Getting my first fluffy pony
By Oculus, Illustrated by Carpdime
~
My therapist wants me to write about a happy memory from my childhood.
It’s 3a.m. I can’t sleep. From outside my window, I can hear feral animals fighting. Sometimes it’s a street fluffy picking a fight with the average cat or dog, sometimes it’s the other way round, sometimes it’s the fluffies, cats and dogs fighting among themselves. The cacophony disrupts my sleep, but I know that’s not the real reason why I cannot lie down.
I have to strike that out. I’ll have to strike this out too. I’m currently typing this out on this piece of shit computer, but I’m supposed to be writing the entry in this journal that my therapist gave me. She told me, focus on a happy memory. Ideally one from childhood. I was going to do it tomorrow, just a day before meeting her, but I can’t sleep right now.
Alright.
I’ll to try to think of something happy. It just seems so difficult though. Everything feels so miserable. I’m miserable. Nothing seems right with the world, even though everyone is telling me that things are okay. How can I think of anything happy when I’ve never done anything right?
Just think happy thoughts.
Okay.
Okay.
Fluff Tales was and remains to be my favourite cartoon of all time. And I should know. There’s a lot of cartoons I love, like Star Crusaders, Street Turtles from Venus and the Modifyers, but Fluff Tales was always the show I was most eager to watch. When I got older, I got out of my way to acquire the DVD box set of the series, and then Blu-ray, along with all the toys and merchandise I could find related to Fluff Tales. I could write an entire story about the long journey I undertook to get every piece of Fluff Tales merchandise I began.
But when I was a little kid, the most of Fluff Tales I had was what I could see on the television. My dad would tell me that my favourite cartoon as a child was “Ну, погоди!”. But thing is, I have no memory of that show. Maybe I did see it as a baby. But my first memory of seeing animation, the kind of moving drawn art on a televised screen, was a fluffy pony, with his one tale, flying high above the clouds, carrying an emerald.
Yes, I remember that scene now. Even now, I’m a little bit excited thinking about it. It was only a few years later, when I was more grown up, when I they re-aired the episode, and I appreciated the context of that scene even better.
“Come back with my emerald, ya blasted fluffy!”
“Nuh-uh, dummeh Doctah!”
That was Marty, the Fluffy who could Fly. Of course, fluffies can’t fly. But Marty was a cartoon character. And he was special in that he could fly. Fluff Tales had a lot of characters, including Widget, Marty’s sidekick and tech expert, who could understand things that Marty and most other fluffies couldn’t. Every week, Marty would go on various adventures, but most of them were against the wicked Dr Bounderby. In that episode, Bounderby was escaping from an island with a giant emerald he had stolen, and the island was doomed to collapse. However, Marty, with Widget’s help, was able to foil the evil doctor, and get the emerald away from his submarine.
It was awesome when I watched it for the first time, and even now it’s still awesome. I remembered rushing all the way home from school, opening the door, turning on the dial of the television, and I’d get to see, Flufftales. It’s not to say that I didn’t watch any other cartoons – I did watch the Saturday morning programming block. That was a fond memory I had with my mother, and it was something she too would look forward too. especially after my father would come home drunk on Friday night and beat her.
No. I can’t include that. But it did happen. But Dr. Pavlov wants me to write about the happiest thing I could remember as a child.
Alright, happy thoughts. I should focus on Fluff Tales.
I remember the episode when Widget made a suit of armour that no other fluffy could wear, but it got magically attracted to a random fluffy, and that fluffy became Robofwuff. I remember the episode when Marty and Gadget chanced upon a cult of microfluffies that were addicted to a strange soft drink, and Marty had to break them out of it. And I remember the episode when Marty came across a civilization of panda fluffs, only to find out that they were hostile and were planning a raid on Fluffburg. So many great adventures over so many seasons, and even now I can still recite that theme.
Fluff tales was one of the first few times I knew about fluffies. No. It was the first time I knew about American fluffies.
In a way, I’ve always known fluffies existed. It’s like a child knowing a cat or a dog exists. Pets like ferrets, rabbits and hamsters are so much a part of our lives that adult teach these concepts to us as babies. It’s like how a fluffy foal is able to slowly pick up language within three months, even though fluffy foals are capable of forgetting most memories until they’re about six months of age.
In contrast, the fluffies I remember were our own Russian fluffies. You know, the ones that we call Dendies. I remember the first time I encountered a dendy. It was about a year before I entered Primary School. I was with a group of kids. Well actually, I was a in a corner, play pretending a scene from Fluff Tales. Everybody else was ignoring me. No wait, I can’t include that.
A little Dendy came up to one the kids. Its fluff was covered with grime, its eyes were puffy, and its lips were bare. Judging from its rear end, one could tell this fluffy had done its business not too long ago. With a sad expression, it tried to stand on its hind legs, as he pleaded, “Num… num… nummies?”
“Eeeeeee!”
Piter (was that his name? I can’t remember) yelled that, gaining the attraction of the other children. The other children then noticed the creature and, perhaps borne out of instinctual odium, huddled together, trying to keep their distance from little foal.
“Pwez nu be saddies,” the hapless thing begged, “babbeh wiww do dancies!”
One of the boys blurted out, “Go away, ugly!”
As this happened, another dendy was starting to run up towards our group. This one dendy was much larger, most likely an adult. Looking at us, our group, the adult fluffy started to puff his cheeks.
“Oi, dummeh hummehs!” he barked, as he laid down his claim. “Dis am smawty wand! Gib nummies or git stompies!!” And with that, he stomped his hoof on the ground. The little foal went to hide behind the back leg of adult, perhaps scared by the rejection he had faced.
Piter grapped the rock. I don’t know what came over him. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he was angry. But he was definitely disgusted, and he seemed really intent on hurting this pathetic creature.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed him.
“That’s enough.”
The children were caught off-guard. It was Misha, the handyman. He was also the gardener and the janitor our out little school. With a soft, but stern voice, he noted, “Stay back.”
Misha went up to the smarty. With one quick motion, he took out an orange-coloured contraption, with an yellow contained filled with a sort of liquid. Aiming it at, the male dendy Misha pulled the trigger.
“SCREEEE!! COWD COWD!! FWUFFY NU WIKE WAWA!!!”
As the water from the water pistol covered the Dendy and his foal, the two ran off.
~
That image was sort of seared into my mind. Fluffies were these ugly, despicable things that nobody would want. No, not fluffies. Dendies. I should be specific because, in the 90s, McBrega opened their first outlet in Russia, and we got to know about the American fluffies. How they were clean, friendly and, more importantly, were well-behaved.
In contrast, Dendies filled the streets of Russia, including our own little town.
I remember there used to be a pet shop, one that specialized in Dendies. But no one went there. The owner, Nikita, always had a grumpy face, and seeing him, as well as the pets he was trying to sell, I refused to even be near that pet shop. Whenever I went to that shopping centre, I would persuade my father to avoid walking past by it, so that I wouldn’t see Nikita and his pathetic Dendies.
No, what I wanted was an American fluffy. I wanted Marty the flying fluffy. A fluffy who was cunning, tricky, and more importantly, cool. He was like Michael Jackson, Pepsi, MTV. And it was the 90s.
I was still a child when the 90s happened. I didn’t understand much about the politics of the world at the time. But I remember my parents watching the news. And little old me would be there, crawling into the living room, trying to understand what the grown-ups were watching. I remember seeing a crowd of many angry people pushing down a wall. And not long after that, they announced the opening of the first McBrega outlet in Moscow. I remember seeing the long lines, and Russians getting a taste of veggie burgers and the “pet restaurant” concept, which had been celebrated everywhere in the free world but not in the Soviet bloc. Yes, that idea of being able to go to a fast-food restaurant to eat with loveable fluffies, play games with them, and even bring one home, was an entirely new experience. Perhaps because we had Dendies.
“This, this isn’t real food.”
I remember an old woman saying that, when she bit into her first veggie burger from McBrega’s. But she was a minority. Everybody in my school wanted to go to a McBrega, to try out this weird American food. And more importantly, to get a fluffy.
And I remember the first time I saw that advertisement on TV. McBrega was selling a Marty fluffy that was capable of flight, albeit a few centimetres of the ground. And more importantly, had those bioports that allowed him to be hooked up on the television. One of the first “console fluffies”, in the middle of the electronic pet console war with the Nintendog and the Sony Orangutan.
I remember that, after a while, a new show started to premiere after Fluff Tales. It was hosted by a man called Sergei. I was too young to know then that was Sergei Ivanovich Leonov, the ex-cosmonaut who settled down after the end of the communist times to work as a TV host with his pet fluffy, Mowgli. All I knew was that he was a man on TV who was promoting the McBrega fluffy with the bioport. He was a real nice guy too, and gave all kinds good advice.
“Now, you could buy a piece of candy with your money,” he once started, “but such food would be too sweet, and not good for you teeth. Instead, what you could get is a fluffy, like Mowgli here.” And with that, he tickles Mowgli on his chin, and gives him a bubble rub.
“Teehee! Fwuffy wub bewwy wubs!!”
Sergei would host all kinds of fluffies on his show. But for one episode, he was promoting the new Marty, with the bioport.
“Now you see children, Marty here is a bit of a special fluffy. He comes with these special sockets, which you can plug into your TV. Doing so will allow Marty to create the television show on your screen! Just plug in the controls, and presto! Not only can you enjoy Fluff Tales, you can now even make your own Fluff Tales!”
Imagine that. My own version of Fluff Tales at home.
I wanted one. I wanted one so badly.
“Daddy, daddy, I want to go to McBrega’s! I want to get a Marty!”
But the response was always the same.
“We don’t have money, kid. And McBrega’s is all on the way in Moscow.”
I was too young to understand then. I was lucky I was asking him on a good day, when he wasn’t downing another bottle of vodka.
~
Thinking back now, those were all fun memories. Those are good memories. Well, maybe chasing away that fluffy family wasn’t exactly good, but it was memorable. But I had to type write that all out so that I could explain what was my “best” memory was. I can imagine Dr Pavlov would want me to get to the point. Screw her, I want to talk about my childhood.
So, I mentioned earlier that I wanted to get a “Marty” fluffy from McBrega. Well. I remembered that dad was going to take me to that shopping mall that I mentioned earlier. The building still had the trappings of the old soviet design, something that privatization couldn’t really replace. The spot that Nikita had bought over for his pet store once belong the children department of the State store. Being from a small town, our town was one of the last places to experience anything American, let along McBrega or even a Pepsi. Thus, the trips to this mall were always boring – the most we’d do was go to the supermarket, and that’s it. The arcade had yet to arrive until I was about ten. The McBrega’s would not come by until I was 12.
And yet, my father’s made that fateful promise.
“You’re getting a fluffy today, Mikhail.”
My eyes widened. But it didn’t make sense. For weeks he said I wouldn’t get one. And his car was now heading the shopping mall. The one we were used to, that didn’t have a McBrega outlet (yet).
I was nervous. But a part of me wanted to lie to myself.
After all, there was a big crowd at the mall today. It was usually crowded on a weekend, but not a weekday. And while it was my birthday, I wouldn’t expect so many random people to celebrate my birthday.
As we started to move deeper into the crowed, I could hear the unmistakeable lines of fluffspeak.
“Fwuffy wub ‘ou!”
And it was not just any fluffspeak, it was the American fluffspeak. These fluffies were speaking both a mix of American, and Russian. But, as we moved in further, I realized that the fluffies the children were holding were not the McBrega fluffies that I wanted to meet so badly.
They were the Dendies. Those ugly, ugly Dendies! The same as the one I had seen loitering around in the streets, pooping everywhere, and picking fights with anybody!
I was disgusted. But moreso, I was confused. As we walked on, I caught sight of Piter, who was cradling a Dendy in his arm, hugging it like as thought it was everything to him. Piter, the same boy who was the first to carry a rock and threatened to throw it at that fluffy family. And here he was, loving and petting the Dendy like as though it was his own brother.
I wanted it to stop. I wanted to go home.
But my father had his hand around me. And, against my disgust, I was curious. Why was there such a huge crowd? Especially on a day like my birthday?
As it turned out, he crowd was outside Nikita’s little pet shop. That was definitely weird. But today, Nikita was not shabbily dressed. He was shaved, sporting a new hair look, his clothes were fresh and crisp. And more importantly, he was wearing a smile. If you ask me now, I cannot tell if the smile was genuine, or if he was merely faking. But given the next thing I learnt, perhaps it was genuine.
“And remember kids! Fluffy ponies, not vodka!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought it was an actor. I had seen my father play pretend to be Mr Leonov, mocking me so that I would get off the television and he could watch his news.
But no. It was him. THE Sergei Ivanovich Leonov. Ex-cosmonaut, now TV presenter for McBrega. Like as though he had lept out of my television screen and came down to my home town. Mr Lenonov, descending from the cosmos, and down here, in the flesh. And beside him were a group of fluffies, all dendies. But they were clean. There was no gripe or smell of poop on them. They all had an eager look in their eyes, all happy to be there. And, they were all listening attentively to Mr Leonov.
“Now, fluffies, we will go into our next song. ”
Shchedryk, shchedryk, shchedrivochka,
pryletila lastivochka,
stala sobi shchebetaty,
hospodaria vyklykaty:
“Vyidy, vyidy, hospodariu,
podyvysia na kosharu,
tam ovechky pokotylys,
a yahnychky narodylys.
V tebe tovar ves khoroshyi,
budesh maty mirku hroshei,
V tebe tovar ves khoroshyi,
budesh maty mirku hroshei.
Khoch ne hroshi, to polova.
V tebe zhinka chornobrova.”
Shchedryk shchedryk, shchedrivochka,
pryletila lastivochka.
It was the Ukrainian song Shchedryk. Albeit with a lisp, but the fluffy chorus had sang it so well that it captivated me.
With the conclusion of the song, Leonov then addressed the crowd, as he asked, “And so, I heard that someone was celebrating a birthday today. Who was it?”
Eager hands from children on the crowd leapt up.
“Me!
“Me!!
“It’s me!!”
But Leonov was carrying a piece of paper.
“Mikhail Ivanovich! Come on up to the stage!”
I was shocked. It couldn’t have been me.
But my, father smile, as he took by the hand, and said, “Come.”
Obediently, I followed my father’s side, as I went up to the podium. Mr Leonov, beaming, crouched down, bringing his eye level to mine, as he brought the microphone to my lips.
“How old are you, Mikhail?”
“Ei….eight, sir.”
“No need to be so formal, my little pioneer. You can call me Sergei.
Now, I heard it’s your birthday, which you share with about five other people in the audience. Usually, we would host a game of sorts, but today’s your lucky day, my little pioneer!”
As he says this, Nikita goes up to the pen. He checks on the back of the fluffies, and carefully notices the tag on one particular magenta foal. The number had to be correct I presume. He brings the Dendy to Alex. As he does so, I noticed that this particular foal had a bioport on its back, meaning that it was compatible with the electronic accessories sold by McBrega, as well as my own television at home.
“And here ya go, Mikhail! A brand new Dendy, complete with a bioport! You can play all the games you want with him, and learn about the world through him!”
I was hesitant.
I did want a fluffy pony.
But I didn’t want a Dendy.
I wanted to protest. A part of me wanted to scream on the spot.
But Sergei ruffles my head, as he whispered some gentle words in my ear.
“Remember, Dendies may be biotoys, but what they really are is pets. Take good care of your little Dendy, pioneer.”
The Dendy looks up to me, looking rather happy, as he greets me.
“Nice ta meetcha, nyu daddeh!”
My father is beside me. As I look up to him, I could see a genuine smile from him, one of the few times he ever did so.
“Happy Birthday, Mikhail.”
~
The first few days with Martin weren’t that easy. Yes, I called him Martin. Since I couldn’t get a Marty lookalike fluffy from McBrega’s, I had to make do with a dendy called Martin. Back then, I was too young to know that Nikita’s shop got bought over by McBrega, and he was going to start selling McBrega electronic accessories for the new “bioported” Dendies.
But honestly, Martin was a lot of work. He was a bit needy, didn’t like being alone in the dark, and was more interested in playing with building blocks, or drawing on a piece of paper with his hooves, then to watch TV with me. After a while on a second day, I decided to just leave him alone in a room so that he could play with the blocks on his own.
As I watched the episode of Fluff Tales, I kept seeing how amazing Marty was. And I felt jealous. And a little angry. I didn’t get what I wanted. And then there was Mr Leonov, who was going to start another episode of his McBrega-sponsored show.
I turned off the TV. I was angry.
I went back into the room. Martin had just finished his business, and a turd was neatly shat out on the litterbox.
“Daddeh! Babbeh make guud poopies!”
Sighing, I had to admit, at least he was well-trained. I still had to clean it up later though.
“Yes, yes. You’re a good fluffy.”
But Martin was not dumb. Perhaps he knew something was amiss. He sits down, and looks up to me, his eyes almost pleading, as he squeaks out a “Babbeh wub you daddeh.”
And I… I loved him on the spot. Yes, he was smelly. Yes, he wasn’t what I wanted. Yes, he was a Dendy, and not a proper American fluffy, the one I wanted from McBrega.
But he was my fluffy. My first fluffy. And looking back, that was the brightest point of my life.
I know what she’s going to ask next. I don’t feel like I’m ready to talk to her about it when the time comes.
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