You wake up before the shiny ball makes bright times. You want to sleep soooo badly, but the chirpy wingy baby is crying.
“CHIRP! Mummah! Mummah! Babbeh hungy! Babbeh haf tummy owies! Nee miwkies! Mummah! Whew mummah? CHEEP!”
The mare is awake too.
“Sowwy babbeh, nu haf miwkies! Nu can gif miwkies!”
“CHEEP! Babbeh nee miwkies! Tummy owies! Miwkies! Miwkies!”
She looks at you, expecting you to have answers since you’re the herd leader. You have no idea what to do. Big brother would know; he was the smartest. That’s why he was herd leader. But you’re only herd leader because there’s no else to do the job. You’re not as smart as he was, and you don’t know what to do. But… you have to try. It’s your job.
“Mabbeh-” you correct yourself, frustrated. “Maybe mare can give milkies now?”
“Nu haf miwkies tu gif! Have tummeh babbehs, nu miwkies yet!”
You stare at the loud, cheeping baby, now crying as hard as it can and trying to hug its tummy.
“Maybe… maybe have milkies now? Can try?”
She looks at her milky places skeptically, but rolls onto her side to give the chirpy wingy baby access and uses her hoof to scoot him there. He quickly finds a milky spot and starts suckling… seconds later he spits it out and tries the other milky spot. Nothing. The wingy baby flops onto its poopie place and cries even harder.
“WAAAAAAH! Babbeh hungy! Nee miwkies! Why nu miwkies? CHIRP! Why mummah nu wuv babbeh? Tummy owies! Huuhuuhuu…”
The mare looks crestfallen at her failure to produce milk for the baby.
“Fwuffy am bad mummah, nu haf miwkies…”
“Nu!” You shake your head forcefully. “Nu bad mummah! Mawe twy, mawe just haf- HAVE no milk yet!”
You keep messing up your words. You’re not awake yet and the crying baby is upsetting you. You can’t stop and think so you say your words right.
“Wha fwuffies du? Babbeh hungy, nee miwkies. Wha fwuffies do if nu haf miwkies?”
You sit and ponder for a moment, trying to puzzle through the problem. The crying wingy baby is distracting you, and now you have tummy owies too. You want to eat some nice grassies, but the baby is-
“Fluffy know what du!”
You scramble out from under the bush, look around to make sure there aren’t any monsters, and then run to the edge of the field and rip up grassies, carrying as much as you can back to the bush by carrying it in your mouth and in your fluff. Soon, underneath the bush is full of nice, fresh grassies!
“Maybe baby can eat grassies now!”
The mare is skeptical again.
“Babbeh am tu wittwe, nu eat gwassies yet! Nee miwkies!”
“No have milkies,” you insist forcefully. “Have grassies! Baby eat grassies!”
Still unsure, she picks up some grassies in her mouth and tries to give them to the wingy baby.
“Hewe babbeh! Haf gwassies! Gwassies am gud nummies!”
The desperate baby takes a mouthful of grassies and suckles it, spitting it out and crying.
“Nu, siwwy babbeh! Chew gwassies, not dwink! Wike dis, see?”
She demonstrates by eating some of the grassies. The little wingy baby tries to chew…
“Owies! Moufy huwties! Nu am nummies! Wan miwkies! Nee mummah miwkies! PEEP! Miwkies!”
Mouth hurties? The grassies hurts the baby’s mouth? You think your way through this one…
“Twy- try chewing grassies for baby?”
The mare doesn’t question you this time, desperate to get the baby to stop crying. She chews up some grassies, making sure it’s very thoroughly chewed, then spits them out. The baby keeps crying, not even looking at the wad of chewed-up grassies. She nudges him toward it and he keeps wailing for miwkies. She pushes it up against him with her hoof.
“Wook, babbeh! Mummah am chew gwassies so nu huwt babbeh’s moufy! Babbeh eat gwassies, am good nummies!”
“NU AM NUMMIES! BABBEH NEE MIWKIES!”
She whines in frustration, picks up the ball of chewed grassies in her mouth, and shoves it into the baby’s face. He spits the grassies back out and flops onto his back, still crying.
You don’t know what to do.
You spend the whole day trying to get the chirpy wingy baby to eat grassies, but he won’t do it. The desperate mare tries to put him on her milky places again and again, but she doesn’t have any milk to give him. He cries and cries and cries until he’s too weak and just lays there making sobby hiccups. He doesn’t even make poopies all day; you think that’s because his tummy is empty, but you’re not sure.
Finally, the baby is too tired to cry anymore and falls asleep. The mare huuhuus about what a bad mummah she is because she can’t give the baby milkies, and you’re too tired and frustrated to say nice things to her. You don’t even give her hugsies to make her feel better. You just lay down under the bush, close your eyes, and wish none of this was your problem.
Eventually, the dark times come and you fall asleep.
You jerk awake, blinking and looking around you. The bright times are here and the shiny ball is in the sky. You got to sleep finally! The chirpy wingy baby’s crying didn’t wake you up this time! Wait- chirpy wingy baby isn’t crying…
You look at the baby. He isn’t moving. You nudge him with your nose and he still doesn’t move. The mare wakes up and sees you nudging him, and is instantly on her feet, nudging the baby too.
“Wake up babbeh! Babbeh nee wake up! Nu sweepies! Babbeh wake up!”
You sit down sadly and stare at the baby.
“Babbeh is nu moves,” you say, not even caring if you say your words right. “Babbeh is foweva sweepies.”
The mare is too sad to huuhuu; she just gives the baby hugsies and makes saddy water with her eyes. You think the high-pitched whine is coming from her. You hang your head and made saddy waters too. After a while, you pick the wingy baby up with your mouth, pushing the mare away with your hoof when she tries to stop you, and carry the little limp baby away from the bush. You walk a long way from the hidey place before you set the wingy baby down and look at it sadly. You instictively know you have to take the forever sleepies baby away from the hidey place so monsters can’t find the hidey place.
You take your time walking back to the hidey place. When you get there, you can hear the mare huuhuuing under the bush and crying that she’s a bad mummah. You don’t go under the bush with her, you just lay down right where you’re at and make more saddy waters with your eyes.
This is all your fault. If you’d been a better herd leader, you could have fixed this. Big brother would have known what to do. You didn’t, because you’re a dummy. Dummy dummy dummy.
It’s all your fault.
It’s been several bright times and dark times since you took the not moving wingy baby away. The mare is getting bigger because of her tummy babies, and you need to find a good, safe place for her and the babies. You also need to find it now, because soon she’ll be too big and round to walk on her own, and you’ll have trouble rolling her around by yourself. You need a good spot to stay for a while until she has her babies and can travel again. This would be so much easier with a herd!
What was that?! You heard something. There! A twig snapped! Is it a monster? You try to hide the mare behind you, to keep yourself between her and the monster. You don’t see anything. But then, the monster that ate the herd was invisible, you remember. Is this monster invisible too?! The mare makes scaredy poopies behind you and moans.
You still see nothing. You don’t hear anything either. And all you can smell is the mare’s scaredy poopies. You wait what seems like forever, but nothing happens. Maybe there’s no monster? You start to walk and the mare follows you closely. Maybe-
Something shoots out of the bush you just passed, right for the mare!
“Oscaw nee spechow huggies!”
You kick whatever it is with your hind hooves, then spin around to face the monster! You start to stomp it and- wait, what?
“Owies! Nu huwt Oscaw!”
It’s a fluffy! He’s dark green, with a slightly darker green mane and tail. He blended in with the bush very well.
“Who you?!” you demand, still kind of scared but wanting to look tough. The other fluffy rolls to his feet and sniffles.
“Me am Oscaw! Nu huwt Oscaw! Oscaw gud fwuffy!”
“Whewe- WHERE Oscar come from?”
sniff “Oscaw dunno! Oscaw wost! Oscaw wan daddeh! Oscaw wan gud nummies, nu gwassies! Oscaw wan bawl! Oscaw… Oscaw wan…”
What’s he looking at? The mare?
“Oscaw wan spechow huggies!”
He shoots over to the mare and tries to mount her!
“Nuuuu! Nu gif spechow huggies tu fwuffy! Fwuffy haf tummeh babbehs! Spechow huggies am bad fu tummeh babbehs! Nuuuu!”
“Oscaw nee spechow huggies! NEE! NEE! Oscaw spechow wumps huwt! Owies! Oscaw nee spechow huggies naow!”
You hurry over and shove him off the mare. When he tries to get up again, you push him down. He huuhuus.
“No give special huggies! This MY mare! No give special huggies, special huggies bad fow tummy babies!”
“Huu, huuuuu, Oscaw sowwy! Nu huwt Oscaw! Oscaw gud fwuffy! Nu gif owies!”
You think. Another fluffy could be useful. Two fluffies can roll a dam around easier than one, and he can help watch the nestie when you find a good one.
“Oscar can stay with herd, but only if Oscar good fluffy! No give special huggies!”
The green stallion sniffles and huuhuus, complaining that his special lumps hurt, but agrees to your terms. Now with a herd of three fluffies, you continue searching for a better hidey place for the mare and her babies. You haven’t gotten very far, however, before Oscar, hunched over and walking funny, whines again about having owies in his special lumps. Then he tries to mount your mare again! You angrily kick him off and give him a good stomp to the tummy to teach him a lesson.
“No! Oscaw nu gif spechow huggies!” You can’t think about how to say your words right, you’re too angry. Didn’t Oscar agree to be a good fluffy and not give special hugs?
“Oscaw sowwy! Oscaw sowwy! Nu gif owies! Oscaw gud fwuffies!”
It’s not long before he tries again though. And again. And again. You’re seriously starting to get angry with Oscar, and this last time you stomp on his face several times and shout at him. You even give him sorry poopies on his face. You’re so angry, you want to just keep stomping him. Why can’t he be a good fluffy? Oscar huuhuus and says he’s sorry, but you don’t believe him this time. You know he’s just going to try again soon. He’s already back to complaining about his special lumps hurting and needing special hugs to make them better.
You sit and think. You vaguely remember from when you were a baby that hoomins had a way to deal with this, a way to stop fluffies from giving bad special hugs. You think and think and think, while Oscar cries about his special lumps…
Ah. You remember now. You remember because you were there when they brought back that stallion. But… It’s too meanie. And gross. And somehow you know it’s bad. But… Oscar is really getting on your nerves, and you’re afraid he might give bad special hugs and hurt your mare’s tummy babies. You need to put a stop to this, now. Or you’ll be an even worse herd leader than you already are.
The instant Oscar makes his move for the mare again, you knock him over, hard. He protests when you pin him under your much larger body. You make sure all four of his leggies are held by yours so he can’t move. You ignore his protests and remember how the hoomins stopped fluffies from giving bad special huggies. You don’t want to hurt Oscar, but you need to stop him before he hurts the mare’s tummy babies.
Then you bite off his special lumps.
poor thing.