You’re Rock. You’re a feral stallion. You used to live with a big herd, and you were one of the herd’s toughies. But you didn’t really like the smarty; he was too bossy and selfish, he kept giving special huggies to mares that didn’t want them, he kept gobbling up all the nummies the stallions brought back for the mummahs, and he kept doing things that were bad for the herd.
You knew it was bad to bully humans and try to take their land and make them give nummies; he did it anyway. And he always ran away as soon as the human got mad, and let the herd get hurties. Some of them took the longest sleepies. But he kept doing it, and when you told him it was a bad idea, he just yelled, hit you, and gave you sorry poopies.
Crossing the black rock the metal munstas ran on? You said it was a bad idea; the munstas were too big and fast, and the herd too slow. It would take too long to cross and the munstas would see the herd and attack. Smarty called you mean names and led the herd across the black rock anyway.
Half the herd and almost all the babies were killed by a couple of metal munstas, and the humans riding inside them were angry when they got out and tried to give hurties to the rest of the herd. You stayed to rescue some babies who didn’t have mummahs anymore, dodging the blows the humans gave you, while the smarty ran. Mummahs who had lost babies to the munstas took in the babies with no mummahs. You cried for all the fluffies and babies that got longest sleepies, but smarty said they were all dummies. You thought the only dummy was smarty.
Smarty wanted to cross the big wawa to get to the delicious nummies in the middle. You told him wawa was bad for fluffies and the nummies couldn’t be reached. He hit you and said you were a dummy. Then he made the herd run into the wawa. Many of them took longest sleepies because of the bad wawa, but smarty just ran across their backs to get the nummies. Then it turned out the nummies were human “pwastec” and not really nummies at all. A bunch of fluffies, including several more babies, took longest sleepies for absolutely nothing.
He picked a ‘safe place’ in the middle of the open, grassy field and put the babies and soon-mummahs in a little den made of grassies and a shallow hole dug by the stallions. You told him it wasn’t safe here, that the herd needed to hide in the trees and bushies. He gave you sorry poopies. Even after birdy-munstas took some of the babies and smaller fluffies, he still refused to admit this was a bad place. Then a human came on another noisy metal munsta that ate all the grassies and attacked the safe place. Only a few of the babies escaped; the rest died with all the soon-mummahs when the munsta ate them along with the grassies. Now you had no grassies, no soon-mummahs, and only a few babies. Smarty moved the herd to the trees and bushies, but pretended it was his idea, not yours. You put up with it all though; he was the smarty, after all.
Then Becky came. She was the prettiest mare you’d ever seen; bright yellow, with an extra poofy tail and a little bib of extra poof on her chestie. She lived with a human daddeh, but she ran away when he wouldn’t let her have babies. Smarty said it was bad to let “hoomin fwuffies” join the herd; said they were nothing but trouble and were too dummy to live with the herd. Everything else the smarty had said and done up to this point had been dummy, so you figured he was being a dummy then too. You’d had enough; smarty was a bad smarty, and you wanted Becky to be your special friend. You were bigger and tougher than him, so you beat up smarty. He tried to give you sorry poopies and you got mad and beat him up even worse. When you finished, you told him what a bad smarty he was and how everything bad that happened to the herd was his fault. The herd all watched in shock. Then you told smarty he was banished from the herd; that shocked them even worse. Could another fluffy banish the SMARTY from the herd? They’d never thought of such a thing; it seemed unthinkable.
But smarty didn’t move. You thought he was just being stubborn at first, but slowly you realized the horror of what you’d done. You’d given him longest sleepies. You didn’t mean to, but you did. You sat down, ashamed of what you’d done, staring at smarty’s nu-move body. The herd needed a smarty. Even a bad one was better than no smarty at all. You… you weren’t just bigger and tougher than smarty, you were smarter too. Every time he’d brought disaster on the herd, you’d known it was a bad idea and warned him not to do it. Maybe… maybe you could be smarty?
You looked at the herd, all of them gazing at you expectantly. No. You didn’t want to be in charge. You weren’t bossy, like even a good smarty was, and you didn’t want to feel responsible when the herd got hurt because you made a mistake. You couldn’t put it into so many words, but that’s how you felt, so you ran away. You took Becky with you and ran from the herd. As you ran, you heard one of the other fluffies declare himself the new smarty; he was a good stallion, almost as clever as you. He would make a good smarty. Better than the old smarty, at least.
You ran away with Becky, and the next few days were wonderful. She gave you huggies and told you what a clever, strong, and handsome fluffy you were. It made you feel good. You dug a den for her under a bushie with pretty purple flowers; it was hard, very tiring work, and your hoofsies were sore from all the digging, and your fluff was full of dirt, but you finished. You shook the dirt from your fluff and then proudly showed Becky the den you had made for her. It was the best den you’d ever made; you put all your effort into it.
Becky sneered at your den and said it was dirty and bad. You were heartbroken, but dug it out a little bigger and then stomped the dirt on the floor of the den with your hoofsies until it was smooth and flat. It took you the better part of two bright times to improve the den, but you were proud of what you’d accomplished. Becky said the den was better, but her little housie her human daddeh had given here was way better. You could tell she still didn’t like it, but she moved in with only a little grumbling. It gave you heart hurties that she didn’t really like your den, after all the work you’d put into it, but you thought it was nice.
Then Becky complained that there was no soft beddie for her to sleep on. She’d complained about that a lot every dark time, but you’d always been able to shush her with promises of a nice den to sleep in. Now she wanted a beddie, NOW.
So you tiredly crawled from the den and retrieved bunches of soft leaves, dry grassies that couldn’t be eaten, a few birdie feathers you found on the ground, and, trembling at the risk, a piece of human not-fluff you found on the side of the black rock. You built what you thought was a very nice nestie in the den, even though it was usually the mare’s job, and showed it to her. She said it was ugly and didn’t smell pretty. You whined that it was the best you could do, and she just kept fussing, but eventually you convinced her to try laying in it. She stayed there for a few heartbeats, then got up and kicked the nestie all over the den with her hoofsies, blowing raspberries, calling you a dummy, and then she made sorry poopies on what was left of your nice nestie. You were heartbroken again. Nothing you did was good enough for her.
But, after she left the den, still grumbling and calling you a dummy, you sighed and rebuilt the nestie. Removing her poopies from the den was the worst. But you rebuilt the nestie, and then you pulled out great big chunks of your fluff and lined the nestie with them; the fluff would grow back, you knew, and this was how fluffy mummahs and daddehs often made nesties when babies were on the way, so you didn’t mind. You emerged from the den, smiling, and she glared at you and said you were ugly with your missing clumps of fluff. That gave you bad heart hurties, but you showed her the nestie and she grudgingly accepted it. It still wasn’t as good as the beddie her human daddeh gave her, of course. Then you showed her how you pulled out clumps of your fluff to make the nestie softer and warmer, and suggested she do the same so the nestie would be REALLY nice when the babies came.
She didn’t like that. She screamed, called you names, and hit you with her hoofsie. You were afraid she’d make sorry poopies again and ruin the nestie, but she didn’t. She eventually calmed down when you told her she didn’t have to use any of her fluff to line the den.
Finally, now that you had a good den and warm, soft nestie, it was time to make babies! Becky grudgingly let you give her special huggies. It felt SO GOOD! You had good feels, but she didn’t seem to appreciate the special huggies. You felt sad that you didn’t give her good feels the way you felt them, so you tried to give her special huggies again, hoping she’d like it better this time. She yelled at you and hit your special lumps and made you cry. You didn’t try giving her special huggies again.
Before long though, it was obvious she was a soon-mummah, because she was getting bigger and rounder. She became even more demanding and picky than before, which you hadn’t thought was possible. She was constantly demanding nummies, even in the middle of the dark times when you were trying to sleep and the scary hoohoo birdy-munstas were hunting. And none of the nummies you brought back were ever good enough. Grassies? She threw a fit. Flowers? She threw a fit. Berries? She’d gobble them down, then throw a fit. Nuts? She threw a fit. Human nummies? If you got them from the trashies, she somehow always knew and would throw a fit. If they were fresh, she’d eat them, but then grumble and complain that they weren’t good enough. She kept demanding skettis; you’d never had skettis, never seen skettis, and while the word made your mouth water and crave something delicious, you had no idea where to find any. Every time you explained this to her, she threw another fit, screaming, waving her leggies, calling you names, and making sorry poopies that you had to clean up.
By the time the babies came, you were frazzled, tired, and irritable, but you were happy the babies were finally here. Becky didn’t seem to understand the babies were coming, even after you explained it to her, and kept screaming that she had big poopies and you had to clean it up so the den wouldn’t be nu smeww pwetty.
But her babies came, and halfway through the process she eventually copped to the idea. Then she smacked you with a hoofsie, called you a dummy, and said you should have told her. You DID! Multiple times!
You were starting to think maybe smarty had been right for once, and human fluffies were trouble. Becky was a lot like smarty had been.
You carefully counted the babies. One… two… three… four… you had to stop and think about what came after four, but eventually you decided it was five. You had five babies! Three fillies, and two colts. The colts were blue and black, and the fillies were orange, pink, and yellow. All were earthie babies, like their mummah and daddeh.
Becky didn’t like giving the babies miwkies; she said it was dirty. But she grudgingly gave them miwkies, and when she got tired of the novelty of feeding the babies and refused to give them miwkies so often, you had to step in. Gently, but firmly, you explained to her that the babies needed miwkies or they would get bad tummeh owies and have longest sleepies. She grudgingly gave them miwkies, but you had to explain it to her every time the babies got hungry, and she always grumbled and called you names under her breath.
Once the babies were big enough to open their eyes and sort of crawl around a little, she took more of an interest in them and wanted to play, giving them upsies and playing with them like they were balls. You told her how fragile babies were and that it wasn’t good to play with them like that, but she just called you names and kept doing it. She rolled one baby too roughly though, and it screeched in distress and you put your foot down, literally. Stomped the floor of the den and yelled at Becky that she was being a bad mummah. She screamed and threw a fit, calling you names and hitting you and screaming and flailing some more, doing a lot of incidental damage to the nestie, but you ignored her the best you could and checked to make sure the baby wasn’t hurt too badly; it was more scared than hurt, so you gave it huggies, put it with the rest of the babies, and confronted Becky.
You really let her have it. Told her she was a bad mummah and a selfish, meanie mare who didn’t appreciate what you did for her. Amazingly, she threw an even bigger fit, which you didn’t think was possible. You wanted to just leave and spend some time alone while she tired herself out, but you were afraid she might accidentally hurt the babies while she threw her fit. You curled up in a ball around the babies to protect them and absorbed a number of blows from Becky whenever she remembered you were in the den, then tried to calm the babies while she rampaged through the nestie and kicked gouges out of the soft earthen walls of the den. She eventually finished her fit and flopped down to sleep. You put the babies on her miwkie places, glad you wouldn’t have to listen to her call them “diwty babbehs” for wanting to nurse and sully her precious miwkie places, and slowly went to work rebuilding the nestie. You had to pull out some more of your fluff to repair it and make it warm and soft enough for the babies. Exhausted and emotionally spent, you left the den and slept under the bushie hiding it.
You didn’t really like Becky anymore. She was a bad mummah, and she was as selfish and mean as smarty. It was a mistake to make her your special friend. Actually… she never called you special friend. Not once. You were always Rock, fluffy, or dummy to her. Usually dummy. Almost never Rock. Like she couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.
You had bad heart hurties that dark time.
The next bright time, you returned to the den with nummies; you spent a lot of time and effort finding only the bestest nummies, bringing back some fresh human nummies you found by the big thing they sat on, some berries, and some tender clover. Becky grumbled that you took too long bringing her nummies and that they weren’t any good, but she ate them. She wasn’t finding her own nummies, so she’d better learn to appreciate what you brought her. You’d hoped finding extra good nummies would improve her mood, but she stayed grumpy all day.
The babies were starting to get big now. None of them were talkie babies yet, but they were all growing in their manes and tails. The pink filly, you’d noticed, had little stubby leggies. You didn’t think that was right, she had to be a dummy baby because short leggies made it harder to run, play, and find nummies. But she smelled right, and Becky said she smelled right too. Her tail and chestie bib got poofier like her mummah’s, and Becky said she was the bestest baby. You had to admit, she WAS the prettiest baby, but those short leggies… well, her mummah said she wasn’t a dummy and was, in fact, the bestest baby, so you accepted that. Who would know better than her own mummah, right?
But then Becky did something that made your heart sink again. She called the other babies dummies and said they were no good. Only the bestest baby could get milk; the other babies were dirty dummies. You explained to her that the other babies were perfectly fine; they were good babies. She ignored you and kept playing with the prettiest baby. You explained the babies needed miwkies to grow up big and strong like their mummah and daddeh. She ignored you. You explained they would all have worstest tummeh owies if she didn’t give them miwkies. She batted one of the babies away when it tried to get miwkies and yelled at it.
You snapped. You bopped her on the nosie, hard, and shouted at her not to hurt her good babies. You expected her to flinch and huuhuu and ask why you’d hurt her and what she’d done wrong.
That’s what you expected, but not what you got. She shrieked in rage and attacked you, viciously tearing your fluff out with her teefies, hitting you with her hoofsies, and screamed the meanest things at you. You were dirty, she said. You didn’t smell pretty, she said. You were ugly and dummy. You made a terrible housie and terrible beddie and brought her terrible nummies and you were dummy, dummy, dummy. You were much bigger and tougher than her, you could have fought back and won, but you didn’t want to hurt her; you weren’t a meanie like she was, and your babies needed their mummah.
So you ran away. You left her in the den, spitting, screaming, and throwing a fit, and hid under a nearby bushie. You came back after it got quiet and checked on the babies. Becky was curled up in the nestie, sleeping, hugging the prettiest pink baby to her. The other babies were all huddled in a corner, trying to stay warm with no nestie, and peeping hungrily. They were scared. One filly had a swollen eye and you knew instantly that Becky had swatted her away from her miwkie places, hard. You gently lifted your babies one at a time and put them on Becky’s miwkie places so they could get some miwkies, and after they finished they all snuggled into her fluff and went to sleep.
Tired and hurt, you left the den again and laid under the bushie, wondering what to do. You didn’t like Becky anymore, and didn’t want to be her special friend. But your babies needed you. Becky was being a meanie to them, and if you didn’t bring her nummies then she wouldn’t have any miwkies to feed them. It was terrible, but you had no other choice but to stay until the babies were old enough to leave their mummah. You sighed and laid your head down for a nap.
Now, today, it all comes to a head.
You wake up with the feeling you hadn’t gotten to rest for very long, and hear Becky screaming. You run into the den and find her screeching and stomping her hoofsies at the ‘bad babbehs’, who are once again huddled in the corner and crying. They weren’t good enough to get miwkies and huggies from her anymore, only the bestest baby. Who, you notice, was alone in the nestie and crying because its angry mother was scaring it as much as its siblings. You grit your teeth and move to intervene, when your eyes widen in horror; Becky is turning to give the babies sorry poopies.
You leap to cover your babies just in time; you’re completely covered in sorry poopies, but your babies are safe and none of it gets on them. Becky turns and sees you and starts screaming at you again.
You stand up slowly. You’re so angry, that you’re calm. You have no idea how that works, it just is. You very calmly tell Becky to shut up. When she doesn’t listen, you smack her across the face as hard as you can. She crashes to the ground and gapes at you in shock. Then, just as calmly, you explain to her that she is a bad mummah, the worstest mummah, and that you’re not going to tolerate her poopies any longer. She stammers, but doesn’t yell or hit you; she knows how angry you are, and is suddenly afraid. You push the babies to her miwkie places and stand over her, raising a hoofsie to strike her every time she opens her mouth to yell at them or tries to kick them away. Once the babies finish, you carefully tuck them into the nestie with her and growl a warning that she’d better behave. She nods.
“F-f-fwuffy unnerstan! Fwuffy be gud! Nu huwt babbehs ow yeww at dem!”
Better. Maybe you’ll just have to be tough with her to get her to behave. You snort in disgust and crawl out of the den, moving far away and rolling around in the dirt and leaves to get the sorry poopies off of you. It only works a little, so out of desperation you go to the big wawa, find a spot that only comes up to your hoofsies, and, trembling in fear that the bad wawa will get you, you roll around in it to wash the poopies from your fluff. It works better than the dirt and leaves, and soon the bright sky ball has scared the wawa from your fluff and you’re clean and dry again.
You return to the den and pause at the entrance, listening; Becky is talking to someone.
“Dummeh fewaw fwuffy! Becky du wat wan! Becky nu wan dummeh babbehs, onwy pwettiest, bestest babbeh! Diwty, ugwy, dummeh babbehs gu way! Nu miwkies fow yoo!”
Angry, you stomp into the den and spot your four babies huddled in a little fluff pile, chirping in distress. Becky has her back to them and is carefully grooming the pretty pink poofy baby with her tongue, grinning smugly.
You bop her over the head, taking her by surprise, and scream at her again. Then you force her down onto her side and make her feed all the babies again; the pink baby goes last. You don’t want to be mean to it, but your other babies need more miwkies to make up for their mummah depriving them. Once all five have drunk their fill, you let Becky up and she starts screaming and flailing angrily at you. You’re not putting up with this. Not today. You smack her across the face as hard as you can and leave the den. She screams at you to never come back and that she hopes you take longest sleepies. Whatever.
You keep walking for a long time, grumbling angrily to yourself. You’re convinced now that, for once in his stupid life, smarty was right about human fluffies: they’re nothing but trouble. You know for certain now that you don’t like Becky and definitely don’t want to be her special friend anymore. But… you love your babies. You have to make sure they grow up big and strong. And Becky is fucking it all up for you. You’re not sure what to do anymore.
You keep walking until you hear another fluffy huuhuuing. You don’t notice at first, being absorbed in your anger and resentment, but eventually you take notice and perk your ears up. Who’s crying? Where is it coming from?
You slink along stealthily until you get near the source of the crying and peek your head out from behind a tree. There’s a pretty blue mare with a dusty grey mane and tail laying in the leaves and huuhuuing to herself.
“Why fwuffy am cwyin?”
She jumps at the sound of your voice, but you step out from behind the tree and sit down, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. She sniffles and lays back down.
“Muh, muh… mum babbehs! Huuhuuhuuu!”
“Whu- yoo babbehs? Whewe babbehs?”
“Smawty gif babbehs wongest sweepies! Pechow fwen gif Dusty pechow huggies and make babbehs, but smawty say babbehs bad! Say aww hewd babbehs haf tu be smawty babbehs! Huuuu! Den he gif babbehs wongest sweepies! Huuhuuhuuu! Smawty twy gif bad pechow huggies tu Dusty, su Dusty wun way! Huuuuhuuu! Wan babbehs back! Huuu… haf bad heawt huwties, miwkie pwaces haf owies cus babbehs nu… nu… WAAAAAAH! Huuhuuuhuuuuuuu!”
You slowly approach and gently give her huggies to make her feel better. Dusty babbles to you about her problems, and you decide you like Dusty. She’s a good fluffy. She would have been a good mummah, if her smarty hadn’t given her babies longest sleepies. She smells nice too. Maybe…
“Dusty wan be Wock’s speshuw fwend?”
Her eyes get big and she leans away from you; you hastily explain that you don’t want special huggies right now and she relaxes again.
“Dusty haf miwkies, but nu haf babbehs. Wock… Wock haf babbehs dat nee nyu mummah. Nee miwkies. Maybe… maybe Dusty be Wock speshuw fwend and gif miwkies tu babbehs?”
“Babbehs? Dusty haf babbehs agin?”
“Yus! Dusty and Wock be speshuw fwends, and Dusty be mummah fow Wock’s babbehs!”
“Otay!”
She gets excited and hugs you. Then she frowns.
“Nu haf safe pwace fow babbehs.”
“Dat otay, Wock make safe pwace!”
With renewed vigor, you find an excellent bushie that will provide good shelter from sky wawa and hide the den from munstas, and start digging a new den. To your astonished pleasure, Dusty joins you in digging. The work goes much faster with two fluffies digging, and soon you have a den even bigger and nicer than the one you made for Becky, with the floor stomped smooth and flat. The two of you race each other to find leaves, dry grassies, feathers, and other materials to build a nestie with, giggling and hugging each time you cross paths, and soon you have a nice, big nestie just as good as the one you built for Becky. Then you start pulling out your fluff to line the nestie so it’s soft and warm, and Dusty joins you, lining the nestie with great big clumps of her own blue fluff. There! You’re done. You both look at your handiwork proudly and hug each other. You really like Dusty now. She’s already a better special friend and mummah than Becky ever was.
“Dusty fine nummies fow den, Wock gun get babbehs!”
“Otay! Be cawefuw, fwen!”
You pause, feeling a fluttering in your chestie. Becky never called you friend, or told you to be careful when you left the den. You hurry off to your old den, proud of yourself. You have a better special friend now, a better den, and now your babies will be safe and happy!
You wiggle under the bush and crawl into the den. Becky wakes with a start, shouting, “Eeeh! Munsta! Nu huwt fwuffy! Take babbehs, dey bad!”
Your anger flares and you disgustedly tell her, “Nu am munsta, am Wock!”
“Oh. YOO. Whu yoo wan? Yoo bwing nummies fow Becky?”
“Nu. Cum fow babbehs.”
You find the four babies that Becky has rejected shivering in the corner again, chirping for miwkies and covered in flecks of poopies. The evidence on the ground and wall suggests she tried to give them sorry poopies, but only spattered them with a little. You growl, then hug your babies, coo reassuringly, and put them on your back. They snuggle into your fluff, glad for the warmth and attention, but still cheeping for miwkies. You turn to leave.
“Whu yoo doin wif babbehs?”
“Wock take babbehs.”
“NUUUUU! NU TAKE BABBEHS!”
You roll your eyes and spit at her, causing her to sputter in indignation and rear back, glaring at you with the craziest eyes you’ve ever seen.
“Whu yoo cawe, dummeh? Yoo bad mummah, yoo huwt babbehs, nu gif miwkies, wet dem get wowstest tummeh owies. Yoo nu wan babbehs, su Wock take dem.”
“NU! DEY NU YOO BABBEHS! YOO GIF BABBEHS BACK!”
“Wock am babbehs daddeh; dey AM muh babbehs! Yoo nu wan, so Wock take.”
You turn to leave again, babies chirping in distress at the angry shouting.
“NUUUUUUUU!”
Becky tackles you from behind, surprising you, and you fall, spilling babies everywhere. Becky starts stomping you repeatedly, screeching names at you, and you try to get up but can’t; her assault is too surprising and overwhelming. Then she looks down and sees that one of your babies has latched onto her miwkie pwace and is nursing. Screeching in rage, she smacks it with her hoofsie as hard as she can and the baby flies across the den, hitting the wall and slumping down. It isn’t moving.
You are a being of pure rage. You leap to your feet and tackle her, biting her throat as hard as you can, shaking your head and drawing booboo juice with your teefies, punching and kicking with all four hoofsies while she screams and writhes in your grasp. You don’t keep it up for very long though; she sprays scaredy poopies all over the den and you get off of her, repulsed by the smell. She curls up and huuhuus pathetically, and you run to check your baby.
Oh, thank goodness! It isn’t badly hurt, just had the wind knocked out of it; it’s already beginning to cry and cheep for huggies. The other three are also chirping, though not as urgently. You gather them all together and tell them, “Nu wowwy babbehs, it otay; daddeh be back suun, daddeh haf tu take cawe of sumfin.”
Then you turn to where Becky is laying on her back, kicking her hoofsies, and throwing another tantrum. You purposefully approach her, place both front hoofsies on her throat, and begin pressing down, hard. Her eyes and mouth shoot open wide, and she makes gagging noises.
“Wh-wh-why?! Huuu… Why huwt Becky?!”
“Because,” you reply, each word dripping with hate. “Yoo. Am. BAD. Fwuffy.”
You lean into her with all your weight, squeezing her throat shut. She scrabbles her weggies, trying to get away from you, but you’re too big and heavy. She gasps for air and bats at your face with her hoofsies, but you ignore the blows. Her hits get weaker and weaker, and finally, with one last spray of poopies, she expires and falls limp. You continue pressing for a while longer, just to make sure she’s really taking the longest sleepies. Then you sit back and stare at her, stare at what you’ve done.
You’ve given her longest sleepies. On purpose. Your special friend. Your babies mummah. She’s gone now, because of you.
GOOD.
You turn and gather your babies, rejected by their mummah, and put them on your back. A quiet chirp behind you makes you turn.
The pink, poofy baby is in the nestie, next to its mummah. It’s chirping sadly and nudging her with its nosie, trying to get her to move. The angry feeling in your chestie softens.
It’s not the baby’s fault. It’s a good baby, just like the others. It doesn’t deserve to be left here alone. You were originally going to leave it with Becky and just take the others, but now Becky is sleeping forever. You gently pick up your prettiest baby and put it on your back with the others, then leave the den for the last time, never looking back.
Dusty loves your babies, all five of them. She doesn’t have a favorite and they all get the same miwkies and attention from her. She plays with them gently like a mummah should, and she always thanks you when you bring her nummies, even if it’s just grassies. She’s a good mummah, and she’s a good special friend. When the babies are big enough they don’t need miwkies anymore, she wants you to give her special huggies so she can have more of your babies. You relax in the nice den the two of you built and snuggle up with your babies and special friend.
You’ve earned this.
All she do is NAG!