You are Loretta.
You are lucky enough to live and work on a fluffy farm!
You love their cute little faces, their pretty colors and soft fluff, and the silly way they see the world. You especially love the babies! They are born so tiny and helpless and cute, you’d spend all day with the soon momma’s and newborns if you could, but that would make daddy mad. Not only about chores not getting done, but because he was always telling her not to get so attached to the “livestock.”
“Sweetheart, them things ain’t children, they ain’t friends, heck they legally ain’t even animals. We keep em for one reason and one reason only. To make money. I don’t want you torturing the darn things by gettin em excited that they have a momma who’s gonna spoil em and give em everything they want. It makes it harder when all they get is a tin shed and a bucket of slop instead of a house and spaghetti. Not to mention it set’s em all to complainin my ear off.”
You knew he was right, but you couldn’t help but sneak off to play ball with them or give the soon momma’s belly rubs, or pet the foals who were waiting their turn to eat so they would be a little comfier than laying in the straw.
Right now it was time for you and mama to milk the mares. They didn’t like it much, they thought their babies needed every single drop they could produce and were afraid you stealing their milkies might lead to their babies starving, so it wasn’t the most fun job in the world. But it was a lot easier and less sad then what daddy and your brothers had to do.
You meet mama at equipment shed and grab your hand pump and bottles, along with a some disinfectant spray that was mostly white vinegar and a little bit of moonshine to kill any germs without risk of poisoning the foals.
“Howdy mama.”
“Howdy baby girl.”
“What’s daddy and Deeg doin? The fuffies are makin a lot a noise.”
“When don’t they?”
You couldn’t argue with that. You knew mama didn’t like seeing them mistreated, she had a soft spot for most animals, but she was like daddy and Noah, in that she didn’t seem to really be moved by the fact they could talk and beg and love. They were just noisier animals to her.
“We got an order for a couple bags of fluff, so I’m sure they are huu’in up a storm.”
“Poor little things. That’s almost as bad as losin a baby to them.”
“Well I’m glad those hasbio folks gave em the right priorities then huh.”
She had a point, but you thought it was cute they were so obsessed with looking cute.
You both walk down to the special milking ped kept far away from the rest of the herd, but still in sight of the house. Even in a cage, fluffies couldn’t be trusted to keep themselves safe and alive.
You reach the ben and are greeted by twenty cheery nursing mothers and their babies.
To keep the mares happy and producing, each one was allowed to keep a single baby when they gave birth, when possible, you and mama were supposed to be there when they went into labor, and sneak the babies into an insulated cooler to keep them quiet. You would leave a single filly, and just convince the mama that there was only one baby. They were pretty gullible so they didn’t usually argue the point. The remaining babies would either be fostered with mares breeders who has small litters, and if they were unwilling, then they ended up as compost and cat food, which always made you cry. The fillies that stayed behind would either join the milkers, replace their mother outright, or eventually make their way to the regular pens. It was a neat and tidy system that always kept the milkies flowing.
“Hewow nice widwe wady! Hewow nu mummuh! Yu bwing nummies fowe mummuh? Nee nummies fowe make bestest miwkies fowe babbeh.”
“Nice widwe wady bwing bestest sketties fowe bestest miwkies fowe bestest babbehs?”
“Huuu huu mummuh, babbeh haf wowstest tummeh owies, nee miwkies!”
This was all largely an act they put on in the hopes of getting extra food. With only one foal to feed, not one of them was anywhere near close to empty, but they still felt the need to swindle and beg. It was part of their charm as far as you were concerned. If a pig was smart enough to lie, it would do the same thing.
“Hellow momma’s, we have the same nummies as always, but nice try.” This earned a round of “huuu’s” but they fell in line, ready for their meal.
You go to the outhouse sized structure by the gate and open the door, taking off the lid of the metal trash can within and taking up a big plastic scoop full of the gritty, granola like feed. It was a combination of oats and soy meal with some vitamin additives, designed to economically ensure peak milk production. It probably didn’t taste the best, but it kept their bellies and their teats full, and once a week they got some garden scraps as a treat. You also always tried to slip them some good food grade apples from time to time, which made her akin to an angel of mercy in their eyes.
You dump a few scoops of the dry cereal into the feed trough and give them some time to gobble it down and digest before you and your mama get to work.
“Ok ladies, get to your nests, you know the drill.”
They licked the trough as clean as they could and waddled back to their individual nesting areas, built underneath wood and tin awnings that kept the sun and rain alike off of them parr of the year, and made it easier to get to them for milking while they were comfy and settled. When the weather got worse, they huddled up in their own pair of hog sheds filled with straw and came with a heat lamp.
You grab a stool from the pen and start on the left side of the pen, while mama takes the right, and go with your first mare. A light purple and orange earthy. They were all earthies, being the larger of the variants and thus better producers.
“Pwease nice widdwe wady, nu take aw mummuh’s miwkies. Nee fowe make babbeh gwowe big an stwong! Huuu yu taek tu many miwkies, babbeh haf wait su many foweba’s tu haf miwkies gain.”
“Mummuh, babbeh nu wan shawe miwkies wif munstah wady, wan awwww da miwkies! Bestest desewve!!!”
A look of fear flashed across the mares face, terrified of the potential consequences of her babies insult to a human, but you just chuckled.
“Monster? I’m not a monster silly, I’m the nummy bringer, I bring the nummies that help your momma make the milkies you love so much.”
“Weawy? Yu hewp mummuh make bestest miwkies?”
“That’s right, I bring good nummies to keep you all fed, and growing big and strong!” You clownishly flex your arms like a strong man through your white and blue gingham dress.
“Babbeh am stwong, su stwong babbeh gif yu wowstest huwties if yu nu gif mummuh gud nummies su she can maek bestest miwkies an den babbeh dwink dem awe!!!”
“I’m sorry, but my daddy won’t let me give you sketties, and I have to take milkies from your momma or else she will get the worst milkie place owies.”
“NU! Babbeh dwink awe mummuh’s miwkies, nu wet miwkie pwaces get huwties. Dummeh munsta wisten nao! Taek sowwie poopies!!!” She turned her little rear end around to face you, and unleashed a small squirt of liquiddy feces that fell far short of your safely booted feet.
“Someone needs to learn some manners. Let’s work on making our baby be nicer, ok mama?”
“Huuuu sowwy mummuh, nu wet meanie munsta bwudda taek onwy babbeh an gif wowstest hewties an foweba sweepies!!! Am onwy widdwe babbeh!”
She was practically hyperventilating at the idea of her precious progeny being carried off to Cleet’s den or horrors they all knew existed somewhere out in the woods. He disappeared far too often, coming home with odd stains and in a creepily good mood, always around the time daddy noticed a problem fluffy disappear.
“I promise momma, I won’t let the monster take your baby, let’s just get you milked and you can go back to playing ok?”
“Huuuu otay nice widdwe wady, tak yu fowe keep babbeh safe, wuv onwy widdwe babbeh.”
You take your hand pump out of your bucket and hook one end to a glass bottle, and place the other over the more swollen of the mares two teets. The other having been fed on by the spirited little filly. You give several squeezes of the pump and suction it tight to the mumbled complaints of “huuuu nu wike sucky miwkie steawer.”
Before you knew it, a steady stream of milk was trickling through the clear tube and into the bottle. The milk you collected would mostly be dehydrated and turned into premium organic foal formula that hugboxers in the city paid top dollar for. The rest would either be frozen as is and sold off to state-owned shelters or, gross as it might sound, be turned into fluffy mozzarella and feta cheese. It was expensive since the input-to-output ratio for the cheese was roughly 10:1 but people paid big money for it. Some of them used it to garnish spaghetti for their beloved companions, others simply enjoyed the allegedly extra rich and creamy texture and delicate flavors the unique, creamy milk produced. You thought the idea was as gross as all the other fluffies-for-food schemes on the farm, but helped mama all the same. It was part of the reason why she was the only girl in class not wearing a thrift store coat every winter.
“Why does Cleet hate fluffies so much?”
“He doesn’t hate em sweetheart, that’s the problem. He probably loves the littel buggers more than you and your brother combined.”
“But why he gotta hurt em so much? And why don’t you and daddy stop him?”
“I ain’t never caught him, and you know I’d tan his hyde if I did. I don’t much care for these critters but that don’t excuse makin somethin suffer more than neccessary to get the job done.” She was running three bottles at the same time, using her scary momma stare to keep the mares from trying to dislodge the suction cups.
“What about daddy?”
“He don’t care enough to do nuthin about it unless it starts costin us money. He hates havin ta raise these instead of honest-to-god animals. Cleet’s a hard worker, and if he wants to pick off a few of the irritatin ones, and that keeps him from kidnappin cats, well that’s his prerogative as far as pa’s concerned.”
“But they aint’ done nuthin wrong.”
“They exist, and that’s bad enough for some folks. They tear up nature, poop everywhere, beg, breed, and threaten enough ta make anyone hate em.”
“Well not me.”
“I know baby girl, your a softy. Just like I used ta be.”
You smile and disengage the suction cup from the first mare and move down the line when you hear mama yell.
“In the name of sweet sufferin Jesus what did I tell you last time!”
Uh oh. You knew what that meant. Karen had fluffed up.
“NU CAWE!!! MIWKIES AM FOWE BESTEST BABBEH, NU DUMMEH UGWY POOPY HAWE HOOMIN MUNSTUH!!!
“Das wite dummeh!!! Bestest babbeh dwink aww da miwkies, nu shawe wif ugwy dummeh!!! Yu wisten tu mummuh an bwing sketties fowe bestest miwkies NAO OWE GET FOWEBA SWEEPIES”
The mare in question was one you nicknamed Karen, not that you told her, or anyone else. She was a fat, bullying older mare with a light beige coat, and blonde mane. Her baby was a mean, selfish little thing with a neon pink coat and the wisp of a blonde mane and tail coming in. The fight was over what it always was with those two. Karen had been difficult for some time, but usually ended up obeying. But this last baby of hers had flipped a switch in her empty skull, turning her full BMS. Since then, she had increasingly refused to hand over milk, sometimes squirting it out herself to the ground, and as the baby grew. Encouraging her to drink both teats dry, leaving nothing for the milker. That alone put her on a timer. But this…this didn’t help things.
“Momma please wait-”
“What in the lords name did you just say to me? Did you really just threaten to kill me over your darn milk!!! That’s it, I got enough problems round here ta deal with without taking guff from some little fuzzy abominations those big city morons cursed us all with!!!” She bent down and grabbed Karen by the scruff, and and pinched the puffed up cheek of the filly hard, lifting her in the air by it.
“SCREEEE BA UPSIES!!! NU WAN NU WAN PUT BESTEST MUMMUH AN BABBEH DOWSIE NAO OWE GET SOWWY POOPIES!!!”
“SSSHHHREEEEEE MUBBA HEWB BABBEH, WOWSHTESHT MOUFY PWASHE OWIESH HUUUU HUUUUUU SHABE BABBEH PWEASH!” The cubby pink blob cried out around the agonizing pincer on it’s soft flexible cheeks.
“Mommuh please, they can’t actually hurt you.’
“You think I don’t know that? Darn thing’s couldn’t hurt a fly, don’t mean I am gonna take disrespect from sumthin cooked up in a lab to entertain spoiled little rich brats, and especially not when she want’s to steal from us.”
“Fwuffy nu steaw! Yu am miwkie steawew!!! Mummuh sabe miwkies foew bestest babbeh gwowe big an stwong dummeh munstuh!”
“HA! Dummy she calls, me, littel idiots cain’t even drink out’a bowl for fear a drownin, but think I’M dumb. Everything you have is MINE. Your milk is MINE, your fluff is MINE your baby is MINE and your life is MINE!!! And I’m takin it ALL TODAY SISTER!!! And YOU ya little brat, you can go to the pens with the rest of the rats and see how they put up with that best baby talk. I’m sure you will make real good friends.”
You watched momma stomp off, swinging both fluffs hard with each step, earning more cries of pain and threats, no begging from them, their attitudes and pride too big.
“Huuuu huuuu scawey, nu wike yewwy noises.”
“Huuuu babbeh ne huggies, haf scawdies mummum.”
“Pwease nice widdwe wady, nu wet yu mummuh gif mummah an babbeh foweba sweepies.”
“Shhh shhh shhhhh don’t worry, you are all safe. Those were just bad fluffies. You are all good fluffs who didn’t do anything bad. Now, who needs a hug?”
Part 2
