You’re Billy Orson, fluffy breeder.
Today’s gone well, so far. You’ve sold nearly all of your weaned foals, and another batch will be weaned and ready for sale by the end of the week. Susie (named after the brown-eyed susan flower, since her eyes were brown and her colors matched the flower fairly well) has already started pushing her foals away from her teats and fussing at them for not eating solid food. Any time you’ve got teething foals, you give the mother her usual kibble and stick in a bowl of greens, fresh fruit, and shelled sunflower seeds for the foals so they get a start on soft, tender food that will be gentle on their mouths. Gradually they get more and more kibble, mainly so they get used to it since most owners will feed them nothing but kibble, but you use the Foal Chow approved of by Hasbio (only after doing the research to be sure it really was the best thing for young foals) since it’s softer than regular kibble, comes in smaller pieces, and has the extra nutrition they need to continue growing without all the filler crap regular kibble had. In fact, you never feed your fluffies regular kibble. Most of what’s in it has no nutritional value, is full of stuff that causes their legendary shits, and at least one local brand actually consists of old newspaper mixed with corn meal and rice flour. Yeah, nutritionally fucking adequate your ass.
Donna (you swear it’s short for Primadonna, because she’s such a bitch to you and the other fluffies) has finally given birth. Thank God. Eight of them this time, a big litter. Six are designers, as you’d hoped for, one is a regular earthie with good colors, and the last is an alicorn with a very minor deformity to one wing. You’re not sure, but you think it may have been bent the wrong way during the birth. You’ve been working on it, but you don’t think that even surgery from a professional veterinarian will fix it. Oh well, it seems otherwise healthy and happy, has good colors, and so long as you explain the cause of the messed up wing (which is really only noticeable if you look closely) you should be able to sell him for a good price. Honestly, you’re really surprised you got an alicorn; neither Donna nor Champ, the stud you bred her with, has an alicorn in their pedigree and the odds are 10,000 to 1 that you’ll get an alicorn by accident. It looks like it may end up with the poofy tail and extra fluff of a designer too, though not the stubby legs. So even though you weren’t breeding for them specifically, you got an alicorn. Score.
Of course, Donna, being the stuck up bitch that she is and having been informed by her previous owner (who you suspect sold her to you because it was either that or kill the insufferable twat) that designer foals were the ‘bestest babbehs’, she’s been a cunt to the alicorn and earthie since they were born two days ago. Feeding them last, telling them they’re ugly, ignoring them when they chirp for her, etc. You have to keep reminding her (with a flick to the nose and threats of sorry spray) to be nice to them and take care of them, but so far she hasn’t been outright negligent or abusive, just displaying her usual favoritism. Once, and exactly once, about three litters ago, she screamed at a pegasus foal and smacked it when it tried to nurse before her designer foals had a turn. After a visit from Mr. Sorry Stick and a restraining device that kept her immobile but laying on her side so the foals could access her teats and an attendant mare to help the foals reach them since they were still little, she never made that mistake again. Still, her bitchiness to her own children is irritating; you’re considering just giving the non-designer foals to another mare to raise. Honestly, you should probably do that anyway; it would tone down Donna being such a cunt for a while, and she’s having a hard time feeding that many foals anyway. The issue of milk supply would only get worse as the foals grew bigger. In any case, you’ll move her into the living room with the other nursing mares and their foals once the foals are another day or so older, just to make sure they don’t get injured by bigger, more mobile foals eager to play. She’s staying in the room with the pregnant dams in the meantime.
Speaking of alicorns, you’ve sold all of Bella’s. Each one has a happy new home, and you showed her photos of her foals with their new owners and all the toys and things they had now. It helped a little, but she was still depressed. She spent an awful lot of time doting on the black pegasus filly you let her keep, just hugging it and not letting it out of her sight. You let them outside to play in the fenced in yard twice a week instead of once a week like the other fluffies, but you were careful not to let the others find out for fear of jealousy or accusations of favoritism; you just needed Bella to get out of her funk so you had a happy, healthy alicorn instead of a depressed one that refused to eat or drink. She still wasn’t talking to you, but her mood had improved considerably and she was getting less clingy with her remaining filly now that she was convinced you really would let her keep it.
Of course, you intended to keep that filly as a brood mare once she got older, but she’d get to live with her mother for the rest of her life. And, unlike with Bella, you weren’t going to get too greedy and keep breeding her as often as possible in hopes of getting more alicorns, so she should be as happy and content as the rest of your mares.
And, the best part is, you just bought a white 1970 Dodge Challenger with a 440 in it. Yeah, the car from Vanishing Point.
You’re still holding out for a 1968 Shelby Cobra GT500-KR fastback though. Yeah, and if it isn’t the same color as the Mustang in Bullitt, you’re getting it painted that way.
Yes, business as a high-end fluffy breeder is good.
You head into the garage and check on your newest brood mares. You’ve got three; one is a young filly, fawn tan with a dappled effect and soft gray mane and tail. A lot of breeders, particularly foal mills, decry brown fluffies of any shade and most shades of green as “trash” or “unsellable” because their colors aren’t the most popular. True, they’re not as popular, but you can sell them just the same if they have good personalities, and lots of people like fluffies with more subdued coloration. Lately, there’s even been a surge of interest in fluffies with ‘natural’ colors; the more they look like a ‘real’ animal, the better. This one, named Kitten by her mother, definitely fits the bill and will be a good breeder when she’s another month or so older. She greets you cheerfully as you come in, and you notice she’s made friends with the mare in the cage beside hers. Good.
The next breeding mare is a unicorn, named Snow White. Her fluff is pure white, and her mane and tail are such a pale shade of metallic blue that they look silver unless the light is just right. Unlike Kitten, she’s an experienced brood mare and has birthed and weaned six litters; impeccable pedigree, good marks on all the personality and looks indicators, and there’s every indication that her foals are just as high quality. You bought her at the breeder’s auction from a woman who was retiring from the business before she even went on the block; she’s going to make you some good foals. You’re going to give her a little while longer to acclimatize to her new home and get to know the other mares before you breed her though; probably won’t put her with a stud for another week.
Your last mare is… unique. At least in your stable.
She’s a pillow. Generally, you want nothing to do with pillow fluffies, hate them, hate the people who make them even more, but you made an exception for this one. She’s an eye-searingly bright yellow monochrome designer named Lemondrop; like all bowl cases, she’s a quadruple amputee, plus her tail was removed. State police raided a foal mill for inhumane breeding practices (the state was really cracking down on foal mills lately; partly because that 60 Minutes special on them turned public opinion against the practice, and partly because the government wanted the mills to stop churning out foals by the thousands, because many of the foals ended up getting dumped and were contributing to the feral problem.) and any of their breeders who weren’t put down because of serious physical or mental problems were put up for auction.
Most of the stallions sold, though a few didn’t because they were obvious basket cases, too badly traumatized to be of any value. One poor wreck actually did sell, to a small time breeder who felt sorry for him when he shrieked and cried that he didn’t want to give special huggies and hurties to mares anymore after his cage was brought too close to a brood mare’s. She’d intended to retire him and just keep him as a pet, maybe let him act as overseer for the other fluffies in her stable, but after buying him (nobody else bid on him) he actually begged to be neutered so he wouldn’t have to stud ever again. Wow. You have no idea what the hell they did to him, but it had to be seriously messed up.
Almost none of the mares from the foal mill sold, and any who didn’t sell went to a shelter. It wasn’t a no-kill shelter, and it was basically a guarantee they would be put down. This was yet another mill that decided mares didn’t need legs to crap out litter after litter of foals, though at least they didn’t go so far as to blind them, detongue them, and hook them up to feeding tubes like some of the ones you’ve heard about. They did dock their tails to keep them from shitting all over themselves though.
You wouldn’t have bought Lemondrop, except she’s a designer (and you seriously need another mare to breed designers; you’re planning on getting rid of Donna after this litter is weaned. You’ve had a few offers, even after full disclosure on her behavioral problems, and you’ll probably go for it.) and she’s surprisingly cheerful. She was turned into a pillow as a foal and doesn’t really know what she’s missing, so being immobile doesn’t bother her. She loves foals; they were the light of her life inside the mill, and she didn’t get depressed once they left because she figured any place was better than the mill. You did a little research on what few records the mill kept to see where her foals ended up; the designers were sold to Ray’s Fluffy Emporium, which wasn’t a bad place other than they kept buying foals from mills that ended up having behavioral problems because they were mill fluffies, and the non-designers were sold to the Snake Farm on the edge of town. Customers could pay a dollar per foal to feed one to a snake or alligator. Which was a little fucked up since most were old enough to be aware of their fate and beg for their lives, which you suppose was half the point for the sick fucks doing it. You didn’t inform Lemondrop of this and let her keep believing all her foals were happy in new homes somewhere.
“How ya doing, Lemondrop?”
“Wemondwop doin gud, fank yuu! How time tiww babbehs? Wemondwop weady fow babbehs nao!”
“Maybe in a few more days, sweetie.”
“Otay!”
She went back to humming a cheerful little tune to herself and you moved on to check the other mares and studs; you were probably going to move Lemondrop into the room with the pregnant dams on a permanent basis, so the attendants could help her get to the litter box, reach her food, etc.
As if thinking of the attendant mares was enough to summon them, Betty ran into the garage.
“Daddeh! Daddeh! Bwuebeww haffin babbehs!”
“Ok, thank you sweetie. You guys behave, I’ll be back to let you out for play time in a little while.”
You head into the next room and find Veronica has rolled Bluebell onto a birthing mat and is now hugging her and speaking soothingly. Bluebell is a little blue pegasus, and this is her first litter. You bought her off a friend whose teenage son had let a feral stallion knock her up, then got worried his parents would be angry that she was pregnant, and fed her some toilet bowl cleaner in an effort to abort the foals. Dumbass. Bluebell survived the poisoning attempt and the pregnancy continued, and the friend offered her to you for five bucks. You’re curious to see how the foals will look; probably nothing special, but you should be able to sell them anyway.
Bluebell is crying, Veronica is comforting her and guiding her through the birth process, and Betty is running around trying to shush the other pregnant dams as they loudly offer their own advice on how to be good mummahs. You use some hand sanitizer on yourself, slip on a pair of disposable gloves, and bend down.
“Ok sweetie, it’s allright. I’m here. We’re gonna get those babies out of your tummie and everything will be allright, ok?”
Except everything wasn’t allright. The first foal was stillborn. So was the second. So was the third; it was also a deformed blob, only an ear and a coating of puke green fuzz indicating it was even a foal. The fourth was an abomination; six legs, one massive cyclops eye, a single wing (coming out of its hip), no genitals, no anus… it wouldn’t survive the hour. Dammit. Looks like that kid managed to fuck up the litter with his poisoning attempt after all.
Veronica is trying very hard to stay calm for Bluebell, who hasn’t realized anything is wrong yet, but she’s close to losing her shit. Betty is visibly disturbed too, and all the pregnant dams have fallen silent.
The fifth is alive, but only has one leg, its head is misshapen, and it’s obviously a runt. There’s almost no fuzz on its little body, and its vocalizations are weak and sound… off, somehow. Veronica hugs Bluebell tighter, but says nothing. Betty approaches you, rests one hoof on your thigh, and looks at you sadly. You nod.
Two quick stomps and neither abomination is suffering any longer.
A sixth and final foal slides out, followed by the afterbirth. Veronica passes the afterbirth to Bluebell, who seems confused at first, wrinkles her nose in disgust, then devours it. You look at the sixth foal and sigh.
A runt. No obvious deformities, but it’s clearly a runt from its small size and the fact that it’s barely moving. It gives a single, feeble peep and then falls silent.
Bluebell, exhausted, pants out, “Babbehs? Whewe babbehs?”
“You only have one baby, sweetie. Here.”
You set the runt in front of her and scoop up the rest of the litter, dumping them in a trash bag. Bluebell sniffs the runt, declares it a dummy baby, and then seems indecisive as to whether or not she wants to keep her only foal or reject it. You inform her that it’s her decision; it’s her first baby, after all. It probably won’t live more than a day or two, and she’ll be heartbroken when it’s gone, but there’s no harm letting her keep it.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of pained internal debate and attempting to feed the runt (which just keeps puking up the milk almost as fast as it can drink it), she very deliberately slides the runt away from her with one hoof and turns her back on it, sobbing. You stroke her gently, tell her it’s ok, these things happen and it’s not her fault, and keep her distracted while Betty grinds the runt into paste and slides its remains into the trash bag with its siblings.
You toss the trash bag, clean Bluebell up, and let her stay with the dams and attendants, who all try to console her with stories of their own difficult births. Your fluffies very rarely produce runts or stillbirths thanks to good nutrition, low stress, and good pedigree, but most mares have experienced it at least once in their lives and all are eager to offer comfort to poor Bluebell. Except for Donna, who heckles Bluebell from her cage, calling her a dummy mummah who makes bad babies. You smack the door to Donna’s cage and tell her to shut up, then walk out.
You sigh, toss the gloves in the trash, wash up, and make a note of the failed birth in your records. You’ll give Bluebell a while to recover, both physically and emotionally, then breed her with one of your studs. Then you’ll know for certain that it was a one time thing caused by that little shit feeding her toilet bowl cleaner and not something wrong with herself. If she turns out to produce bad litters, you’ll have her spayed like Betty and Veronica and let her serve as an attendant. Or maybe sell her off as a pet. Whichever you think would be best for her.
Ok, well, today was going pretty good otherwise, and this happened now and then, so you shouldn’t let it get to you. You head to the kitchen and stick a frozen pizza in the oven for lunch, then check the back yard to make sure it’s escape proof and nothing dangerous has gotten into it since yesterday so you can start taking fluffies outside for their weekly trip outdoors. But the second you come back inside…
“SCREEEEEEEEEEE!”
“NUUUUU! NU HUWT BABBEH! BAD FWUFFY! YOO AM VEWY BAD FWUFFY!”
“BAD! YOO AM WOWSTEST MUMMAH! STAWP! STAWP!”
“DADDEH! DADDEH! CUM QUICK! DAAAAAAADDEEEEEEEH!”
“SCREEEEEEEEE!”
You rush back into the room full of dams and see all of them are in a panic. Bluebell is crying uncontrollably in the corner, and both Betty and Veronica are beating their hooves bloody against a cage. Donna’s cage, to be specific.
You shove them both aside and open the cage, trying to find out what the hell is going on.
Oh, fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck me running.
The alicorn foal, only two days old, is mewling and chirping in agony. Donna is looking at you smugly with blood on her lips.
“Dewe. Now babbeh am gud, pwetty babbeh wike bestest babbehs.”
That… that fucking BITCH!
She chewed his wings and horn off. She fucking mutilated her own foal. Yeah, the dollar value for what would have been a pricey alicorn (especially with that poofy designer fluff) just dropped to next to nothing, but that’s not what has you pissed at the moment.
She fucking chewed the wings and horn off of her own baby.
Donna blows you a raspberry, not for any particular reason, just her way of proving she’s still an enormous cunt. She suddenly realizes she fucked up somewhere, though she’s probably not sure just what specifically she did wrong, when you grab her by the throat and pull her out of the cage, gagging and wheezing.
You dump her in a sorry box in the downstairs bathroom and the second she gets her wind back she’s screaming at you for having the audacity to choke her. You punch her in the face, dazing her and bloodying her nose, then shut the lid to the sorry box and close the bathroom door.
You’ve never hit one of your fluffies like that.
But she fucking deserved it.
You scoop up the designer foals and earthie, place them on the carpet in the living room, and designate two mares with only a couple foals as their new mothers. They happily adopt the new babies and take turns picking the ones they want. Soon all the foals are divided out, and both are happily nursing and singing to the new additions to their families.
The mutilated alicorn, writhing and mewling, you carefully wrap in a bandage to stop the worst of the bleeding and to immobilize it for the trip to the vet, then get in the car and drive off.
The vet manages to keep the tiny foal from bleeding to death, which is especially a concern with its horn gnawed off (head wounds bleed heavily to begin with, and a foal’s soft horn, full of nerve endings, gets a lot of blood flowing to it before it gets bigger and harder with age.), cleans up the wounds, and fixes him up as best he can. The poor little guy is going to have to stay in an incubator overnight to make sure he heals properly, and with the level of scarring he’ll have there’s no way you can sell him. His only value will be as a breeder for anyone hoping to get more alicorns, and most breeders willing to buy one this badly scarred aren’t the sort you like to do business with. He’ll live and he should grow up to be otherwise intact and healthy, so you guess you’ll add him to your stable of studs. Poor little guy. Mutilated by his own mother, because of her bullshit attitude and favoritism.
Gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts, you pull into your driveway and then sit there, fuming. Fucking Donna.
You’re certainly not going to keep her now, not after this. And nobody else is going to buy her if they know she chewed up her own foal like that, and since you’re honest and straightforward you have to tell any prospective buyers what she did. No respectable breeder is going to take on a brood mare that mutilates her own foals, especially if you mention that she tried to reject a perfectly good foal before that just because it wasn’t a designer. You really only have one choice now. You’ve never had to do this with any of the fluffies in your stable before, hoped you never would.
You go inside, pause to make sure the mares you gave Donna’s foals to are treating them ok; they’ve swapped a couple foals, but they seem happy now and are encouraging their own foals to call the new ones “bwudda” and “sissie”. Good.
You stick your head in the maternity ward; Bluebell seems to have cheered up somewhat and is hugging Veronica, who is licking her injured hooves. Betty is tending to a damn who needs to use the litter box. Neither attendant seems to have ruptured her hooves with that display of rage at Donna’s bullshit, just cracked them a little. You’ll need to put booties on them while they heal and make sure they don’t do anything too strenuous for a week or so.
Finally, after putting it off for as long as you reasonably can (mostly by taking your pizza out of the oven, just in turn to keep it from burning.), you open the door to the bathroom and open the lid to the sorry box. Donna looks up at you with bloodshot eyes, fluff stained with tears, piss, and shit, and, instead of her usual bluster, says, “Donna sowwy. Pwease wet out uf sowwy bawx. Nu wan sowwy spway.”
“Donna, we are way beyond sorry spray here.”
You slide on a pair of disposable gloves, open up a trash bag, then pull Donna out of the sorry box.
“Donna, do you know what you did wrong?”
“Donna stick tungie out at mista?”
“No. You hurt your baby. You hurt him very badly. You are a bad fluffy. You are a bad mummah. You are the WORST mummah. And now you’re nothing but poopies to me.”
Insulting a fluffy is far more effective when you stoop to its level. Donna looks genuinely hurt for the ten seconds you wait before snapping her neck. Then you drop her in the trash bag and carry it outside to join the failed litter on the curb.
Well, today started out pretty good, anyway. All things considered, it could have been worse. But even the good days can’t be all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, after all.
You go upstairs, drop in a Cheers DVD, and sit down to watch something funny. You need to laugh. Right now you feel like shit.
“Makin’ your way in the world today, takes everything you’ve got. Takin’ a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn’t you like to get away…”
