You’re Rock. You’re a fluffy stallion with soft red fluff and a brown mane and tail. You’re a daddeh, too.
You live in an extra nice den with your special friend, Dusty, a blue mare with gray mane and tail, and your babies. They’re talkie babies now, but you haven’t come up with any names for them yet. You have two colts, black with red, and blue with brown. You also have three fillies, one yellow like her mummah (her real mummah) with brown mane and tail, one orange with yellow, and one all pink. The pink baby is extra poofy, especially her tail and a bib of fluff on her chestie, and she has little, stubby legs. She’s a little slower than the other babies, but she can run and play just as well, so you guess it isn’t so bad.
You have heart hurties whenever your pink baby or the yellow baby’s color reminds you of their mummah, Becky. Becky was a bad mummah, the worstest. She favored the pink baby over the others and wouldn’t give them any miwkies; she even hurt the babies when they tried to get miwkies or snuggle up with her.
You… you had to give Becky forever sleepies so you could save your babies. You got a certain satisfaction from doing it; she deserved it, for all that she did to you and the babies. But you still feel bad about it. You shouldn’t have had to do that to your special friend and your babies’ mummah.
But now the babies have a new mummah, your new special friend, Dusty. She’s a good special friend, much nicer than Becky ever was, and more importantly she’s a good mummah. She gives the babies plenty of miwkies, she plays with them gently, teaches them, protects them while you’re away, and is always ready to give huggies, or sing, or whatever else the babies need. She had bad heart hurties too, because her babies were given the longest sleepies, but now she has your babies and she loves them just like they were her own. She’s also told you that once your babies are old enough they don’t need miwkies any more, she wants you to give her special huggies so you have babies together.
This… this is nice. You’ve never had things go so right your entire life.
You keep waiting for the other hoofsie to drop.
Today, you’re all in a clearing in the woodsies. There are no trees or bushies here, just grassies and flowers. Your babies are going to need miwkies for a while yet, but Dusty wants to show them how to find nummies like big fluffies. She also says it’s important for them to play outside and not stay in the den all the time. You can’t disagree with that, but you don’t like this place.
It reminds you of the open field your old smarty chose; you told him it was too dangerous there, but he insisted the herd live there because of the abundance of grassies. The safe place was just a shallow pit dug by the stallions that the soon-mummahs and babies stayed in, hidden by thick grassies. There was no real place to hide and the dirt was too rocky to dig proper dens. You didn’t like it and said so. But smarty insisted. Even after birdie-monsters swooped down and took away some of the babies and a couple of smaller grown up fluffies, he was stubborn and said this was a good place.
Then a hoomin on a metal munsta stole all the grassies and killed almost all of the babies; only a few of the oldest babies managed to escape in time. The rest were all eaten by the monster, along with all of the soon-mummahs, since they couldn’t go anywhere on their own. It was horrible.
That’s why you’ve lived in the woodsies ever since; it’s safer there. And this clearing reminds you of the bad place.
That’s why you’re being extra cautious and standing guard over your family. Dusty is showing the babies how yummy grassies are; both colts and a filly sampled some grassies and spat them out. Not ready for grown up nummies yet. The other two fillies, including the pinky baby, didn’t want to try grassies; they cried and said they wanted miwkies. Dusty had to reassure them they would still get miwkies and let them suckle for a little while before they calmed down. Then Dusty showed them some other things, how to find nummies, which grassies made good nesties, to stay away from the little buggy things that made piles of dirt on the ground and stung badly, and other stuff they would need to know. Once it became clear the babies were getting tired of learning, she announced it was play time.
The sudden spurt of energy the babies had was endearing.
Dusty is laying in the grassies, twitching her tail and watching the babies. The pink filly and black colt are resting in her fluff. The yellow and orange fillies are playing tag, and your blue colt is proudly showing you how he stacked two little rocks on top of a bigger rock. You’re proud of him.
The shadow crosses the clearing rapidly and grows larger as it approaches and you dive on top of your baby without even thinking, ignoring his squeak of surprise at being tackled.
Something hits you hard enough to drive the wind out of you and you fall over. There’s a searing pain in your side and back. You twist around and there’s a birdie-monster as big as you are on top of you, screeching and flapping its wingies! It’s trying to take you away and have you for nummies!
You bop it in the face with your hoofsie and scream in pain as it stabs you over and over with its pointy moufie, booboo juice leaking all over your fluff. Dusty shrieks, gathers all of the babies, and runs back to the den with them as fast as she can, looking back at you and crying.
She keeps running. Good fluffy. Save the babies.
You turn your attention back to the birdie-monster and snarl.
Thrashing, you bop it in the face with your hoofsie again and it makes a piercing whistle noise. You manage to get out from under it, gasping in shock at the sudden pain as its wicked claws are ripped out of your skin, taking big chunks of fluff with them, then kick with your hind legs with all the strength you have in you. Both hoofsies connect with the birdie-monster’s chest and it falls over. You scream in rage and get back to your feet, jumping up to stomp on it. The birdie-monster shrieks and knocks you off with its wingies, then rights itself and flies away. You scream a challenge at it, but it flies away where you can’t follow, even if you really wanted to. Which you don’t. You settle for spraying sorry poopies all over where you fought with the monster, then head for home.
You don’t feel good. You have owies everywhere, where the birdie-monster poked and ripped at you, your fluff is stained with booboo juice, and you’re really, really tired. You just want to lay down and take a nap, but this isn’t the place for that; it’s too dangerous here.
You make sickie wawas from your moufie, wipe your face with a hoofsie, and keep walking back to the den. You fall over a couple of times because you’re dizzy and tired. But you eventually see the bush your den is hidden under and…
The next thing you know, your face is in the dirt, and someone has hold of your mane and is dragging you toward the bush. You can hear Dusty crying and a blue leg keeps stepping in front of your face, so you guess she’s the one dragging you. You hurt so much. You just want to sleep.
You’re a red-tailed hawk. For some reason, your inner monologue sounds like Samuel L. Jackson, but that’s not important right now.
What is important is the fact that you just got your ass kicked by your dinner.
You’d spotted a little blue fuzzy snack in a clearing and swooped in to snag it, when a big red fuzzy snack got in the way and you crashed into it. It was the same size as you, but much heavier, and it kept smacking the shit out of you with its dumb, hard feet. You tried to kill it so you could eat it, but its fuzz was too thick for you to do much more than inflict mostly superficial wounds, and then it kicked you right the fuck into next week. You’d had enough of that shit, and you got the fuck out of there.
Now you’re sitting in your favorite tree, nursing a sore wing, and you swear your fragile, hollow ribs are broken. And you’re still hungry.
You’re Rock. You’re recovering from the injuries the birdie-monster gave you. Dusty has been a very good special friend, going out to find nummies and bring them to you; that’s your job, to bring her nummies, but you’re too badly hurt. Your babies, especially the blue colt you rescued, are scared to leave the den now, whereas before it was a big adventure for them. They’ve found out the hard way that it’s dangerous out there.
You’re not really up to it, but you insist on going outside and finding nummies for Dusty. It’s enough of a burden for her to take care of the babies, she doesn’t need to take care of you too. Besides, you don’t like her going outside alone; if something happened to her, then how would the babies get miwkies? She’s still worried for you, but she lays down with the babies gratefully while you leave the den.
After a few days, you feel much better, though every time you run or jump it makes your owies leak more booboo juice. You have to take it easy until you’re all better. Fortunately, you’ve been getting lots of huggies from Dusty and the babies, so you know you’re going to get better soon.
You’re standing guard while Dusty coaxes the babies out of the den again.
“It otay, babbehs! See? Daddeh hewe! Daddeh pwoteck babbehs, nu wet nuffin bad happen! Wight, speshow fwen?”
“Wight,” you nod grimly, pawing the ground dramatically in a show of bravado for the babies. You don’t feel that brave, and you certainly don’t feel up to a fight, but it’s important they not be scared. They need to learn how to be big fluffies.
They soon lose their fear of the outdoors and all but the orange baby try grassies. The black colt still spits his out, but the others seem to like it. They’ll start eating big fluffy nummies soon, and Dusty can give them less and less miwkies until finally they don’t need or want miwkies anymore. Your chestie swells with pride; your babies are growing up big and strong!
Dusty leads the babies to a good spot to play, protected by a ceiling of trees so birdie-monsters can’t swoop down, and you limp along behind them, trying to keep pace. Hnnngh, you still hurt every time you stretch where the birdie-monster got you.
Suddenly, you hear a sound that chills you to the bone.
There’s a barkie-monster, and it’s getting closer!
You break into a sprint, trying to get to your family. Dusty has one baby on her back and another in her moufie, and is running, two more babies nearly, not quite, keeping pace with her. Where’s- There!
The pink baby has fallen behind and is working her stubby little legs as fast as she can, crying for her mummah not to leave her behind. You run to grab her when the barkie-monster bursts out of the bushes, roars ferociously, and charges.
No. Not happening.
You grit your teeth, run at the barkie-monster as fast as you can, ignoring the burning in your wounds and the wet sensation as booboo juice soaks into your fluff, then leap into the air at the last second and come crashing down.
You meant to land a flying stomp on the barkie-monster’s head, but you miscalculated and end up headbutting it. The monster yelps and you fall to the ground, dazed. You make sickie-wawa from your moufie again and flop on your side, unable to see which way is up.
After a long, dizzy moment on the ground, you sit up, looking around frantically. Your baby! Is she safe?!
The barkie-monster is scrambling into the bushies and you start to pursue, certain it has your pinky baby in its clutches.
You look back. Oh, thank goodness!
Dusty has all five babies on her back; they’re all crying and there’s some scaredy poopies dribbling down your special friend’s back and side, but they’re all safe.
“Wun! Bawkie-munsta mebbe cum back! Wun! Wock be otay!”
Dusty has tears in her eyes, afraid to leave you, but she’s a good mummah; the babies come first. She runs back to the den with them.
You stand up, shaking all over, and call a challenge to the barkie-monster, hoping it will come after you instead of your family. You know you don’t stand a chance against it, but… better it take you than your babies or Dusty.
But the monster never returns. After waiting a while, you decide you scared it off and limp back to the den, shaking your aching head to make the hurties go away.
Once inside, your babies all give you huggies and Dusty licks the booboo juice from your wounds. You close your eyes and sigh as sleep comes for you again.
Being a daddeh is hard.
You’re Ein! You’re a Welsh corgie! Every day is awesome for you!
Ohboyohboyohboy! Master is taking you and your fluffy friend Susie camping! You LOVE camping! There’s so much to smell, so much to pee on! So many dead things to roll on! Ohboyohboyohboy!
You run off to go exploring and you smell something intriguing. It smells like Susie. You also hear voices; they sound like Susie too!
Gasp! Maybe they’ll want to be friends with you and play!
You run through the woods as fast as your little legs will carry you and you spot a little pink fluffy friend like Susie, but smaller. Oh boy! New friend! Play! You bark happily and run over, hoping to make a new friend.
Oh hey, there’s another fluffy friend, a big red one, and he’s running toward you! Yay! Play!
OW! What the hell?! He just hit you in the head, HARD! That’s not how you’re supposed to play!
You don’t think you like this fluffy. He’s not a very good friend. You decide to run back to Master before the fluffy does anything mean to you.
Oh hey! Master is cooking dinner! It smells WONDERFUL!
You’re so excited, you mount Susie and start humping away. Master seems to think it’s funny every time you do it.
“Nuuuu! Nu wan! Nu waaaaan! Nu spechow huggies! Heeeeewp!”
You have no idea what she’s saying; you don’t speak english. But Susie’s such a good friend!