Part 2
“Nummies!” “Howway!” “Foodies!”
The multicolored carpet of fluff stampeded toward the barn doors with the force of a gentle wave. Fluffies of every color and pattern gathered in an orderly manner and filed through the inventory control columns in a single file line. Every so often, a yellow light would turn on and plastic barrier went down in front of the next fluff in line. Most looked confused for a moment, then turned to walk through the one-way pet door into the waiting pens. A few just stood there dumbly, holding up the line.
“Wha?” asked a dim looking green earthie. “Wha happen? Time fow foodies?” Mike Rowe leaned down and scooped the confused fluffy into the pen. “Nuu! Wan foodies! Time fow foodies! Put Maisie down! Nee nummies!” She banged her head against the one-way door a few times, trying to get back into the food line. Other fluffies filed into barn, dutiful putting their face into a food trough and their rears into the waste troughs.
“They always complain like this?” asked Mike, resetting the barrier.
“Judging by her tag, this will be her first breeding,” said Mary. “She doesn’t know how things work yet, but the others will teach her.”
“Gon be nu mummah!” said one of the other fluffies in the holding pen. “Be gud, git skettis and spechaw hugs!”
“That’s right,” she looked at the fluffy’s ear tag, “Clarabelle. Tell Maisie how things work so she’s not a bad fluffy.”
“Maisie gon see spechaw fwiends!” said the blue unicorn, clearly excited by the prospect. “Git gud feews, then skettis if you gud fwuffy! Den you haf bebehs and gif miwkies to wots bebehs!”
“Haf bebehs?” asked the dim green earthie. “Wuv bebehs! Wan bebehs! Pwease haf bebehs?”
“That’s the spirit!” said Mary. “Let’s get you knocked up, you fluffy little hussy.”
The stampede of fluffies continued for a few minutes, with each fluffy finding a spot to eat, crap, and babble for a few minutes as the sea of fluffies munched down on their breakfast. Mary tossed Mike a long, whippy stick and pointed to the door butting up to the pen.
“So we’re going to herd these mares into the Stallion Shack,” said Mary. “Most of them know where they’re going, but if they start to stray, use the sorry stick to guide them back in the right direction.”
“This looks like a dressage whip,” said Mike, giving the stick a snap,
“That’s because it is,” said Mary. “Don’t scare them if you don’t have to. Scaring a fluffy sours their miwk.”
He hated that word. Every time he’d heard it today, it made he want to choke a fluffy and demand to know why they were such useless wastes of life. But he was an actor and it was his job to present the story in from of him, no matter how he felt about it. As he opened the door, he hoped they’d stray from the path towards the Stallion Shack and he’d get to wallop one for stepping out of line.
They walked in a parade of multicolored fluff towards the opening garage door of the Stallion Shack, with all the fluffies babbling happily about “spechaw hugs”, “time fow skettis!”, and “gun be mummah!” It was the inanest procession he’d ever been part of and not a single fluffy even stepped out of line. The mares shuffled into the barn and the door closed behind them. Mary vaulted the chest high wall with practiced ease and stood in front of the computer.
“So, I’m going to call out numbers and you’re going to put the fluffies into the chutes I tell you to, got it?”
“And why are we doing this?” asked Mike.
“We have to keep track of who gets bred to who,” said Mary. “I know you’ve been on a dairy farm before, this shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I suppose not,” said Mike Rowe. “Can you give a description with that number?”
“The number is the description,” said Mary. “BE-PN-BL-1037. So, the first two are the fluffy’s name. BE, that’s Bessie.” A half a dozen fluffies looked at Mary expectantly.
“Wha?” “Huh?” “Mummah wan Bessie?”
“The next two are coat color,” Mary continued, ignoring the fluffies looking at her. “PN is Pink. The next two are mane color. BL is blue. So, Pink coat, blue mane, Bessie.” She pointed to the fluffy they’d picked up earlier. “She goes into Flavio’s chute.” At the name, a dozen of the fluffies bounced up and down with excitement.
“Wuv Fwavio!” they shrieked. “Wan Fwavio be spechaw fwiend!”
“Flavio’s popular I take it?” asked Mike.
“Oh Flavio’s real popular,” said Mary. “Once we get them sorted, we’ll go make sure the studs are ready for their mares. Ready for the next one?”
“Let’s do it,” said Mike.
“CL-GR-WH-1003. Buddy.”
Mike looked for a moment, processing the number as he scanned the herd of fluffies at his feet. Green fluff, white mane. There was only one. her tag matched, so he scooped her up with one hand and placed her in the chute labeled “Buddy.” The two dozen fluffies went into a dozen chutes and waited for the next step in the process. Only two were loudly disappointed in their choice of stallion “Pee-Wee.” The green earthie looked confused when she went into Hector’s chute, but a Clarabelle reassured her that Hector “gif bestest spechaw hugs.” Through it all Mike Rowe moved fluffies in time to the call outs, dutifully and carefully placing each one in their chutes.
“Is there a reason you can’t just tell them which chutes to go into?” asked Mike as he dropped the last one in.
“They can’t read, most of them don’t know their colors, and less than a quarter know shapes,” said Mary. “Trying to label things for fluffies is an exercise in futility. Plus if we let them choose, they’d all go to Flavio or Hector.”
“Great,” said Mike. “Off we go then.”
They walked through another door along the same wall as the chutes where a half a dozen pens stood ready. In each, a male fluffy waited, either playing with blocks, pacing around their pen, or napping quietly. A small grey pegasus with a khaki mane approached them as they walked through the door.
“Es time fow spechaw huggies?” he asks. “Fwavio awways weady fow spechaw huggies. Mawes wuv de Fwavio.”
“Is it me,” asked Mike. “Or does he somehow have a Latin accent?”
“He’s from Mexico,” said Mary. “We gotta get you shaved and prepped, Flavio. Mike, if you’d pick him up?”
Mike leaned down and lifted the fluffy from his pen. He held him up for a moment and inspected the undercarriage of the fluffy. Sure enough, there were four nipples barely poking out of the fluff.
“So why’s this guy so popular?” asked Mike, taking glace down. “Even for a fluffy he seems… small?”
“Es nawt size of no-nos,” replied Flavio. “Es how use dem.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” said Mike. “So how to we prep them for their… dates?”
“Well bring Flavio over here, and I’ll show you,” said Mary. Flavio stood dutifully atop the stainless steel grooming table, careful not to move a muscle as Mary carefully shaved around the fluffy’s bits. “We keep it free of hair to cut down on the mess. It also makes them feel better about themselves. Would you be so kind as to go get Pee-Wee?”
A moment later a massive brown earthie nearly the size of a beagle stood upon the table. Mike bent down, stood up, and then bent down again.
“He’s hung like an actual pony,” said Mike.
“He doesn’t talk much,” said Mary as she trimmed him up. “And he’s only popular among some of the mares. They can opt out if they want, but two strikes and they’re out. “
“Meaning?”
“They can choose to not have a litter,” said Mary. “As long as they’re producing milk, they can continue to not have foals, but as soon as they run dry, they’ve got one six week cycle to get pregnant again, or off they go.”
“Go where?” asked Mike.
“They retire to a farm upstate,” said Mary with a flat and dead expression that put emphasis on the fact that she did not say it was a nice farm upstate. “Anyway, I’ll get these guys trimmed up if you keep bringing them over.”
“You want me to trim up one of them?” asked Mike. “I know my way around a pair of sheers.”
“The last time I had a newbie doing the trimming, poor Roger got castrated,” said Mary.
“Poow Woger,” said Flavio, with a solemn nod. “A pwince among fwuffies, his no-nos a gweaming beacon of howpe to de mawes of dis wowd. Woger wiww be missed.” Mike looked at the fluffy, then back to the camera.
“He’s quite the poet.”
“He’s a little ham is what he is,” said Mary. “But the mares like him and he always throws four baggers, so he stays. Flavio is seven years old and keeps earning his kibble.”
“Positively ancient,” said Mike. “So do we dim the lights? Put on some Barry Manilow?”
“We’ll let them do their thing,” said Mary. “The boys know what they’re doing. Once they’re done, we give them some actual spaghetti, then send them out into the fields. Let’s head over to the milking barn and I’ll show you where the money is made.”