You’re Rock. You’re a red and brown fluffy stallion.
And you’re exhausted. Physically and emotionally, you’re exhausted.
You can’t go any further. The crippled stallion on your back is too heavy. You look up at the darkening sky through the trees, hearing and feeling the wind roaring around you and rustling the leaves. You need shelter. Fast.
But you’re too tired. You can’t keep going. You won’t be able to find shelter, and you certainly won’t have time to dig a den, even if you weren’t so worn out.
Miserable and certain you’re failing your family once again, you look for the nearest bush to hide under. You flop the crippled stallion off your back, ignore his complaints while you pause to catch your breath, then shove him under the bush as far as you can get him. Then you crawl under to join him, and Dusty and the babies follow.
All three big fluffies huddle together in a fluff pile, with the four babies underneath for protection. The first drops of sky wawa begin hitting the ground and you hope it stays dry under the bush.
It doesn’t.
You do your best to offer comfort to Dusty and your babies as they shiver from the cold wawa soaking their fluff, reassuring them every time the sky lights up and makes loud, scary noises that shake the ground and rumble in your chestie. The nameless stallion says nothing; somehow, he’s sleeping through all of this.
You’ve tried so hard to be a good daddeh for your family, but it always ends in disaster.
At least while the sky wawa is falling, nobody can see your tears.
You wake up and the sun is shining right in your eyes. You’re cold, you ache everywhere, you’re still wet, and you don’t feel very well. You stand up and moan in misery as every joint in your body hurts and your tired muscles stiffen. You blink and look around.
Dusty is awake and giving miwkies to one of the babies. She looks tired. The other three babies are still asleep, the pink and blue ones huddled together, the yellow filly hugged up against the stallion.
For a second, you think the stallion is dead and you wonder how you’re going to dispose of his body before it starts smelling and attracting monsters, but then he takes a rattling breath. Concerned, you nudge him with a hoofsie. He doesn’t respond, but he does take another wheezing, rattling breath. You stick your nosie against his forehead and he feels hot. Does he have sickies? You hope not.
Aching and sore all over, you trudge out from under the bush in search of nummies. There isn’t much, besides grassies; your sopping wet fluff doesn’t hold nummies very well, but you bring back what you can and distribute it to Dusty and the babies. Dusty is out of miwkies now, and the babies have to make do with grassies. None of them complain, they’re too tired and miserable.
You flop down beside the stallion and sigh. You nibbled on some grassies while gathering nummies for your family, but you don’t feel very hungry. You don’t feel well at all.
The stallion is still breathing slowly and making that disturbing, rattling wheez. You nudge him with your hoofsie again, harder this time, and he still doesn’t respond. You feel his head with your nosie again and he feels HOT.
He is sickies.
You ponder what to do, but only one option comes to mind. You don’t like it. You don’t like it all.
But it might be the only thing that can save your new friend.
“Dusty, yoo an babbehs stay hewe.”
“Whewe Wock gu?”
“Fwuffy haf bad sickies, nee hewp. Wock take fwuffy tu hoomins. Mebbe dey use dey magic tu hewp fwuffy.”
“Dusty an babbehs cum too!”
“Nu! Too dangewous! Mebbe nicey hoomins, mebbe munstas. Famiwy stay hewe.”
Dusty whines and the babies look scared, the pink one starting to cry.
“Dusty an babbehs cum too! Wan be wif Wock!”
“NU!” you stomp a hoofsie for emphasis, laying down the law. You’re not going to risk your family, not again. Hoomins are too dangerous and unpredictable. You never know when they might decide to hurt you or give you forever sleepies just on a whim, and like the one who killed the stallion’s babies, they might just be pretending to be nice to lure you in so they can do horrible things. You’re not going to risk your family; you can’t save them if the hoomins turn out to be munstas.
Dusty hugs all four babies to her and cries; you hug each member of your family in turn, then moan as your protesting muscles give you hurties while you heft the nu-wakies stallion onto your back.
You trudge on, tracing your route back to the hoomins, and don’t look back at your family under the bush. You can’t.
You don’t want them to see how scared you are. You have to be strong for them, even if this is the last time they ever see you.
You’re Gene, tired old man. You’re puttering around in the back yard, fixing the place up. Your wife insisted that you get things ready in case the fluffies come back. As paranoid and traumatized as they were, you’re convinced they won’t be, but you do it anyway, just to make her happy. Besides, maybe they’ll surprise you and come back after all.
You straighten up and wipe the sweat from your brow.
“Hoo! Man, it’s humid!”
And how, what with that big thunderstorm dumping so much water all of yesterday afternoon and late into the night. You pop your bad knee and trudge back toward the house, dusting your hands off.
You glance at the gate, left open in case the fluffies come back, and it’s a good thing you did.
Right outside the gate is the big red stallion, sprawled out unconscious, his crippled friend still on his back, also out cold. Both are soaking wet and you feel their foreheads through the damp fluff; they’re burning up with fever. You look around for the others and don’t see them, hope they didn’t get swept away by a flash flood of rain water pouring down the hill.
Ignoring the damp soaking through your shirt, you pick up both fluffies in one arm and dial the vet with the other.
“Louise! Louise, come quick! Hey Sam, it’s Gene. Yeah, Baxter’s owner. Listen, I’ve got some sick fluffies and one of them got beat up pretty bad, do you still make house calls? I’ll give you an extra twenty bucks. Ok, thanks.”
Your wife opens the back door just as you reach it and gasps in shock at the sight of the two limp fluffies in your arm.
“Oh, those poor babies! Bring them inside, quick! Where are the others?”
“Dunno, found these two collapsed by the gate. They’re burning up. I called the vet, he’s on his way. Grab some towels and dry them off, and fill the hot water bottle. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
Your wife immediately sets to fussing over the two fluffies, both still out cold, and you putter around, feeling useless now. Sam shows up with his old-fashioned doctor’s bag and immediately goes to work on the two fluffies.
“Geez, are these ferals?”
“No, uh, they got loose, been lost for a couple days. They got caught in the rain storm last night and I found them at the back fence. Got a couple more, but they haven’t come back yet.”
“This one looks like he’s been hit with a baseball bat or a car or something.”
“Yeah, he’s a rescue fluffy, got him the day before they all got loose. Listen Sam, you can fix 'em up, right?”
“I dunno, this one’s really iffy. The red one should be ok though. Bring me some light, I need to work.”
Louise takes the role of nurse and you, feeling useless once again, step out into the backyard to watch in case the others show up.
Two hours later, a blue and dusty grey fluffy with a nearly full grown pink foal on her back and three others following behind her shows up at the gate, begging you not to hurt her babies and asking if you’ve seen Rock, the red fluffy.
You dry them all off with a towel, show them the large dog house with awning that used to be Baxter’s, and Maybelle’s before him, and put a hot bowl of spaghetti down for them. They all eat eagerly, and you inform them that both stallions are in the house and not to worry, because a special fluffy doctor is fixing their owies and sickies. You even remember to dumb it down for them and use fluffy euphemisms so they understand what you’re saying. All the fluff speak Baxter and Maybelle used is coming back to you now.
Having reassured them as best as you can, you go back inside and inform Louise that the others have shown up and appear healthy, then you wrap Rock up in a small blanket. The sleeping stallion woke briefly, right after the vet gave him a shot of antibiotics and vitamins, weakly begged you to save his friend, then passed out again. You carry him outside to join his family and they all hug him and make huuhuu noises when he won’t wake up.
“Shhh, he needs to rest! He’s very sick and needs nappies. He’ll be ok, don’t worry.”
“Whewe fwuffy?”
“He’s, uh, he’s still getting huggies from the fluffy doctor so he gets better. Don’t worry.”
You set some kibble and water out in case they need more food and head inside, refusing to look at your kitchen counter where the vet has the nameless stallion ‘in surgery’, trying to reset bones that had been badly broken and then healed poorly.
“You sure he’s strong enough for surgery, Sam? What with being sick and all?”
"It’s now or never. Either one will probably kill him, but maybe if I fix him up now he’ll survive long enough to get better. He’s gonna be a permanent cripple either way, but at least this way he has a chance of a somewhat normal life.
You nod your head and trudge through the house, wincing as your knee stiffens then pops, and retrieve something from a hiding place next to the mantle while Louise is preoccupied. Then you walk out onto the front porch and dig the battered brass Zippo lighter from your pocket and flick it.
You gave up smoking years ago, but you still have a cigarette every now and then to take the stress off. This one is stale, over a year old, but you need it now more than ever.
You’re Rock. You feel very sore and tired, but you feel better than you did when you first woke up a few days ago. The hoomins have been giving you nummies, wawa, and something called med-sin to make you get better. You didn’t trust them at first and especially not the nasty tasting med-sin, but you have to admit you are feeling better.
Dusty and the babies are looking better than ever. You were upset with Dusty for bringing the babies here after you told them to stay put, but you’re not going to fight with her over it; so far, it looks like she made the right decision. The hoomins gave you all “baffies”, which were not fun, but you all felt and smelt much cleaner and prettier afterward. Dusty’s blue fluff is sleeker and glossier than you’ve ever seen it, and her dusty grey mane and tail have little sparkly silver flecks in them you never noticed before. The babies are all clean and pretty too, and the pink one seems especially fond of something called “brushies” that makes her extra poofy fluff even poofier.
You’re all eating better than you ever have too. The nummies are odd, but tasty.
Your nameless stallion friend was finally brought outside today. He’d had the worstest sickies, even worse than you, but the doctor hoomin made him better. He’s confused and doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on, but Dusty and your yellow baby have been giving him nummies since he has some sort of white not-fluff wrapped around his hind leggies and his middle and can’t move. The hoomins say he’ll get better too.
Over all, your family is better off than it’s ever been. You have a little housie that provides better shelter than any den you dug and is more comfortable, you have as much nummies as you want and they’re all good, and your sickies are getting better. The hoomins even left the gate open so you don’t feel trapped here.
You keep waiting for them to reveal that they’re horrible monsters who want to bite the heads off your babies.
But it never happens.
After a while, you feel all better again, and the stallion is aware of what’s happening and says things that make sense. He even entertains the babies by telling them stories again. Your babies are all grown up now, big fluffies like you, though occasionally Dusty still has to push the blue colt away from her miwkie pwaces. Your family has never been better off than they are right now. You’re even grudgingly admitting that the hoomins aren’t monsters and are actually quite nice.
And you’ve never felt more useless.
You protected your family from monsters; now the hoomins do that. You dug a safe place for your family to live in; the hoomins gave you a better one. You worked hard to bring the best nummies for your family; the hoomins just give it to you and it sits right there next to your housie. You don’t even have to look for it or take it anywhere.
What good are you, then?
Days turn into weeks. The stallion is named Book by the hoomins because of his storytelling; once they explained the concept to him, he liked the name and was Book ever since.
Your yellow filly, now named Lemon (she tried numming a lemon and didn’t like it, but she thought they were pretty and liked the name.), approached you with Book limping along behind her and announced that she liked Book and wanted to be special friends with him. Book at least had the decency to look embarrassed. You and Dusty approved and got squeals and hugs from Lemon and more hugs from a still-embarrassed Book.
Your black colt was named Rascal and went to live with Gene and Louise’s oldest baby, who was a full grown hoomin. You were upset at first, but you had gotten to visit the hoomins a few times and eventually grudgingly agreed to let them give Rascal a new home, which Rascal was pleased about. He had a special friend named Twizzler and had babies of his own now. You got to visit them once for something called “fanks gifink” and they all seemed happy and healthy. You especially liked playing with the babies; one little colt even looked like you, but with wingies.
Your blue colt was named Baxter, which seemed to hold some significance to the hoomins that you didn’t understand. He went to live with another of Gene and Louise’s babies, a nice lady who gave him lots of toys to play with. He didn’t have a special friend, but he was best friends with a hoomin baby named Bryan and they played together all the time; you got to see him at “fanks gifink” too.
Your pink filly was named Maybelle and she went to live with a friend of Gene and Louise. She was very happy there and went to something called “shows” where she did tricks and showed off how pretty she was while hoomins clapped and gave her treats. She was very proud of herself when she told you all about it at fanks gifink and though you didn’t really understand what it was, you were proud of her too.
Dusty was happy too, living in the yard, but you could tell she was still not quite satisfied. Maybe she felt the way you did: useless and unfulfilled.
You’re Gene. You’re standing in the kitchen pouring yourself a mug of coffee and enjoying the morning. You’ve had your new fluffies for a couple months now, and they all seem healthy and happy. Book can only limp around for short periods of time with his crippled legs and would never survive in the wild, but he gets around the yard well enough on his own. Louise was reluctant to let him go, feeling sorry for ‘the poor dear’, so he’s a permanent resident. You originally intended to give Lemon to your youngest son as a gift for your granddaughters, but it seems she and Book have become an item and you’re not such a heartless jerk that you’d break them apart.
Speaking of which, Book is apparently giving Lemon special huggies, possibly for the first time. With his back legs as messed up as they are, he would have serious difficulty mounting her and staying there long enough to do the deed, but Rock seems to be… assisting. He has Book’s mane clenched in his teeth and is bracing his body in place with his forelegs while Book goes to town on Lemon.
Well, fluffies really don’t think of sex the same way humans do, and Rock is seriously dedicated to his family, so you guess that’s how it goes. Lemon wants babies, she’s gonna get babies, even if her daddy has to help.
You shuffle into the living room to give Louise the news; she wanted to keep the damn fluffies and not get any of them fixed, so she can find new homes for all the foals when they’re weaned. Starting right now.
You’re Rock. And you can’t take being a domestic fluffy any longer. You can’t be useless any longer. You’re a protector, a provider, and this easy life is slowly killing you inside.
You discuss it with Dusty and while she likes it here, she just isn’t cut out as a pet either. Decision made, you inform Lemon and Book and they hug you both goodbye; Lemon’s belly is getting big and she’s a soon-mummah now. You’re so proud of her.
You and Dusty stuff each other’s fluff with as much nummies as you can carry, then you carefully wad up the blankie you’ve been sleeping on and balance it across your back. Dusty follows you to the gate, still standing open, and you pause and look back.
Gene is standing at the porch and he waves goodbye. He knows you’re leaving, probably even knows why. You wave back; for a hoomin, he’s pretty good. You even like him a little. You’re certainly grateful for all that he’s done for you. And of course, you can always come back if you decide to later. But for now…
You’re Gene. You spot Rock and Dusty, loaded down with kibble and their little blanket they sleep in, heading for the gate and know they won’t be coming back. You understand. Rock pauses and then looks back at you and you sadly wave goodbye to him. He waves back. Dusty waves too, then waves again to Lemon and Book. Then the two fluffies head off into the howling wilderness once more, to survive or perish on their own terms.
You know you probably will never see them again, but you leave the gate open. Just in case.
Epilogue:
You’re Rock. You’re a red fluffy stallion with brown mane and tail. You live in a very nice den you and your special friend Dusty dug under a prickly bush, then lined with fluff you both pulled out with your teeth and a blankie you took from the hoomins. Dusty’s swollen belly is getting very big with tummeh babies, which she’s happily singing to as you deposit another load of tasty nummies into the den. It’s been getting colder lately, but you’ve survived the cold times before and you have more than enough nummies to see it through. You smile and nuzzle your forehead against hers and hug her, feeling the tummeh babies move inside of her. Soon. You’re going to be a daddeh again soon.
You exit the den and start gathering more nummies, putting them in a stockpile in a hidden second den that you dug for emergencies. If you ever have to abandon your current den for any reason, now you’ll have a safe place and nummies waiting for you; you’ve learned since losing your den to monsters twice.
You emerge from the back up den and blink in surprise as you see a scrawny yellow unicorn puff his cheeks and stomp his hoofsies. He’s backed up by a couple other fluffies, all of them just as skinny and weak. None of them is even half your size, or half as well fed.
“Dummeh fwuffy! Dis smawty wand nao! Yoo gif dose nummies tu smawty ow get bigges owies!”
You grin as you rear back and smack him across the face with one hoofsie hard enough to send his teefies flying.
It’s good to be the strong provider and protector again.
he had been through enough no moree huhuhuhu