An early series attempt. I’ll finish it someday.
It’s exhausting to raise a fluffy, let alone a pregnant one. But it’s totally worth it.
Not because it’s fulfilling, mind you. It’s not. You actually kind of resent them. Nothing grand or dramatic, they just strike you as disgusting. You’re insulted by their terrible hygiene juxtaposed with that train wreck they call a vocabulary. They piss you off, so like anyone would do, you torture them in your basement.
Perfectly normal. Surely. It’s not like they’re human.
No you wanted access to newborns. Specifically, you wanted newborns with a good natured mother who trusted you. It’s vitally important for the idea you want to test. See, it’s easy to torment foals in front of a despondent mother. Any sadist can do that.
But what if she thought it was an accident?
Think about it. Fluffies are supposed to trust humans. Like, instinctively. So how much could you do while still convincing her that you were trying to help? How many babbehs would she willingly give over? Where is the line? With people, they’re too complex. You can’t track their motivations. Makes them dangerous. They’ll sniff you out. They’ll know.
They always know.
Fluffies are simple. They’re just complex enough to be interesting to break. Any dumber and it’s just screaming teddy bears. Amy smarter and you’d never get away with it and the little fuckers’d probably get the vote or some shit.
These won’t. Heh.
You’ve been a dutiful father to this fluffy, who you’ve called Meanie. Actually the name thing was part of how you recruited her. Ain’t exactly hard to find pregnant strays in your neighborhood, so you went around offering “new namesies” until you found one who didn’t outright reject having such a bad name, but also didn’t foolishly go along with it.
Margaret was different. It had been her name, not that you’ll admit remembering. All your interactions have been based specifically on gathering information as to how pliable she is. For instance, you want a fluffy who will try to patiently and maturely explain herself rather than just screaming or lacking any awareness of risk and danger.
She’d be a perfect domestic. Whoever kicked her out was an idiot.
Oh well. Your gain. Meanie genuinely seems to think that you need her help. You bumble through basic shit and openly ask her for help so you can pretend to take her advice. She’s not bossy, she’s very patient. She’ll be such a good mummah.
Heh. Heheheheh.
Already you’ve given her proof that you’re unreliable and untrustworthy. You promised to help her when the babbehs came, so right before the moment of truth you “remembered” a blanket you wanted to have ready and said you’d be right back.
“Nu! Daddeh, pwease nu weabe Meanie! Meanie nee’ daddeh hewp! Huuhuuhuuuu daddeh gone!”
You could hear her shouting. You’d only gone around the back of her where she couldn’t see. You couldn’t see her face, but that was all part of the scheme. You waited a minute and finally, “BIGGES’ POOOOOOPIES!”
Plop. Plop plop plop. Six perfect little Carpdime foals. Awesome. You’d been hoping tobat least get 4, this is gravy.
You stroll casually in front of her. “Oh! Are those the babies?” She looks up and gasps. “Daddeh! Pwease hewp Meanie! Suuuuu huwties! Gib babbehs tu mummah! Babbehs chiwpeh an’ cowd! Whewe bwankey?”
“Hmm? Oh right, yeah I don’t know. Set it down or something I guess. Can I pick up a baby?”
She scrunched her face up a bit. Why was daddeh being so calm? He hasn’t even offered huggies?
“Weww, uhh huh, daddeh pwease pick up babbehs an’ bwing-” “Awesome! You’re the best, Meanie.”
You reached out eagerly and plucked up the green colt that looked closest to mummah. Not the SAME shade, but damn close. He was peeping softly and clung to your thumb as he groped around with his mouth looking for miwkies.
Meanie could see him now. Her very first babbeh! And he has pwetty gween fwuff like mummah! But something was wrong. Daddeh wasn’t bringing him over. He’s looking at him with a big smile. Silly daddeh! Babbeh no am toysie!
“Daddeh! Hooway! Hab nyu babbeh? Gib tu mummah fo’ wickie cweanies!”
“Wow Meanie, he’s so tiny. Look at his little hoofsies!” You were deliberately not looking at her at all. Keeping yourself angled so she could see the tiny unicorn in your hand. But she’s trusting and good natured. She’s clearly sure that you just didn’t hear her. “Daddeh? Pwease gib babbeh nao, am tu wittwe fo’ upsies wif daddeh!” Hahaha nope. Sorry. Upsies aren’t what you should worry about.
But if you had any sense if who or what to worry about, you’d have run screaming as soon as you saw me.
You gently felt around his little foot pads. Delicate, sensitive things. Not good for walking yet. About the consistency of a gumdrop.
You gave a light squeeze to his left back hoof. He peeps loudly and makes scaredy poopies in your hand.
“Daddeh? Babbeh scawed? Pwease gib babbeh! Babbeh nee’ mummah!” By now she’d regained the use of her weggies and was undoubtedly regretting having asked you to hand her the babbehs. Oh well, she’s wrangled the other five and is giving bestest licky cleanies. Only the terrified peep of a newborn in pain broke her concentration. “Daddeh gib babbeh! Mummah hewp, daddeh tu biggie!”
Nah. Satisfied with how sensitive the hoofsies are, you decide it’s time to give the baby back and settle things down.
Almost.
First you feel around with your thumb and forefinger and find the ankle joints on his weggies. You offer him your other thumb and he starts suckling, giving you the perfect opportunity to quietly pop his ankles.
You feel him scream and bite down and start thrashing as soon as you pulled. You’d steadied his shinbone and pulled his foot away like you were filling a syringe. You felt a satisfying “plop” as his still growing joint fell apart. Your thumb may as well have been marble as far as his weggies were concerned. He couldn’t hope to free his mouth up. Tears were forming at his tiny closed eyes. You moved on to the next ankle.
Pop.
More thrashing. His little butthole was flexing, trying desperately to expel poopies it didn’t have.
Pop.
Vomit squirted out past your thumb. The pain must be unbearable now. Hell, he might have passed out.
Actually wait. Maybe he is passed out. His eyes are closed anyway.
“Hey Meanie, is this one okay? His eyes aren’t even opening!”
“Nu daddeh, babbeh tu wittwe! See pwaces stiww cwosed!”
“Yeah, that’s right. I think it’s weird too. Hey baby? You in there?” I chuckle as I start to open his left eye. No need to blind the poor kid.
Mom sees what I’m doing. “Nuuuu! Daddeh nu open see pwaces! Babbeh tu wittwe! Am bad fo babbeh! Huwt see pwaces! Nuuuuu!”
“Don’t worry, I’m being careful-oh. Uhhhh…”
“Wha?” She’s only cleaned two of the other five babies but she sets them all down and starts grunting as she waddles over towards me. “Daddeh! Nu touch see pwaces! See pwaces nu fo touchies! Bewy dewicate! Bewy sensitibe!”
You ignore her concern and force the eye open. As the iris is exposed, it dilates. Doesn’t turn cloudy though. Huh. Thought it was supposed to.
You grab the little LED flashlight from your pocket. Light up the little guy’s eye. He starts screech-vomiting bile as you unplug his mouth to keep him from drowning. Finally seeing the eye shrivel and cloud, you put the flashlight back. Then, making sure not to let mummah see (not hard since she’s doing that obnoxious tapping dance with her hooves that she does when she’s scared you’re gonna hurt yourself and it takes a lot of concentration for a fluffy to have a nervous tic), you pop the last ankle. He’s young enough that they should…
Heal doesn’t seem like the right word to use. It’s gonna make for four bad ankles. Learning to walk will be hard for him, especially since Fluffies tend to assume that “feel weggies=weggies okay” so the idea of fully ambulatory legs that he just can’t get steady on will be difficult for her to figure out. Hopefully she thinks it’s her fault. That’s the biggest wrinkle you hadn’t considered. You can’t directly feed her information, so you need to make things really obvious if you want her to pick up an idea. Fluffies being fluffies, they have difficulty with logical steps, let alone leaps.
As one final injustice, you set him down with a small drop onto his mother’s back, ignoring her requests to “put babbeh in mummah moufie, mumma cawwy babbeh.”
She waddles back over to soft nestie on pretty bed where the other babies are. She realizes she can’t reach her back to get babbeh! “Daddeh! Hew…” She stops herself. Good. She’s hesitating to ask for help. She knows you’re unreliable.
“What’s that honey? You need help?”
"N…Nu daddeh! Mummah am just gib wickie cweanies, am otay! ^huuhuuhuuuuu"
You watch at a distance as she tries carefully to roll her baby off her back onto her head. She’s being smart. If she overdoes it and he takes a tumble, he’ll land in a nice loose soft blanket. She’s thought about this. I wonder if that’ll make her feel worse when he can’t walk right? Maybe she’ll think she hurt him here! That would be rich. Tormenting herself believing she’d failed to protect her babbeh simply because she didn’t trust daddeh? Bestest Daddeh? Huuuhuuuhuuu being a mummah is just so hard!
Oh well. That’s for another day. She starts licking babbeh, and quickly calms down as she sees that he’s acting normal like his bruddas and sissies. He is peeping a lot more. Almost like any pressure on his weggies hurts him. “Siwwy babbeh, nu make huhuhus! Mummah hewp babbeh, gib wickie cweanies an’ bestes’ miwkies an’ awwwww da huggies in mummah’s huggie pwaces!” He peeped and cried, drenching himself both in tears and hurtie peepees. “Babbeh am sensitibe babbeh, mummah unnastan. Mummah wittwe bwudda sensitibe. Awways scawedy and huwties. It otay, Babbeh. Mummah wub hew sensitibe wittwe babbeh.” She kissed him sweetly on the head, just above his eye. The one that will never work again. Never see anything or anyone. It worked for a matter of moments, and in those moments it saw only your face and a brilliant light that overwhelms and penetrates. It gazed upon that which it cannot comprehend, and in gazing forsaked ever bearing witness to anything again. That eye had served its purpose. It had already seen your might and power. What more was left to see? You leave the room, chuckling to yourself.
What’s a good excuse to ruin one of their poopy places? Eh, I’m sure you’ll think of one.