Jasper gasped as he was led into his new saferoom. It was nice! Really nice! Well, nicer than the shelter he’d just been adopted from. This room had a bed, a bowl which his new daddeh had just filled with kibble, a few toys, even a TV. He was too old to do dancies for his daddeh. The fluffy was an ancient old brown stallion whose fur had greyed over completely in some places. Instead he offered a feeble lick to the man’s leg.
“Wub yew! Dank yew ‘fo bestest woom! It su pwetty!” Jasper waggled his tail, the thing being thinned out and whispy. His new owner, Barry, just smiled down to the biotoy.
“Oh, no problem. I’m glad you love it so much.”
Barry had knew the fluffy was for him when he was out at the shelter hunting around for a new one. He looked so old and pathetic curled up in his kennel, a stuffy friend resting by his head. His sign had read:
‘Hi! I’m Jasper! I might be a senior but I still have LOTS of love to give! I have dementia but am shown a photo album every day to help me remember and keep sharp. I know we’ll be best of buds!’
Shelters always had a silly sort of enthusiasm. He supposed they had to, given the circumstances. Almost nobody wanted these things. Holding Jasper’s photo album in one hand, he could only smile as the fluffy wandered over to his kibble dish. He was an elderly fluffy. His teeth were practically dust by now, and wouldn’t you know? He’d given him some of the hardest kibble available. The stuff was practically a punishment even when they had the best of dental care.
“D-Daddeh, kibbew am su hawd. Teefies huwt.” The fluffy whimpered a bit, trying to chew. Barry shrugged a bit.
“If it’s not good enough for you, I can bring you back to the shelter.” Well. At least in the shelter they gave him soft food. Jasper was a good boy though. He choked down the dry stuff without even chewing. Other than that, the fluffy settled in well. He was allowed to watch FluffTV and lounge around with his stuffy friend. Said toy was a custom job from build-a-stuffy, a little blue bear that had something precious. The recorded voice of his departed owner. ‘I love you, Jasper!’, one of the two phrases would tell him if he squeezed down on it’s tummy. An older woman’s voice, full of warmth. The second was a few lines of ‘You are my sunshine’, which had been his lullaby every day growing up. He felt so happy being here.
The next morning, Jasper had no idea where he was. He could recognize the place as a safe room because of the items placed around it. Exploring the place as it was completely new to him, Barry would walk in to see him making good poopies in the littertray.
“Hello, Jasper. Remember me? I’m your new owner.” The fluffy gave him a quizzical look before things started settling into place again. “Yis! Jaspeh wub yew! Nyu daddeh, wub!” Getting out of the littertray, he’d slowly make his way over to Barry. The man had a thick book in his hands. It looked familiar to the fluffy, though he couldn’t place why. His daddeh flipped open the book to reveal Jasper’s very first memory with his old mummah. An elderly woman with a full face, kind brown eyes, thick grey hair. She was observing a small brown fluffy gorging on a bowl of skettis. The connections fired off in his brain. He remembered! That was very special!
“Dat am mummah! Dat mummah ‘n Jaspeh! Jaspeh wuz babbeh! Mummah wub Jaspeh!” He was very excited. The memory was in there. All it needed was a push to be remembered. His heart filled with happiness. “Wewe mummah?”
Barry smiled. Untucked the photograph from it’s plastic sleeve, held it between two fingers. “She’s dead, Jasper. Gone. Forever and always.” That made him remember that, too. His mummah had fowebba sweepies. She had clutched her chest and sank over on the couch one day. The fluffy had given her the bestest huggies but she didn’t wake up. His eyes welled up with tears.
“M-Mummah…” He whimpered, tears now dragging down his patchy grey cheeks. The photograph clinched between Barry’s fingers was ripped into pieces. It was the only thing which held the trigger for that happy memory anymore.
“Mummah! Nu, daddeh! Dun gib pitcher fowebba sweepies! Pwease!” He sobbed, watching as the shreds hit the floor. Barry had enough of him for the day. The fluffy was left to sit in the room, crying for a bit. After awhile he forgot why he was even sad. Eventually, it was enough to let him start watching FluffTV again.
The next morning, Barry was back with the photo album. The next page showed Jasper’s old mummah leading him about on a leash at Fluffmart. Jasper remembered that! Those were the bestest times. He always got to pick out a new ball or treats to try out and meet interesting new people.
“Jaspeh wub Fwuffmaht! Wub mummah! Wewe mummah?” He asked, curiously looking around. This was daddeh, explained to him as it had been the previous morning. Barry smiled down to the fluffy.
“She said she doesn’t love you. That she never loved you. That you’re the worst fluffy that ever lived.” Again, the photograph was untucked from the album. It ended up as shreds on the floor with Jasper blubbering, trying to piece together the memory with his hooves in vain.
This continued on for some time. Oh, and he had other ways of fooling around with him. It was quite amusing to simply move the littertray around the room throughout the day. Jasper would try his best to cling to recent memories, keep the location mapped in his head. He was a good fluffy and good fluffies made good poopies. Yet no matter how hard he tried, unknown to him, Barry would move things about the room at random. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it and it caused his brain to further slip away.
“Wewe wittabox? Huuu…nee’ make gud poopies.” The fluffy was snuffling around the last place it’d been. His tired old bones wouldn’t allow him to quickly run around the room to locate it. With a shamed expression he made bad poopies on the floor.
The fluffy was sitting on his bed later, watching FluffTV and snuggling his stuffy-friend. He kept pressing the button to activate it’s two pre-recorded phrases. The voice was very familiar. It was mummah. It was hard to remember her, but the voice meant love.
“Bad poopies, Jasper? Only bad fluffies make those.” Barry had finally entered the room. The fluffy had forgotten about making bad poopies. Being reminded of it caused the shame to come rushing back.
“J-Jaspeh am sowwy, nice daddeh. Nu find wittabox.” He tried to offer daddeh a smile. “Su sowwy. Nu make bad poopies abin.”
Barry had the sorry-stick out. “I’d like to believe you. But I don’t.”
So Jasper received a vicious beating. Sobbing and screaming, old legs giving out. Did it stop Barry? No. The man continued the stinging onslaught on the biopet even as he was flat on the floor.
“Jaspeh sowwy! Nu make bad poopies abin! SU SOWWY! WUB YEW DADDEH PWEASE NU!”
Eventually it stopped. The fluffy was left there on the floor, unable to even get himself up for the time being. He had to sit there all night, the reason being escaping him. He had immense pain both in his heart and body with no explanation.
The next morning, Barry was there with the photo album. At the last page. He pried the photograph within and flipped it over so Jasper could see it. His legs hurt so bad that he felt too weak to even get up still, but the sight of the photograph made him surge with renewed being. In it, mummah was with him on a white bed. This was at the sick-place. Mummah had many sickies. She still looked very happy to have Jasper next to her side though.
“Dat mummah. Jaspeh’s mummah. Wewe mumah?” He would ask one last time. Taking trips down memory lane would be no more after today. Barry gave one of his sly smiles down to the fluffy.
“She’s dead and she never loved you. That’s why you’re here. If she did love you, would you have lots of hurties and saddies?” It was a reminder of his abused flesh. The ache in his gums from the gravel-like kibble he was forced to eat. Spending all night on the cold floor. The fluffy wobbled a bit, collapsed back down to the floor. Poopies plopped out behind him in a sad little mess, but it didn’t matter. The photograph was shredded, remnants falling to the floor in little strips. “And you made bad poopies again. But the sorry-stick clearly didn’t work.”
Jasper squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, shook a bit. “Pwease daddeh nu mowe huwties. Pwease…”
Barry went to collect Jasper’s special little stuffy-friend from his bed. Brought it in front of the fluffy. This was important! Why was it important? He needed to know. Tried to search fragments of memory.
“D…Dat am Jaspeh’s stuffy-fwend.” He said hesitantly, as if he might not know. Barry squeezed the belly.
‘You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey…’
The toy chirped out at Jasper. Brightness filled his eyes. Who was that? It was so special! Full of love! It made him so happy. The stuffy-friend was dropped down in front of him. Barry sent the heel of his shoe down on the speaker within. The voice began playing, but it sounded distorted. Tinny. It became incredibly warbly before giving an electronic whine and stopping completely. Setting the tip of his shoe against one leg of the toy, Barry used the other to tear it in half with a rip of fabric and a spray of gutted fluff. Jasper just sat there, gave a tiny ‘huuu’, closed his eyes.
+++++++++++++
“Wewe am fwuffy? Poopies…dewe am poopies. Fwuffy am…hab scawdies…” It was two months later. Jasper’s legs had given out completely and he could no longer walk at all. He didn’t know about mummah anymore. Or even about daddeh. Daddeh was just a stranger who walked in every now and again. He never talked to him.
“Wewe fwuffy? Fwuffy hab namesie? Pwease tawk tu fwuffy.” He called out again and again. Every memory he had before was gone. Literally torn up in front of his eyes.
“Nu am pwetty. Su many poopies. Fwuffy bad fwuffy? Wib in poopies ‘fo bein’ bad? Pwease hewp!” Yet there would be no help. He’d eat the hard kibble set in front of him, drink water, continue to mess all over himself.
“Nu wan be bad fwuffy. Gud fwuffy. Pwease?” He asked but nobody would answer him. He’d never be talked to again. Unluckily for him, he lived quite a long life even on top of his advanced age. Each day trying to figure out why he lived in a litterbox of poopies, trying to piece together something as simple as having a name.
