Fluffies vs Nature

The Rigors of the Elements

Also known as:
Naked and Afraid

Fluffies are not fit to survive on their own.

Shut up. Quit with the bitching, get out of the kitchen.

Stray and feral populations of fluffies survive on their own in spite of themselves; not because they miraculously shed the numerous detrimental qualities that come with being designed as a living toy when left to fend for their own.

Several headcanons speculate on the possibilities of fluffy evolution, and some ponder the effects of natural selection on wild fluffy populations. Their distance from the meddling ways of man would allow isolated fringes of fluffies to splinter into all sorts of strange forms and habits. I’d make a Jurassic Park reference here, but seeing how Hollywood has bastardized his ideas, I’ll just let Crichton rest. Similarly, there are those who would bastardize fluffies by permutation, with the impression that they would evolve into better lifeforms if they were left to their own devices in the wild. Evolution does not work in this way. However, if the fluffy following allowed scientific literacy to stop them in the past, there would be no Fluffy Community.

With this in mind, if one’s idea for the future of fluffy-kind is a creature that is very clearly not a fluffy, then it goes without saying that they’re doing it wrong. For instance, it’s a reasonable assertion that technicolored fluffies would be more susceptible to predation when compared to their more naturally colored brethren, or those with more muted shades in their coats. It is not a reasonable assertion that fluffy evolution would give rise to a creature with more equine proportions, sharper intelligence, better speaking abilities, with the additional bonus of fully formed and functioning wings and or horns, or both.

Speculative fluffy fiction is not an excuse to dip into high-fantasy unless it’s weirdbox. And even then, high-fantasy fluffies would just be lame even in a weirdbox sense, because at that point you’re just making My Little Pony fanfiction. There are numerous other websites where you can take that to.


Cities and towns in fluffy stories are rife with homeless bio-toys for any number of reasons. One popular trope is that of the runaway fluffy: the fluffy that figured that adoption was not the idealized paradise it dreamed of – not that anything could possibly live up to such an inane fantasy. When every meal isn’t a spaghetti platter, or when the owner doesn’t want to have to take care of foals, a fluffy may decide that life unbound is the life to live. All it takes is a moment’s negligence on the owner’s part and, voila, one free fluffy! It usually doesn’t take long for a runaway to regret trading an easy life of luxury for the struggle found on the streets. Likewise, it does not take them long to find a mate and forget about their woes, since fluffies are for hugs and love and making babies. The other fluffy could be another runaway, or one that was born a stray.

The matter of baby-making is related to another popular trope: the absurd rapidity of fluffy reproduction. Give a pair of fluffies, or a herd of them, a place to sleep with relatively stable access to food and water, and you’re bound to wind up with an infestation of the streets and sewers. When standard animal control is not sufficient to quell fluffy numbers, it may be the responsibility of the concerned citizen to go out there and do a little culling themselves.

Or adopt random strays like some budget Snow White. Whichever works.

Fluffy herds roaming about a neighborhood as warbands declaring ownership of yards is a familiar staple of fluffy stories. These invasions of people’s lawns are known aptly as “Lawn Invasions”. These stories are almost exclusively abuse-centric and are resolved by the offending fluffies being graphically torn into sinew and organ-paste.

“Garden Destruction” is a subset of the “Lawn Invasion” stories, in which a singular fluffy, or a group of them, destroys a garden with their unbridled feasting. This also is met with the rebuttal of swift and overwhelming violence.

Alley-way fluffies are the bog standard urban and suburban fluffy. These are the fluffies that don’t actively antagonize humanity into wrathful displays of brutality… for the most part. Frequently, wrathful brutality befalls them completely unprovoked regardless simply for fluffies being viewed as unwelcome vermin. Them’s be the breaks sometimes.

These fluffies subsist off of the food scraps that make their way into dumpsters and garbage cans, and make homes in discarded cardboard boxes. Newspapers and pieces of fabric are used as bedding because the concrete and asphalt floor gets cold at night, and they have nothing else to use as sheets. Instead of a litter box, these fluffies make piles of dung and puddles of urine in a corner away from their sleeping places. Alley-fluffies compete with other animals for the waste of mankind’s abundance; dogs, cats, rats, birds, and so on, and they are on the losing side in these conflicts. It’s squalor and doom, but it’s all they have. When this is all they have, fluffies have each other.

Until some hugboxer welcomes a bunch of shit-covered, untrained strays into their homes just because. Until some abusers comes along to kidnap a bunch of shit-covered, harmless strays just because.

Do mind the roads. Flattened fluffies and splattered entrails are an unavoidable affair.


Vast leafy forests are a far cry from the concrete jungle. The change in scenery is not a respite – the wilds have their own hurdles that fluffies must face constantly. And fluffies are not good at surmounting hurdles.

Grasses and various plants are plentiful, but fluffies have the tastebuds of children. If it is not sweet, or their coveted pasta, then where is the joy in eating? That joy is even more forlorn when fluffies inadvertently poison themselves by ingesting toxins in plants, berries, and roots, along with other inedible substances. Fluffies may learn the dangers by watching others perish, or by enduring close-calls, before settling for foods that are bland, but benign.

The creatures of the frontier are more exotic than the ones that enter the domain of humanity. They are often larger, more powerful, and much more savage. They can be as unwelcoming to fluffy-kind as the people that drive the hapless technicolor hamsters into the woods, plains and meadows in the first place. Not to mention that the land itself can be difficult. The frailty of fluffies does not befit a life of having to dig out burrows, or having to travel long distances over uneven terrain on soft hooves. It is a tiring undertaking to survive. In the absence of city lights, nightfall is a terror most fluffies are fortunate to never know. The only comfort is the presence of the herd. Pity the lonely fluffy that must face the dusk.

Fluffy foolishness and clumsiness are conniving conspirators in terms of leading fluffies to their deaths. Innocent games can easily become tragic in the right circumstances – a fluffy tripping and falling a certain height may be crippled for life, a chance tumble may result in a fluffy being lost to the current of a stream or river, the gleeful babbling of a group may draw the attention of a hungry carnivore. These are just a small number of ways that a bunch of morons left to become lord of their feces may meet their ends.

Fluffies breed quickly and in great numbers. With ample food, and reliable shelter, feral fluffies, like their stray counterparts, match the unforgiving odds with sheer volume. In this way, survival is a matter of statistics, if merit is lacking. And this is without taking the merit of a herd’s leadership into consideration. A gifted smarty-friend may have the experience to navigate the unbridled world, but opposition and adversity will always arise among the fold, for a smarty-friend cannot think for their herdmates, and their herdmates are idiots to varying degrees of severity.

The elements of strife;

Regardless of the ground upon which fluffies tread, be it pavement or dirt, they all share the same sky. While one may be tempted to take heart in this sentiment, it is an ominous fact in truth. Rain and windchill effects all fluffies the same, without care for what they take shelter in. The overbearing summer sun is deadly to fluffies wherever they may hide. The ruthless bite of a cold snap in the dead of winter’s night leaves fluffies statuesque in frost, come morning’s light.

For a fluffy without a roof over their head, seeing the passing of seasons is not just a sign of getting older. Surviving the progression of the year means besting the planet’s weather, on top of the many perils of their every day lives. It is a trial of persistence that only concludes at the closing of a lifetime.

That lifetime may see countless lightning strikes – for fluffies are bad at math.

That lifetime may experience fires – buildings burning down or wildfires ravaging swaths of forest.

Windstorms, tornadoes, hurricanes – the worst that mother nature throws at humanity is amplified exponentially for hapless fluffies without any of the ingenuity of mankind.


The best thing for a fluffy to do is to stay in its safe room. But if fluffies did what was best for them, we would have a lot less stories to partake in. The big city and the great outdoors all reinforce a common truth: everything that can kill a fluffy, will kill a fluffy. Because fuck them, that’s why.