just born, patches of begonias, even a small greenhouse! It housed his supply of lettuce, carrots, onions, and even tomatoes.
But this came with its own problem. Despite the fencing around his property, Dave would find himself victim to a particular kind of blight. Not tree blight or silver leaf—those were easy enough to diagnose and treat. That common occurrence would rear its head in his garden. Feral herds. One would think that the natural fauna would be enough to keep their population down to a reasonable level. The fleas, ticks, snakes, bears, even. It was something Dave would often consider and think about. He would occasionally hear a scream in the early twilight hours, which he found to be quite unsettling.
He had gone out that morning to his rear porch, so that he might bask in that morning’s sunrise. With a coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he truly felt immortal in that moment. He closed his eyes for a moment as he let the cool morning breeze wash over him, but soon found himself almost retching. “Augh! Goddammit…not again…” he muttered to himself. Rather than the sweet refreshing smell of pine, Dave found himself breathing deep the stench of fluffy feces. He should have seen this coming.
Quickly then he jogged off his porch and began to circle around his property. Dave was not a big man, and so was able to step lightly, deftly avoiding the occasional puddle of excrement left behind by his “guests”. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a panic which would then lead to a much larger mess to clean up. After a few minutes, he found them. A sleeping pile of fluffies at the foot of the peach tree. The pile was flanked by two rather robust looking ones. “Stawp! Stay ‘way fwom da fwuffpiwe!” one of them barked.
Dave rolled his eyes. “I need you guys to please leave.” He said, crossing his arms. He had no particular strong feelings against fluffies and he certainly had no desire to hurt them. The thought of killing a creature capable of both communicating in and understanding human speech and language had always given him pause. “Nu! Go ‘way!” the toughie barked, puffing out his chest. “Go ‘way ow gif dummeh hooman da wowstest huwties!” the other chimed. The ruckus soon caused a stir within the fluffpile.
At the top lay what Dave could only assume was the “smarty”—or at least that’s what the others would refer to the ringleader of a herd as. “Huuu…why you wake up smaaawty…” it yawned, as it began to climb down the fluffpile. “Smawty!” one of the toughies squeaked. “Dummeh human no ‘weave! He nu undastand dis smawty wand now!” This sentence alone was enough to incense the smarty. “WAT?!” it screeched, causing some of the others in the pile to rouse from their slumber. The smarty, a sea-green stallion with a brown mane, stepped forward towards Dave. As he looked at the pile, and then smarty, he would notice that this smarty was as thick and robust as its toughie contemporaries.
As it approached, he also noticed the horn on its forehead. “Hi there, little guy!” Dave said, as he crouched down. The smarty’s beady little eyes narrowed as it stepped ever closer. “Aww deez nummies bewong to smawty!” Dave frowned at this, replying “I’m going to need you to leave. If you ask nicely, I might share some food with you. How about that?” Such an offer rarely worked, but Dave always preferred a more peaceful solution. “NUUUU!” The smarty sharply replied.
“WAST CHANCE, DUMMEH! WEAVE OR SMAWTY GIV WOWST OUCHIES EVAH!” it screamed, before charging headlong at Dave.
He was silent as the smarty was soon flanked by its two toughies. The three of them then proceeded to slap their hooves Dave’s lower thigh and ankle with all their strength. It felt like being prodded by a teddy bear. Dave then sighed as he rose back up to his feet. “Alright, alright…” Dave muttered, as he began walking away. “NOW! GIF HIM DA SOWWY POOPEHS!” the smawty called out. The two toughies were quick to obey, causing Dave to feel something warm and gooey spray onto the back of his bare ankle.
“Ah! What the hell?!” Dave yelped, as he felt the fecal matter drip and make its way under his heel. “DAS’ WITE, DUMMEH HOOMIN!” one of the toughies taunt, before the three of them join in derisive laughter. “WUN SCAWED DUMMEH HUMIN! DIS SMAWTY WAN’!” the smarty squealed at Dave, who was now sort of hobbling. The feeling of fluffy shit congealing with the dirt under his foot was absolutely disgusting, and Dave wanted to avoid the feeling of it squishing with each step he took. Fortunately, though, the greenhouse wasn’t too far away.
It had been about twenty minutes or so since the decisive smarty victory had been achieved. Now, the fluffpile was beginning to disperse, as a dozen of them began to spread out. Most of them were frolicking. One especially young member of the herd also took the opportunity to thank its glorious leader. The foal, also sea-green, and with a brown mane trotted up to the smarty. “Fank yu fow findin’ nyu safe pwace an’ nummies, smawty-mummeh!” it squeaked, attempting to nuzzle her. In a huff, the smarty puffed her cheeks and chest out, which made the foal somewhat uncomfortable. “Nummie findew babbeh bwing mo’ nummies fow hewd, so…can haf’ miwkies nao?” it asked, rubbing up against her.
This only served to incense her. “Nu! Go ‘way, dummeh poopeh-head babbeh!” it spoke, turning away from its progeny. “Buh…babbeh nu can eat nummies yet! Nee’ miwkies!” it cried. “SHADDAP!” the smarty snapped, turning to its child. “WOWSTEST EARTHIE BABBEH NU HAVE HOWN WIKE ME! GO ‘WAY OW I GIF WOWST OUCHIES!” she screamed, causing the foal to fearfully cover its face with its hooves. The smarty would grunt, purposefully kicking up dirt and dust onto the foal.
Just then, one of the toughies barreled towards the smarty, nearly trampling the poor thing. It was absolutely drenched with water. “SM-SMAWTY! SMAWTY!” the toughie cried. “Huuuh? Wut wong toughie-fwen?” the smarty replied, fear beginning to grip her. After all, if one of her toughies was running with water and feces dripping tail between its legs, what hope did she have?!
“MUNSTAH HOOMIN COME BACK!” the toughie yelped, its tears mixing into the icy cold water that soaked its plump cheeks. “MUNSTAH HOOMIN BWING WAWA MUNSTAH!” it yelped. The smarty backed up on her hooves. She would raise her head up to the sky, her gaze meeting once more with that very same dummeh hoomin she gave ‘sowweh poopies’ to. Dave had returned, and this time he was armed with one of his strongest and most effective tools against feral fluffy incursions. His garden hose!
“So! I hope you’ll reconsider.” Dave said, looking down at the smarty. The toughie was hiding behind her, and the smarty was now cowering behind what seemed to be a foal covered in dust. “G-GO ‘WAY, MUNSTAH!” the smarty screeched, causing Dave to wrinkle his nose. It seemed to have fearfully voided its bowels. Which was impressive, considering what had happened just such a short time ago. “I asked nicely for you to leave.” Dave said, his voice becoming a low growl as he pointed the hose nozzle at the fluffies.
Her eyes widened in fear. “D-DIS…DIS SMAWTY WAND’ NOW GO ‘WAY!!!” it screamed, her heart gripped by fear. Desperate now, the smarty called to its child. “D-DUMMEH BABBEH! GIF…GIF MUNSTAH WOWST OUCHIES! NOW!” it screamed, frantically shoving the foal towards Dave. He looked down, observing the foal. It weakly rose to its little hooves, and advanced on Dave. Now the fear had spread and infected the foal. Its little eyes wide as dinner plates, it could only cower in fear, covering its face with its hooves. “P-P-Pwease, nice mistew, nu…nu huwt mummeh…nu huwt hewd…” it begged.
Much like its mother and fellow herd members, it would also void its bowels in terror. Rolling his eyes, Dave glanced at the nozzle again, and began fiddling with it. He was going to squirt the foal to be sure, but, he didn’t want to accidentally kill or drown the poor thing. He squat down, and sprayed it with a gentle mist. “UUUUH! NUUU! BAD WAWAS!” it cried, rolling on the ground. “SMAWTY-MUMMEH! HEWP! PWEASE!” it begged, as Dave looked back at the smarty. It was silent, mumbling and babbling something incomprehensible. More incomprehensible than what they would normally say, anyway.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya now!” he said, squirting the smarty. “AAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!” it screamed, as it tried to run. It bumped into its toughie friend and fell over, as the spraying continued. The toughie ran, followed by the smarty. Dave would follow for as far as he could, dousing all the fluffies he saw along the way. The sound of dear leader smarty screaming in abject terror was enough to make them all bug out. Fortunately, fluffy legs and hooves lacked the power to seriously rip up or tear any of his prized foilage out of the earth.
There was something…touching about all of this to Dave. He was impressed that no fluffy nor foal was left behind…except for three. After hastily surveying the yard, Dave observed something quite humorous. There was a small gap underneath the fence where there appeared to be a logjam. It seemed that the smarty and her toughie attendants had all tried escaping through the same way at the same time. Taking full advantage of this, Dave switched the nozzle to a weak jetstream, shooting the toughies and smarty in the ass. “NUUUUU!” the fluffies screamed. “PWEASE! COWD WAWAS NU GOOD FOW FWUFFY!” they begged.
Dave chuckled and laughed for a moment, relishing the fruit of his labor. The begging and screaming soon lost its luster however, as Dave dropped the hose into a flowerbed. A flowerbed that had noticeably less flowers in it than before. “Can just replant that…” Dave thought to himself, as he stepped up to the fence. He gave each one a shove through to the other side, all while warning them again. “Don’t let me see you back here again!” he said, as the sobbing smarty fled into the brush with its toughies. The last he heard was “COME BACK TO SMAWTY! DUM FWUFFIES!”
With that, Dave collected his hose from the flowerbed, and began the walk back to his greenhouse. Rather than risk the fecal matter contaminating the soil, he would return later to dig out the tainted chunks and replace it with fresh soil. He had to work fast, though. The sun was getting higher in the sky, and in this heat it would dry out and smell even worse. There was one problem, however. As Dave walked by the peach tree, he saw that foal. The very same foal whose mother tried to defend herself with, lying face down on the ground.
He nervously gulped, jogging over towards it. “Goddamnit, don’t tell me I….Oh!” Dave said, letting out a sigh of relief. He could see its tiny body still rising and falling up and down. “It still breathes…” he said, scooping it into his hand, where he would stare intensely at it. It felt soggy and cold. On one hand, he did not want the foal to die, least of all because of him. But on the other hand, dealing with this thing might be more trouble than it was worth.
The herd had to be long gone by now, and Dave certainly did not want to go messing about in the woods.
“Alright, little fella…” Dave muttered, examining the foal closer. Sea-green like its mother, the smarty, with small tufts of what appeared to be a mane. A most pleasing shade of brown, as it reminded Dave of the earth, in all its majesty. “Huh…what’s that?” he said to himself, looking at its head. Hidden by both its soaked-yet-filthy fluff and its mane, he observed what appeared to be a small nub on its forehead. “You’re gonna need a name.” he said, as he carried both the foal and the hose back to the greenhouse, where he turned it off.
“Your momma called you ‘Earthy’ but I bet that would be a mite too confusing to you…” he mumbled. Despite having no prior experience owning a fluffy, Dave possessed a bevy of experience from observing the different patterns of behaviors of the various herds that had intruded upon his lawn. He knew of the different varieties, having seen mares fawn over their “smawty unicown babbehs” which comedically would have the effect of the other mare chiding and berating their own young, angrily asking why they weren’t ‘smawty babbehs’. Other times he had seen mares steal winged foals from their mothers, proclaiming that such ‘pwetty wingeh babbehs deserved da bestest mummehs”, by which of course they meant themselves.
Dave would look over at a head of lettuce that looked good and ready to be harvested. “I’m gonna call you…Demeter.” He said, as he then departed the greenhouse. “’Course if you turn out to be a boy, I’ll just call you Meter.” he chuckled. He’d bring it into the kitchen, where he kept one of his spare heatlamps. Making sure not to accidentally cook the poor thing, he turned it to its second lowest setting before gently toweling it off, and leaving it to hopefully rest. With that out of the way, Dave would take a quick shower before getting ready for the day’s labor. That tainted soil wasn’t going to replace itself!