>Be Clog.
>You think you got all that horrible crap out of your back-fluff, but it reeked to high heaven, and there’s shit everywhere all over the back yard.
>SO. FUCKING. IRRITATED.
>At least they’ve all left…
>Nnnnnnope, the Green-Thing is still there, waving at you and smiling happily, her three kittens clustered under her as she leads them to an unsoiled patch of grass to graze.
>… God dammit.
>Whatever, so long as she stays away until the Management comes home, it’s fine.
>You’re gonna go sulk on the bird-feeder for a while, since there’s shit in EVERY napping-spot you had left for the day.
>Kitten of a spayed she-cat … what else could go wrong?
>Be Walnut.
>Staring at your Herd.
>Who are all grovelling on the ground, sobbing that they are sorry.
>Stallions, Mares, Foals. All lie flat on the ground, begging for your forgiveness, for you to be merciful.
>The Fluffy Mumma’s can’t really lie on the ground like the others, but they make the attempt, and they’re necessary to the survival of your Herd, so you let it slide this time.
>You’re missing huge chunks of fluff from your belly, the back of your head and your flanks, rendering you patchy-looking and ugly to the other Fluffies, but you’re alive.
>Your face is a horrible mass of deep cuts from the Kitteh-Munsta’s fangs, mangled from your nose to your forehead to your cheeks and chin, blood clotting and oozing and dripping onto the ground, but you’re alive.
>Your belly screams at you with pain from all the scratches, and you think your no-no’s even got a few nicks on it, but you’re alive.
>You faced the Kitteh-Munsta, held it back from eating the Herd, and beat it back. Alone. And you’re still alive.
>Your Herd will never dare challenge you again.
>They will never ever disobey you out of fear of what you could do to them if you became angry with them.
>So when you order them to take the new ‘Special Huggies Mare’ back to the Safe Place, nobody complains, nobody questions your wisdom, and nobody dares to offer any comfort to the ‘Mare’ in question as Chip is lifted onto the back of a Toughie, sobbing silently, as he awaits his new fate back ‘home’.
>You are Walnut the Unbreakable, and from today your legend can only grow.
>And when you’ve healed, and built up your Herd, you’re going to come back here some day and finish what you started.
>Be Mint.
>It’s been several hours now, the brightest part of the day is long past and the Bright-Ball is going away to have sleepies of it’s own.
>It took forever to call the Kitteh-Fwiend over, he was very angry and snappy about getting Sorry-Poopies in his lovely fluff, but you managed to get him to come over, and then you got your mouthful of sweet grass and rubbed it over the spot until you could barely smell the Sorry Poopies, just the sweet grass-smell.
>Then you cuddled him and did the purring noises, and started grooming him properly.
>His tail still twitches a little, but he’s resting with you under the stairs now, your kittens all tucked into the hollow between his head, neck and chest, as you keep grooming him, showing him how much you love him for saving you.
>Grey Baby in particular loves the Kitteh-Fwiend, and keeps rubbing it’s head under the Kitteh-Fwiend’s chin, cooing happily, as the Yellow and Orange Babies snuggle deep into the Kitteh-Fwiend’s thick, soft chest-fluff and go to sleep, lulled by the deep, soft rumblings he makes as you clean his fluff.
>With the Kitteh-Fwiend, you and your babies are safe. Now you just have to find the Kitteh-Fwiend’s Human, and talk to him, and he can put you over the fence, or give you to Mummy.
>Finally, everything is going right for once! Your babies aren’t going to be stolen and passed around like toys to the mean, horrible, scarred Mares of the Feral Herds who will squeeze them and yell at them and call them ‘their babies’ when the babies peep and squeal in distress, reaching for you.
>You won’t be mounted over and over and over again by dirty, flea-bitten Stallions who bruise you and hurt you and bite your ears and yell at you that you should be having the Good Feels too, and that you’re a dummy as they leave you all sticky and sad and broken.
>And Walnut will never come back. You’ll never have to sit there, trying not to cry, as that big, horrible Stallion tells you that you’re a dummy Domestic and that Humans don’t love Fluffies, and that until you accept you’ll always be a Special Huggies Mare, he won’t ever let you go outside to play on the grass and see the sunshine.
>You’re safe.
>And despite being so happy, you can’t stop crying, yet these are not saddies-wa-wa’s that you’re so used to. These are happies-wa-wa’s that make your heart feel light again.
>And then you hear the sound of a door opening somewhere overhead…
>Be the Home-Owner.
>Staring at your back-yard covered in shit.
>Literally.
>It’s like somebody had a Mexican food party, made everybody shit into a bucket afterwards and then kicked said-bucket around the yard.
>Has to be Fluffies. It’s not school holidays yet.
>Turn on the sprinklers and sigh as you watch the water soak into the mess and turn it into an even-more revolting sludge that’ll disappear into the ground over the ten-minute sprinkler-cycle.
>You hope.
>Otherwise, damn the water restrictions, it’s getting another 10 minutes…
>“Mreooowwrnr!”
>“Nuuuu, wa-wa’s bad fo’ baybeh, bad fo’ Kitteh-Fwiend!”
>Okay, that sounded like Clog and a Fluffy.
>You knew he was a pitiful excuse for a cat, but…
>The sprinklers aren’t even close to the steps, not at this stage in the cycle, but you go down, bend over and look in… and there’s a rather ratty-looking Fluffy Unicorn Mare, with three tiny babies, probably no more than a day old, hugging Clog tightly as your cat complains loudly about the sprinklers.
>“So, you’re the little Fluffy who shat all over my yard?” You ask, feeling your desire to punt the little trouble-maker over the fence fade as you see the foals clinging tightly to your cat’s fluffy coat.
>“Nuu, Mint nu du dat, onwy bad Fwuffies make not-pwetties! Mint gu unda bushes, wike Mummy towd Mint tu!” The Mare replies nervously, slowly letting go of Clog and, of all things, bows to you. “Mint nee’ mistah’s hewp. Need mistah tu put Mint ova fence wit’ hewr baybehs, su Mint can be wit’ hewr Mummy 'gain.”
>Obviously a well-trained domestic, but why would somebody throw away a Fluffy that could talk like that and was house-trained? Maybe she got pregnant without her owner’s permission? But that’s stupid, you’ve heard getting a Fluffy to even be toilet trained is like the fucking labours of Hercules…
>And fuck, a sprinkler just went off right up your arse.
>This conversation can be concluded inside.
>Be Clog.
>It seems this shit will continue into overtime.
>The Management and the Fluffy-Thing are talking, even as he carries the female-thing in his arms on her back, her babies resting on her up-turned belly.
>You follow at his heels, eager to get away from the demonic Sprinklers, defilers of your need to be dry at all times.
>Mother has her face pressed up against the glass, swearing vile oaths along the lines of ‘No Sphinx-be-damned Fluffy will be in my house!’
>The Management, who cant’s understand the ‘speech’ of his cats, just tells Mother he misses her too, and to be good.
>Seriously, someday you have to teach him how to speak Cat.
>At least the Fluffy-Thing is safe in his arms, as are her Kittens, as you follow him into the house, and then the bathroom…
>Wait … what? Oh come on! Haven’t you suffered enough today?
>Yet the door closes before you can turn and escape, locking you in this hellish room of torture as the Management starts to run a bath, and the green Fluffy-Thing cheers about ‘Wamm wa-wa’s!’ and ‘Mint be pwetty ‘gain!’
>FfffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUU
>Be the Home-Owner.
>Honestly, the longer you listen to this Fluffy, the more you’re convinced she is Melinda’s Fluffy. Poor old duck was mortified that her ‘darling’ had been stolen by a Feral Herd, but her hearing-aid had been on the fritz, and in amongst the rabble, covered by thrusting Stallions, the old woman’s failing eyes hadn’t been able to tell her Fluffy from the others.
>“Am Mint! Mummy gif Mint chawm, put in Mint’s neckie, su can aw’ways gu home … buh nu wurk, Mint pway an’ wish suuuu hawd, buh chawm nu wurk.” Mint sighs after you question her again to make sure she really is Melinda’s ‘pedigree’ Fluffy, before you put her into the shallow water in your bath and start scrubbing at her with a loofah and sudsy water. A quick check of the back of her head reveals a large, hard lump.
>Could be a tracking chip, could be an old injury.
>Clog sits at the door, padding at it as he tries to escape. No dice cat, you’ve had contact with feral Fluffies, you’re getting a flea-bath whether you want it or not.
>The Mare’s easy enough to clean, but you have to dry her off first before she can go back to the babies, and then you have to dunk each foal, then quickly give them a once-over with a hair-dryer.
>Which immediately turns them into puff-balls. It’s hilarious.
>Seriously, with how small and tiny they are, you’re terrified that if you try to rub them dry, you’ll do them serious injury.
>Then it’s Clog’s turn… hoo boy.
