You glare at all the other fluffies with your good eye; it’s hard to see with only one eye working. They all back up a step or two, some of them making scaredy poopies.
“Whewe- WHERE baby mummah?”
None of the fluffies step forward.
“Where baby mummah?!”
Finally, one of the fluffies speaks up.
“Babbeh nu haf mummah nu mowe. Owangey-whitey munsta haf mummah fow nummies.”
“Why smarty mad at baby?”
“Dat babbeh am bad babbeh. Mummah hide bad babbeh fwum smawty, babbeh cum out fow miwkies aftew munsta get mummah.”
You look at the baby. It’s chirping in alarm and pain, but it doesn’t seem severely injured. You nudge it with your hoof; it seems ok, just scared and bruised.
“Why am bad baby?”
The other fluffies look at you like you have two heads. Are they all stupid? You repeat yourself, slowly.
“Why am bad baby?”
“Dat… dat bad babbeh!”
They’re still looking at you like YOU’RE the stupid one. You sniff the baby; it doesn’t smell like a dummy baby. You nudge its head; its horn is nicely formed. You inspect the legs; no deformities. You check the wings; they flutter as the distressed baby chirps for its mummah. You sniff it again, just to be sure.
“This baby am good baby.”
The assembled fluffies all shift uncomfortably, looking at each other. One finally ventures, “Nu munsta babbeh?”
“No! Baby am good baby.”
“Otay. Babbeh am gud babbeh.”
You nudge the baby with your muzzle.
“This baby too wittwe- LITTLE. Need new mummah. Who am be this baby’s new mummah?”
You see three mummahs with foals, some of them little chirpy foals like this one. They all look away from you and one tries to hide behind a mare. You’re irritated. What’s wrong with these fluffies?
Fed up, you pick the little foal up in your mouth and carry it, chirping, to your mare.
“Can mummah take new baby?”
She looks at the chirping foal suspiciously, but after sniffing it and having the scared thing hug her muzzle, she snorts and moves it to her milkie places. The way it latches on and suckles shows how desperately it needed milkies.
“Mummah nu suwe bout babbeh, but mummah take cawe uf babbeh if hewd weadew say so.”
Good enough. Her blue and red babies climb off her fluff to nuzzle and greet their new sibling.
“Yay! Wuv nyu sista!”
The red colt just said his longest sentence yet. You’re proud of him; he’s doing everything so quickly! Maybe… maybe you can teach him things like big brother taught you?
Oscar brings your attention back to the other fluffies, looking at them wide-eyed and asking, “Whoo aww dese fwuffies?”
You look back at the others, panning your head further than usual because of your bad eye; you hope the vision comes back in your eye soon. You count them… three mummahs with babies, four more mares, the two toughies (the one you bucked is starting to get up again, bleary-eyed), and another pointy stallion cringing behind a couple of the mares; he’s the same colors as the smarty you just finished stomping into oblivion, but smaller. Maybe they were related. The toughie who backed down from you looks at you timidly, afraid to meet your eye.
“Fwuffy… fwuffy am nyu smawty?”
Wait- is he asking… you look at the other fluffies. These… these could all be your herd?
“Fwuffy am nyu smawty?”
“No!”
He backs away, startled.
“No am smarty!”
You puff your chest with pride.
“Am herd leader!”
Finally… you have a herd again!
That night, with the new herd settled into a big fluff pile for warmth, you sigh and snuggle your babbehs deeper into your fluff. A new sm- herd leader. He insisted he was a herd leader, not a smarty. You feel much safer now that the old smarty is gone.
Then another fluffy wriggles up against you and the old fear returns.
“Gif fwuffy miwkies!”
“Nuuu! Miwkies fow babbehs!”
“Gif miwkies ow get bigges owies!”
You huuhuu and roll to expose your miwkie pwaces. He shoves your babbehs aside, and when one chirps in protest he smacks it with his hoofsie.
“Nuuu! Nu huwt babbehs!”
“Quiet! Ow get owies!”
You huuhuu as quietly as you can, clutching your poor, chirpy babbehs to your chest. He latches onto one of your miwkie pwaces and starts sucking greedily, hurting you.
Your babbehs are always so hungry! Why can’t he just leave you with some?
“Babbehs nee miwkies!”
“Fwuffy say quiet! Wan owies agin?”
“Huuuhuuhuuu…”
He starts drinking from you miwkie pwaces again, deliberately gnawing on them to hurt you.
“What is dis?”
“Whu?!”
You look up and dimly see the new sm- herd leader. One of the toughies, the least mean one, is with him. The fluffy gets off of you and stammers.
“Uh-um, fwuffy am… fwuffy…”
The big, red stallion steps forward and glares at him.
“What you doing?”
“…eeeeep…”
The toughie speaks up, sounding disgusted.
“Him am miwkies feef. He steaw miwkies fwum aww da mummahs.”
The herd leader makes no response, just a twitch of the ears.
“Fwuffy… fwuffy am…” The milk thief seems to gain a little more confidence from the lack of response. “Fwuffy am du wat wan! Fwuffy bwuva am smawty! Fwuffy du wat wan!”
The herd leader’s response is a quiet question.
“Do fluffy see smarty anywhere?”
The milk bandit’s confidence wavers.
“Milkies am for babies. Not for big fluffies.”
“Fw… fwuffy du wut-”
“MIWKIES NU FOW BAD FWUFFIES!”
You curl up around your babies protectively, too scared to calm them down or stop their chirping.
“MIWKIES! FOW! BABBEHS! NU! FOW! BIG! FWUFFIES!”
“Owies! Owies! Nu huwt fwuffy! Pwease! Owies!”
The big, red herd leader finishes stomping on the milk bandit and steps back, breathing heavily and shaking his head angrily. The brown toughie accompanying him hesitantly steps forward and stands over the crying thief.
“Huuhuuhuu, why huwt fwuffy? Fwuffy am gud fwuffy! Nu huwt-”
“NU!”
Both you and the heard leader jump at this outburst. The toughie is shaking with barely contained rage.
“YOO STEAW MIWKIES FWUM AWW MAWES! NU WEAF ANY FOW BABBEHS! BABBEHS GET TUMMEH OWIES AND SICKIES! MUH BABBEHS GET TUMMEH OWIES AND WONGEST SWEEPIES! SMAWTY WET YOO DU WUT WAN, BUT YOO… YOO AM BAD FWUFFY!”
“OWIES! Nu huwt fwuffy! Pwease! Owies! Owies! Stahp! Nu huwt- OWIES!”
The toughie stomps and kicks the milk bandit over and over again and the herd leader watches in silence. Finally, the toughie finishes and just stands over the the huuhuuing milk thief, trembling and sobbing. The herd leader steps forward and gives the toughie a hug.
“It otay- okay. He never steal milk again.”
Turning to the smarty’s brother, quivering in pain and terror, the herd leader gives him another kick.
“You not part of this herd. Get out.”
“Bu-bu-bu! It cowd! Fwuffy nee fwuff piwe ow-”
“Get out. Or get longest. Sleepies.”
“Whu…”
“OUT!”
The milk bandit scrambles painfully to his feet and scrambles away into the darkness, huuhuuing at the unfairness of it all.
The herd leader approaches you and you cringe automatically.
“You okay? Babies ok?”
“Yu… yus. Babbehs otay.”
“Still have milkies for babies?”
You think you do. You push two of your chirping babies down to your milkie places and they quit chirping and start suckling. Oh good! Your third chirpy baby settles down a little and you hug her tightly.
“Good. If mummah have problem, let herd leader know.”
He walks away, trailed by the toughie, and you watch in wonder. Maybe… maybe things won’t be so bad now?
