Fluff and Co. Part 6 (follows directly after Part 5)
by roguesoul
“Is that a real alicorn?” you nod at the man’s question, looking over as Selena’s foals cuddling together. She’d produced such gorgeous foals, and the store was so proud of what she’d done in the months since they were born. Unfortunately she’d lost one of the colts- they managed to get it breathing, but that night you’d found the smaller colt dead beneath the fluffy pile. It was too bad, real shame. “Is it really safe to keep her with them?” David asked, and you nod.
“Yes, they’re siblings,” you look down, seeing the pile of foals will a grin, “And were raised to know that alicorns are not mu- M-O-N-S-T-E-R-S,” you spell it instead of saying it, not wanting to disturb the peace.
“That’s-that’s fantastic,” he says with a laugh, hitting his leg as he pulled his phone out, and you inwardly wince. Hugboxer who keeps photos of his fluffies on his phone, so-so great. “I’ve been looking for a friend for my-” he pauses looking for the picture, “My mare Alexandrite.”
He turns it and your eyes go wide at the sight. Albino, an albino alicorn. Now that was a rare sight. She was beautiful with a white and long, curling mane and tail, and you immediately think of your melanistic Nightshade. Your eyes fall lower, and your smile falls ever so slightly at the healed over stumps that were once her legs.
If David notices he doesn’t say anything as he pockets his phone and points down at one of the colts. “What’s the temperament on this one?” The colt is a duplicate of his mother, snow white with a quad mane and tail of a lovely pastel pink, lavender, soft green and teal. He was sleeping spooned over his sister, hoof draped over her shoulder.
You grab the folder clipped to the pen, overlooking your notes, “He’s- uh, about 8 weeks old and have been on display for less than two weeks. He’s got a good personality, protective of his siblings, and might turn out as a smarty friend.”
“A what?” David balks at the word and you quickly cover yourself.
“Not like you’ve seen in ferals, what I mean is that he’s a natural leader, protective, and he’s smart-for a fluffy anyway,” you finish with a chuckle and the man nods.
“That sounds a bit like my girl, do you think he’d be a good match for her?” You tilt your head and begin to nod.
“Yeah, yes he has a good personality, are you planning to breed them?” the man’s brow furrows.
“Hadn’t thought of that, but maybe- I definitely want him pi-”
You jump in before he can finish, “We should speak about that out front,” you motion towards the store part of the shop. The man’s eyes narrow and he follows behind you.
“Do you- not pillow here?” he asks, and you shake your head looking down.
“No, no,” you pause, looking at the man. “We are happy to do so for you, however as a breeder, as someone who’s had fluffies for a long time- I highly recommend pillowing be done at birth or at least before their eyes open, before they have a chance to know what they’re losing.”
“Otherwise it’s easy for them to fall into depression, as I’m sure you know,” you pause, and David’s face goes through a mix of emotions.
“I understand, and I went through that with Alexandrite- lots of love, lots of spaghetti and TV time,” his expression is joyful now, and you want to say something. You want to say that ‘love’ won’t keep the foal from begging for his legs back. That spaghetti isn’t healthy for them, and even then it wouldn’t make the foal understand what had happened.
“Okay then,” you go behind the desk, pulling out the paperwork. “So you know, we don’t allow fluffies to come back, and we require payment before we pillow.” You don’t like this, you don’t like how the man pulls out a check. The colt was definitely one of your more costly fluffies, 150 dollars, plus the pillowing fee. But the man didn’t even bat an eye, and your teeth grind together.
“All set then,” he asks, and you take the check from him delicately.
“I have to ask, policy,” it isn’t, but you need to ask, “Are you sure?” Your hands raise defensively, “I’m happy to pillow any fluffy you purchase from us, but I’ll reiterate that it’s much better to pillow at a younger age. And of course, you can spend time with the fluffies we have and make sure-”
“Will you just give me my damn fluffy already!” he snaps at you, slapping the countertop. You freeze, swallowing as David takes a deep breath. “I know you think I’m being dumb, but I got my Allie done when she was a year old, and she’s been fine,” you think back to that picture, wondering how happy that beautiful perfect alicorn actually was. How happy could she be? “I’m willing to pay, just give me my foal.”
You take a deep breath, and give a short nod. “Okay.” You lock the check into the register, motioning for David to follow as you step back into the display room. Alex had cleaned up the mess on the floor left by that brat from earlier- right you’d have to deal with her.
“What’s going-” Alex starts to say, watching you two as you reach into the pen and wrap from hands around the white foal. “Someone going home?” he asks in a fake falsetto voice, mocking the babyish tone of the fluffies.
“Not yet, we need some-” you make a scissor clipping motion with your fingers and Alex’s eyes widen.
“Ah, I’ll watch the store- maybe I can help you pick out a good kibble for a growing foal-” Alex’s voice fades as you walk from the room. You carry the colt, still sleeping like a ragdoll in your hands, you set him down and go to the sink.
Deal with him first, or her? Was she worth keeping? You tilt your head back and forth, before taking a large blanket and covering the sink. “Nu! Dun weave fwuffy! Tuh da-awk!” her voice hitches. “H-HeWp!” she lets out a shaky yelp which wakes your colt.
“Wah happen, wewe fwuffy?” You sigh, alright lets go with this.
You don’t speak, instead moving to the music player, switching the CD from classical to a low alt rock. “Ooo! Wike pwetty moosic!” You go to the shelf and put on some gloves and your apron. The colt looks up, tilting his head, messy mane falling in his eyes. “Wah Mistas doin?”
You swallow, taking black gauze and tape. You walk over, placing your two fingers under his chin to hold him still. “Hold still,” you say in a low voice, wrapping the gauze over the colt’s eyes quickly, taping them. The colt tries to fight your grip, shaking his head, and you quickly pin him to the table.
“MISTAS! MISTAS HEWP! IH TU DAWK!” the music changes to a more upbeat song, half drowning out the fluffy as you take the leather straps on the table and pin the foals legs apart. “HEWP-HU-HEWP BABBEH!” Your heart breaks a bit, and you steel yourself as you pull out a tray. Your kit lies on it, metal clicking together.
“WAH HAPPENIN! AM SCAWED!” you’re not sure which fluffy is crying out, reaching down and pressing your forefinger to the colt’s shoulder blade. On the form, David had specified what he wanted, a full pillow- not a huggy fluffy or a stumpy, but a full pillow taken from the shoulder. You’d done this before, practicing on dead fluffies until you knew what to do.
You press down on the right shoulder, and the colt screeches as your two fingers push and pull to the left until you feel the pop of it dislocating. The screech heightens, high pitched and turns to pained panting as you pull the shoulder further, “HE-HIC!” the colt’s voice turns to the hitch of a sob.
Next you grab your scalpel, and begin to cut the flesh of the leg, and the colt bangs his head against the metal table. “Stop that!” you shout, cutting easily through the skin and muscle. The foal doesn’t stop, doesn’t listen, head smacking into the table again. You can’t help him yet, instead taking the cautery and stopping the bleeding, the fluffy’s burning flesh smelling ever so slightly of ham. He’s still smacking his head, not even speaking as you take a washcloth and move it in the place where his head would land. There was a trickle of blood coming from his head, and you frown.
“Stop,” you’re careful as you suture the wound, having the expensive stuff, what would dissolve into the fluffy after a few weeks. The colt is still banging his head against the cloth, but at least he can’t hurt himself anymore.
“You’re okay, you’re going to be okay,” the colt’s breath hitches and you know the gauze is soaked with his tears.
“Hee-hic, hic- heep-” it’s almost a peep and you wonder if he’s reverted as you start on the next leg. It’s easier this time, all the tools laid out as you disconnect the bone and sever the flesh. Blood begins to soak into the washcloth and on the leather bands as you cut him apart. “p-peep- peep,” you frown, that’s not good.
But you can’t stop.
The back legs are harder, instead of pushing down and away you undo the leather strap, take the leg in your hand and yank until it pulls out of the socket. “PREEP!” his voice hits louder, high-pitched as you carve off his leg. The smell is getting to you, the smoking ham and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “REEEP! RE-RaREEP!”
Your fingers are slick and the table is wet with blood as you finish up. You pitch the gloves for fresh ones, picking the foal up and carrying him over to the sink. “s-ss-su scawy-” it’s coming from the filly, and you turn off the music as you hold the colt in one hand. You go to the free sink, turning on cool water.
“Shh, it’s alright,” you croon as you run the foal under the water, watching him shiver at the touch of it. White fur was washed clean as you did so, before taking a towel and beginning to gently dry him off- careful of the fresh wounds. Wet tail was nothing to sneeze at, and you were not about to make this foal’s life harder than it could be. If the fur didn’t fully dry his skin could develop abrasions and begin to rot underneath the muggy fur. He makes small squeaking sounds as you dry him, before taking a made up elastic band and wrapping it around the foal’s body to help them heal.
It would be a long few weeks until the colt healed.
But he would probably never recover.
That’s why people paid first, because this was risk.
You keep the bandage around the foal’s eyes, placing him in a made up go home box. He’s limp, and you frown, changing before stepping out into the main room. “Wowk fwen!” It’s your brown foal, and you step over, holding the box to your chest. You take a detour, looking in, “Sissy otay!” You let out a sigh you didn’t realize you were holding as you see the filly sitting up, though she looks a bit worse for wear. The colt is on his hind legs, making a dancing motion and you try to grin, although it turns into more of a grimace.
“How do you feel?” you ask, eyeing her side and bruises. At least she was walking, moving around.
“Fwuffy sih huwt, an-an head hurties-” you frown at that and the filly looks down, “…s-sowwy, fwuffy am otay.” She moves away and her brother stops dancing and moves to her side to help her over to the pillow.
“Hewe guh sissie, way duwn,” you pull away at that, feeling a bit better. The box in your hand still feels heavy as you carry him into the main shop. David is wringing his hands, an expensive bag of foal kibble and a fancy bed by his side.
“How’d it- is he alright?” you nod, handing the go home box to the man, watching him open it as you speak.
“He did well enough, I kept the gauze on so that you could be the first thing he sees after the procedure. He did start to bang his head against the table-” at the frown you quickly continue, “I stopped him quick enough, however keep a close eye on him in case he tries again.”
“That’s- that’s alright,” he is gritting his teeth, but you go with it. “Yeah, yeah we’re gonna make you all better, and happy! Pillow fluffies are the happiest fluffies!” David says in a baby voice talking to the colt as he walks out the door.
The moment it shuts Alex speaks, “That foals gonna be 'so happy!” Alex’s voice is teasing and you hear the roar of blood in your ears. “He’s definitely not going to try to kill himself the next chance he gets.”
“Shut up,” you breathe out, hands moving up to scrub down across your face. You feel Alex look at you, but you make a point to not look back at him. You’re tired.
Sometimes you’re just so tired.
End of Part 6