“Peep! Peep!” The small litter of foals cried out as the intern brought in the new batch.
“Mares 69, 70 and 42 just had a batch - here are the crap ones they don’t want” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. Anthony looked up and nodded, not changing his expression.
“Just put them in the inbox, I’ll take a look in a second.”
The intern dropped them into a pen with a heatlamp and a small milk bottle on the side. A few foals peeped and chirped, before smelling the milk - they haphazardly crawled to the milk bottle and began to suckle. Anthony stood up and went to check them over.
All brown, dark greens or lime yellows - horrible colours, perfect for the faecal Friend scheme. Anthony had been the key mind behind the scheme, and it had skyrocketed in the last year since the first ever faecal Friend was made. Anthony had seen Litter pals, stuck in a box, sad and miserable, wanting to die. He thought there must be a better way, and he found it.
He processed the foals, then moved them to individual pens with milk bottles, warm blankets with a mares scent and a stuffy friend to hug. They all chirped and cried, not old enough to talk or even open their eyes - they just rolled about, peeping. They’d be ready for the first stage in a few days.
After a week, to confirm they’d not die - they would be given colostomy bags. Young enough that they don’t know any different, old enough that the procedure wasn’t a waste of a surgery. They’re also given mild acid baths to their tongue to dull their sense of taste, beneficial for what is coming.
Anthony moved to the next room where the weaned foals ran about and played - they had just come off milk and were ready for their first course of solid foods. Many of them had come to see Anthony and his team as their parents, and who would tell them no - a faecal friend needs love to grow up correctly.
“Hewwo Mista antwony!” cried out the foals and fillies. Anthony faked a smile.
“Foals, come here to Anthony.” He spoke calmly. They all looked up, waddling over with their milk fat bellies wobbling under their legs, the colostomy bags on their sides sloshing with milk poopies in them. About twenty five waddled over, leaving behind balls and toys to see their master.
“Today, you’re ready for big fluffy food- so shortly we will bring it out, so please - eat it if you want to, it may not be like milk, but it is very, very good.”
“Big fwuffy nummies? Am big fwuffy now?” spoke one of the little brown and yellow foals.
“Yes, you are - so you need some proper food to grow strong!” Anthony waved his hand and a swarm of interns brought in trays of food for the babies. They all looked excited and smiled.
“Sniff. Smeww yum yum!” they cried out. Anthony simply instructed the interns to put the food down - the foals ran to it eagerly. Anthony knew this wasn’t the time for discipline, that’d be handled by the behavioural team - his job was to just raise them to suit their purpose.
The foals happily clambered to the bowls, their hooves pressed on the sides - they sniffed and dug into the food. Rich foal safe kibble, soaked in milk to soften it up. Milk, and trace amounts of adult fluffy shit. Trace amounts they couldn’t smell or taste, but it was there.
“Nummie! Babbeh wuv nummy yum yums!”
Anthony smiled and walked off to leave them to it. The faecal amount was trace, but it was enough to build up an immune system and have them grow strong. They’d gradually add more to get them used to the taste without realising.
He went to the next room, where the next batch of foals were playing. These ones had been on faecal food for a few weeks now and were ready for the next stage - interns brought in chocolate and spaghetti treats, shaped like fluffy shit. Laced with it too. They set it down on the floor, the fluffies looking at it quizzically.
“Wha dis nummies?” They asked. Unaware of how Poop looks, given they’ve never seen it - only shit they see is in a bag on the side of their friends.
“This is good food. Tasty treats - this is how food will look when you’re an adult, so you need to eat it all!” he said to them.
An eager foal walked up, sniffed and took a bite of the mess. It had been heated to simulate the real temperature of fluffy shit.
“Mhhm. Nummies am wawm! Taste wewd” he said, as he ate - another foal did the same.
“Yes, as you get older, food isn’t as tasty - but it is good for you, and you will learn to love it” Anthony smiled, leaving them to it.
“Mmm, nu taste supa pweddy, but is wawm nummies!”
Over the next few weeks, they get fed the same food, with more shit in it each time, until it gets to roughly 80% shit content - positive reinforcement tells them it’s tasty, despite them thinking otherwise with the limited taste buds they have.
He proceeded to the next room, where the third batch lived - adolescents, who have eaten shit laced food for the past month. This room was to reinforce the attitude they’d need for their final lives and homes.
Anthony stood and watched from behind a tinted screen - these fluffies were old enough that they needed to be led to believe they needed a new owner, so no one familiar was allowed in. In this room, Fluffies were starved for two days, before Interns (in disguises) would take a lone fluffy to an isolation room. Inside sat a bowl of fluffy kibble. A bowl of Spaghetti, and a pile of real fluffy shit in a mock litterbox - with no food additives.
“Wha. Dis am yum yum woom!” Cried the dark yellow fluffy who had been led in. He spied the foods and drooled. “Das nummie” He waddled to the bowl of spaghetti. He dug in and instantly recoiled in horror.
“Nuu! Yucky num nums! Gif owies!” He pawed at his tongue, trying to get the taste out.
The Spaghetti had been laced with foul tasting bitterants and for added measure, a mild voltage was applied to the bowl - as soon as they touched it, they got a shock.
“Huu, huu - meanie nummies.” He cried, as he waddled to the kibble instead. He bent down and took a bite.
“SCREEE” he cried and fell back, spitting out blood. The kibble laced with glass worked. He rolled around crying for ages, until he went to the poopies and took an eager bite. His hunger was instantly sated. No pain came from the poopies, just comfort and familiarity.
“Yum, dis good nummy. Fwuffy su hungwie” He sobbed as he munched the lot, licking the floor clean.
“Good fluffy - you get a treat!” the intern spoke, handing the fluffy a single sugar cube. He devoured it and smiled.
“Tank oo mistah - fwuffy wub nummy woom!”
Anthony smiled and left - the fluffies would experience this room five times over the course of a month - once they went to eat the shit instinctively, they were ready for rehoming.
This usually involved them having a “pretend” adoption. Owners would come and buy a faecal friend, doting on it, but knowing it would never get true love. Anthony left the room, satisfied the business was running perfectly. He clocked out for the day and went home.
See, the market for faecal Friends was perfect. People want a litter pal to clean up after their fluffy, but didn’t want the miserable fluffy in a box, stinking of shit that had to be thrown away and replaced in one month. A faecal friend was perfect. It would live with your pet fluffy, treating it perfectly - playing with them, keeping them company. And as soon as your pet took a shit, the faecal friend ran over, happily gobbling up the nummies and thanking your pet for the food.
They never took the food out of your pets bowl, fearing the pain - watching your pet feed, they deemed as “Su bwave!” and made them respect the tough, brave fluffy even more.
All the owner had to do was not show the faecal friend absolute disdain - replace the colostomy bag once a month (their shit output was greatly reduced) and give them a faecal friend nutritional sugar cube once a month to keep them barely alive.
The faecal Friend could live up to four years before expiring - so long as the upkeep was maintained. Who wouldn’t want a friend for your pet, who loves to eat their shit?
Anthony entered his home and shut the door. His pet fluffy waddled up happily “Daddeh am home! Buttacup miss yu!” She cried. Anthony bent down and gave her a hug.
“I missed you too, sweetie”
“Dabbeh! Fewcal fwend mis yu too!” came the cry from the faecal friend, as he gobbled up a pile of shit in the litter box “Dis am su nummy yummy!” he replied,as shit dribbled down his chin.
Anthony smiled.
