[Libby Chapters 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 3 and 4 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 7 and 8 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 9 and 10 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 11 and 12 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 13 and 14 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 15 and 16 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 17 and 18 (final) by Dildofarmer]
Chapter 5
The man got Libby’s litter box out of the closet where it had been stashed since last Spring. It was not easy - his deceased wife was the one who had put it away when the weather warmed. She always liked to have the back door open in spring and summer for the fresh air. It was just another way that he had not fully adjusted to her absence. He filled it with cat litter and set it down in Libby’s little room. He also noticed that she had bled on the little blanket in her sorry box after the toilet incident and pulled it out to be laundered. The effort took a lot out of him. Once he was done with that, he felt an overwhelming need to drink some more. Libby was happy with her new litter box.
The big, round figure of the man Libby called ‘Uncle Fwank’ appeared at the stoop one afternoon. Libby was happy - Uncle Fwank always played with her and talked to her. The man was less cheered by his appearance - he hadn’t seen Frank since the funeral.
“Unca Fwank! Unca Fwank! Wibby wuv Unca Fwank!” The little pegasus bounced on her front legs and buzzed her little maroon wings, and then sat back on her haunches and flung up both front hooves for Frank to scoop her up and hug her. Frank was grateful for a chance to collect his thoughts, and somehow cheered by the fluffy’s exuberance. He knew that the little creature was treasured by his departed sister. The distraction only lasted a short time, however, because Libby’s Papa was impatient and anxious about Frank’s impromptu visit.
Frank had dropped by to check on and goad his brother-in-law. They spoke in circles for a while, and he finally came to the direct prodding: The rest of the family would like to hear from Libby’s Papa. Frank knew that the man had been withdrawn since his wife’s funeral. It wasn’t healthy for the man to sleep on the couch, which he had obviously been doing, and to leave his deceased wife’s things in the room they shared as if she was coming back. Frank didn’t enjoy saying it and the man didn’t enjoy hearing it, but it needed to be said and heard. Frank had also come armed with some business cards - therapists who specialized in bereavement. He finished up with some friendly chiding about the man’s obvious drinking habits and departed after a firm hug.
The man seemed fortified. For maybe the fifth or sixth time since his wife’s death, he went into the bedroom they had shared and started pulling things out of the closet here or making piles of things there. Libby went with him, and clambered up from the floor to the stool to the chair to the bed, her tiny mind occupied with stirred-up memories of her Mama. As she sat in a half-relaxed posture on the comforter, she heard her Papa talking to himself now and then in a low tone. He worked for about an hour, fighting tears more than once. Eventually he had compiled a box full of his wife’s former possessions - a vinyl record, some shoes, knickknacks, jewelry, and so forth. He breathed deeply a few times, as if the box was very heavy, and groaned as he picked it up.
The man hoisted up the box and started walking over to the door. Libby’s mind raced back to when her Mama would get up out of her bed and walk unsteadily to the hallway bathroom - it was their little game that Libby would go first, to bravely scout the path for monsters or stray objects that Mama might stub her toe on. Before she even knew what was happening, she found herself bounding joyfully off the bed and ‘tap tap tapping’ over to the doorway. However, this time it was not frail, sickly Mama that was headed for the hallway, it was strong, swift Papa carrying a loaded box. Papa did not know the game. The tiny white and red creature and the distracted man hit the doorway at the same time. Fluffy’s rump became jammed between the man’s ankles. Unable to land his next step, his shoulder slammed into the door frame and he fell, instinctively dropping the box in an effort to catch himself.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion to Libby. She was rooted to the spot, eyes and mouth open, as the human slammed down onto his left knee and both hands. The big brown box fell five feet and crumpled corner-first, disgorging its contents with surprising violence. The first thing that leapt out was a treasured keepsake from the deceased woman’s nightstand, an antique glass snow globe containing a tiny plaster reproduction of Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With The Wind. The glitter inside the snow globe danced for the last time as the small but weighty sphere flew out and shattered into a burst of shards, water, glitter and chunks of broken plaster against the baseboard of the hallway. Next was a jewelry box that popped open on impact, spraying jewels and tiny earrings liberally about. Other things made crunching and clashing noises inside the box that rang and rang in the fluffy’s ears.
The man made ungainly grunting noises as he clambered back to his feet. His face was twisted with rage, then pain as he found out he had rolled his ankle in the fall. His face snapped over to the cowering fluffy and his hands clenched into fists.
“YOU GODDAMNED PIECE OF SHIT! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!” he yelled, taking two giant strides towards the fluffy and snap-kicking her in the ribs. The fluffy flew down the hallway, bent into a crescent around where the man’s foot had struck. She landed in a heap and gathered herself, terrified eyes staring up at the huge, enraged figure of the man as he limped after her. The fluffy tried to backpedal but only succeeded in falling over backwards, and as the darkness of the man’s shadow fell over her, she uncontrollably cut loose her bowels, spraying a rank brown fan-shaped stain from her hindquarters. She was so terrified that she could only gibber.
“Nu - nu - nu - pw - AAAFFF!” she stuttered, abruptly cut off as the man kicked her in the ribs again. She rebounded against the wall to a crumpled heap in almost the same spot. The man seized the door frame and planted his other hand flat against the wall to give him three-point support and kicked the cowering creature again. The impact lifted Libby up off the deck again to bounce back off the door frame. She could not breathe deep enough to beg him to stop, so instead she slumped against the wall and looked up at him with terrified eyes. His next kick pinched her against the drywall and she heard a cracking noise and felt incredible pain explode from inside her own body.
After a short time the man stopped, breathing heavily and clenching his jaw. The fluffy was wheezing and shaking with its eyes rolled up into its head, its rear end soiled with feces and urine and its tongue hanging out. It convulsed and vomited, then gargled the bile and puke as it fought for breath. The man breathed in a few times, appearing to be unsure of what to do next, then snarled a final profanity and picked the fluffy up. He stalked out the front door still carrying the unconscious creature.
An hour and a half later the man was sitting in the waiting room of the veterinarian’s office where Libby always had her annual checkup. The veterinarian’s assistant had taken his battered lump of fur into the exam room. He sat and watched people come and go, here a woman and perhaps a child coming in with upset cats in carriers and nervous but chipper dogs on leashes. He was fairly certain he was the only one who was in the waiting room because he had nearly kicked his pet to death. His wife’s pet, rather. But that thought made him feel guilty, too. He tried not to fidget and focused on the future, when he would have a chance to go home and have a drink.
Libby coughed and spluttered to wakefulness. She tossed her head about fearfully and came to grips with her surroundings. She was in a cage very much like her sorry box, with a shiny steel grate at the front and a musty old blanket on the floor. Her body was wracked with pain and she was very thirsty. Looking out the bars, she could see stacks of cages against the far wall and a big shiny table in the middle. She had been on that table! She remembered the funny smells of this place, and her Mama petting her on that table and telling her to be calm and brave while another person poked and prodded her. It was what Mama used to call the “fwuffy docta.”
“Pwease,” she croaked “Wibby wan wawa. Wibby sowwy.” her voice was weak and using it made her breathe in sharply, which caused her sore ribs to throb deep inside. She panted and tried to shift into a position that was less painful. After a while, she heard a thumping, door-closing noise and a human’s legs appeared in her line of vision. She took a short, sharp breath and tried again.
“Pwease… ” she called out in a marginally stronger but still shaky voice, “Wibby sowwy. Wibby am good fwuffy. Nu feaw good.”
“Oh, are you awake?” said the human in a calm baritone. Libby shuddered a little as the human knelt down and looked at her through the bars. He had grey fluff on his head and shiny things in front of his eyes. “Feeling better, are we?” The human opened the front of the cage and pulled slowly and gently on the blanket Libby was curled on, freeing her from the cage and lifting her up to the big shiny table. He seemed like a friendly human, and he was being gentle with Libby’s sore body.
“Wibby haf owwies. Nu wike. Papa giv Wibby owwies. Wibby am good fwuffy, nu wan’ owwies from meanie Papa.” Libby blubbered as the man shined a tiny light into her eyes, nose, mouth and ears.
“Mm hmm, and does it hurt when I do this?” asked the man as he gently wiggled all four of Libby’s legs, wings, tail and neck. Libby winced a little to be touched, but she was able to extend her limbs without any sharp pains. The human continued to talk. “I think you got lucky, Libby. Or maybe not. Still, considering what some people do to your kind, maybe lucky is the word. Can you tell me how you got hurt? How you got owwies?”
Libby started shaking a little with the recollection. She found that she could not meet the man’s keen brown eyes. “Papa haf boxie. Papa feww on Wibby. Den Papa giv owwies and make Wibby scawed. Wibby make scawedy poopies. Wibby am bad fwuffy.”
The big human purred back at Libby.
“There, there, you’re not so bad. Can you breathe in deeply for me?”
Libby did her best, but breathing in caused a sharp pain to shoot up her ribs, and she bleated.
“Eeee! Wibby huwt! Wibby huwt! Nu wike!” her wings beat helplessly as the spasm wore off. “Wibby wan Mama. Pwease hewp? Pwease hewp Wibby fin’ Mama? Mama wuv Wibby. Papa nu wuv Wibby. Papa nu gif huggies. Wibby wan do sumfin ewse. Hug Wibby?” she begged the doctor. He grew solemn and sat up straight, folding his arms and sighing.
Five minutes later, Libby was in the waiting room, swaddled in the cheap blanket from the bottom of the cage. The vet had handed her off very gently to her Papa. Libby started quivering in fear to be in contact with him again, and she was trying not to look at his eyes. Unfortunately for her, the waiting room was full of strange people and there were even a few monsters in here who stared and stared at Libby hungrily. She tensed up, and the muscles along her right side crackled with fresh pain.
“I didn’t x-ray her,” said the doctor to Papa “but I’m almost sure she’s got two or three cracked ribs on the right side. We can’t really put a cast on them, and they ought to heal fine by themselves. Other than that, just a few bumps and bruises. She also, uh, said that she was scared and sorry and various other things…” the doctor trailed off meaningfully, then: “And she said she missed her Mama.”
Papa shifted uncomfortably. The vet let it stand long enough then tried to soothe the awkwardness. “You know, they don’t really understand things, but they are just a bit too smart to cope with trauma and loss like a dog… In any case, we can prescribe something for the pain.” The doctor stopped as he saw the man struggling to contain his emotions. Guilt-stricken and angry, the man satisfied himself with curt thanks and trudged off, fluffy under his arm, to pay his bill at the desk in a less-than-enthusiastic fashion.
He plunked Libby carelessly down on the car seat. The tension in the air was strong. The man only spoke once on the way home, and that was to snarl at her in a dangerous voice that made her hair stand on end.
“Had to tell the vet that I’m a dick, huh? You want your Mama back, huh? Well, Mama ain’t coming back, you little piece of shit.” The burning look in his eyes made Libby shudder, and the shudder hurt so bad she gasped and squealed a little. “You’re stuck with me, fuck face.” The man hauled Libby inside in her blanket-cocoon and plunked her down on the floor just roughly enough that Libby knew he had meant to hurt her on purpose. He twisted the top off a bottle of liquor and watched the white fluffy hobble down the hallway. As she reached the doorway to her little room, she looked back at him with fearful eyes.
Chapter 6
You are Libby, the white wingie mare with red wingies, a red tail and a red mane. You used to be happy in your little house with your Mama and Papa, but your Mama got sickies and slept forever, and since then your Papa has become more and more of a meanie. Having your mane and tail brushed and eating delicious sketti are distant memories - as far as you can tell, that all died with your Mama. Instead, your Papa clumps around the house and keeps the lights off, and he taps on his little box and drinks from his little bottles a lot. Sometimes days pass without so much as a word from him.
Most recently you accidentally made your Papa fall and he kicked you a lot. He hurt you so badly you had to go to the ‘fwuffy docta.’ Since then, your Papa dropped you in your room with a big bowl of nummies and a wawa dish and completely ignored you. You feel awful owwies all the time. It hurt a little to walk or lay down, and it hurt badly when you tried to play with your ball. Half the time you felt like the worst fluffy in the whole world, and other times you got so mad about your Papa being meanie that you puffed your cheeks out and frowned. You found yourself absently biting and gnawing at your front hoofie until you tore out some fluff. That made you upset. How could your hoofie be bad? Were you being a meanie to your own hoofie?
The final straw came when you shuffled over to your litterbox and tried to make good poopies. It hurt so bad that you started crying, and you accidentally got some of the not-pretties on your pretty red tail because you were so weak and clumsy. Your litterbox was very full of poopies, too, and you felt like you had to get away from the not-pretty smell. You begged the poopies to go away, but they wouldn’t. You shuffled down the hallway to see if your Papa would help you. It used to make a ‘tap-tap-tap’ sound on the wooden floors when you walked, but this time it made a sad kind of ‘tap-tap-scrape’ because you couldn’t walk right.
Your Papa was sitting in front of his blinky box and talking to it. Voices would come out of the box, but they were talking fast and using a bunch of words you didn’t recognize. He seemed calm, not at all angry, like his old self. Papa always called it ‘work’ when he did that, and he cared about it a lot. The cold stone in your tummy turned over when you thought about the games you used to play with your Mama, where she would put her finger to her lips and help you sneak very quietly around while Papa was talking to his blinky box. You tried to move quietly, but it gave you bad owwies. Eventually you found yourself standing next to him, trying not to drag your tail on the ground and get bad poopies everywhere. Your tail seemed so heavy.
“Papa?” you said quietly, looking up at his slouching form, your eyes just drying from the pain of visiting the litterbox. If Papa would just give you huggies and love, your owwies would go away.
Papa looked down at you for a split second and hissed.
“Fuck off.”
You stared up at his back for a little bit, your mind churning. You pace back and forth a bit, feeling owwies and saddies and angries all at the same time. You turn to go, but in the corner of your eye you see your pretty red tail, still crusted with bad poopies. You grit your teeth and reach for your tail, trying to hook it with your hoofie and pull it so you can clean the not-pretties out of it. Pain like lightning shoots up and down your ribs so badly it makes your hair stand on end. You squeeze your eyes shut and pant for a few seconds until you suddenly find yourself bouncing on your front hooves in anger and crying out.
“NU WIKE! NU WIKE POOPIES! NU WIKE OWWIES! WAN’ HUGGIES AND NU POOPIES!” your tone is shrill and frantic. Your eyes pop open in surprise and you look up during the moment of silence, while the voices on Papa’s blinky box let loose a burst of flat-sounding laughter and a series of questions. Your Papa’s face remains tight and his expression cold.
“Yeah, OK, hang on a second, Harv, I gotta deal with this.” he says evenly at the blinky box and jabs something on its little clicky part. The screen flickers dark and the little pictures of people vanish. Your Papa does not look at you until he has pulled open part of his desk and dug a handful of little things out you don’t recognize . You stand next to his chair, whining and shaking a little with a mixture of fear and anger. You tense up, then wince as your ribs throb, then pant nervously. You feel like you might make sickies.
Suddenly, your papa’s other hand snatches you by the scruff of your neck. Once again you are reminded of how strong he can be. Papa lifts you half off the ground, straining your hurty ribs until you start helplessly squirming and wiggling your front hoofies in the air and beating your wingies. Tears spring into your eyes and you squeal. With fearful slowness, your papa slides down out of his seat and kneels on the ground next to you. You try to keep your eyes on him, but they fill with tears and you shut them when a wave of pain shudders through your fuzzy body.
“I told you to fuck off, you little rat,” your papa snarls through clenched teeth. “You told the vet I’m an asshole and now you’re fucking with me at work? You think I care that you shit on yourself?”
“Nu - nu - nu - pwease” you gasp, feebly waving your hoofies around, trying to push him away or touch the ground or even make your body hurt less. “Wibby have owwies and nu feaw good and wan huggies,” you babble into the silence, "Pwease nu huwties Wibby, Wibby am good fwuffy, onwy wan’ nu mowe owies and – " you chattered as you helplessly toss your head back and forth, tears leaking down your cheeks. You want to ‘tap tap scrape’ back to your little room at the end of the hall and hide by yourself some more. Instead, your Papa reaches out and squeezes your muzzle. You can’t flinch away. Papa’s other hand comes into view, with some kind of stretchy brown thing on his two fingers and his thumb, holding them apart so it makes a kind of three-sided mouth. Then - SNAP! - he claps you on the face and the stretching thing bites into your snoutie. You toss your head even harder, but this only makes your ribs sizzle with pain, so you try to scream. Only a pathetic “Mmmmm!” sound comes out.
Your eyes bug out and you try to scream some more, but only get an “Mmm!” You find that it is even hard to breathe in through your nosie. Deep in the inside corner of your eyes, where it hurts to look, you can see the funny tan colored thing holding your muzzle shut. You give up trying to toss your head and struggle to pull air through your constricted nose. With terror-stricken eyes, you look up at your Papa just in time for him to laugh at you.
“MMMMMM! MMMMMM!” is the only sound you can make as you flinch away from your Papa’s face. Your Papa drops your scruff, and you fall into a heap, temporarily in such distress that you forget the pain in your side and earnestly try to scrape the rubber thing off your tender little snoutie. You start to panic. Your “MMMMM!” sounds grow more and more shrill, and your throat burns with the effort of needing to scream but not being able to push it out.
You barely notice when your Papa grabs the top of your rump in his cruel, irresistible hand and lifts your tail up with his thumb. In a blind panic, hoofies scrabbling against the wooden floor, you try to flee. Instead you are just rewarded with more pain. Rolling your eyes and trying to scream, your body shudders as you make scaredy peepees. The sound of Papa laughing barely registers. Then, something more horrible than you could have imagined happens. As you helplessly flail about, your Papa pushes one of his little yellow scratchy-sticks into your poopie place, red end first.
The tiny metal cuff behind the red tip slices a ring from your tender flesh, and your Papa twists it ever so gently as he firmly but slowly slides it home. It hurts your insides with a stabbing feeling, less raw pain than when he kicked you but far more scary. You can hardly believe that your Papa has shoved something so deep in your poopies place that you can feel it poking painfully inside your tummy. You scream and scream against your clamped-shut muzzle until snot blows out of your nose and you think you are never going to breathe again.
Your Papa suddenly lets you loose. You try to scamper away, but between the pencil jammed in your poopie place and the scourging pain in your ribs, the best you can manage is an awkward hobble, listing badly to the right. You squeak and wheeze with every step. All you want to do is run away from Papa so he can’t give you any more owwies. Your body tries to make scaredy poopies, but you find that the squeezing in your innards makes the pencil wiggle and causes you stabbing, biting pain, so you fight it off with every ounce of willpower you have left. It takes you a long time to waddle and shuffle into the hallway, so you are treated to your Papa’s noisy, snorting laughter and the sound of his blinky box starting to talk again.
Back in your little room at the end of the hallway, you frantically scrape your hoofies against your face, mewling pathetically as you beat the flesh of your snout bloody against your teeth. After a long, painful struggle, the little tan thing snaps off your snout after giving you one last vicious pinch right on the end of your nose. You suck the sweetest breath you have ever tasted into your body, painfully stretching your ribs again.
“Nu - nu - nu - !” you sob, too shell-shocked to cry out. It takes you longer - you have no idea how long - to strain and push the bloodied pencil out of your poopie place, but not before you bump it against several objects, causing you bright, hot, tearing owwies deep inside your body. Once it slides out of you accompanied by a smear of bloody bad poopies, you collapse in a heap on the cold floor, chest heaving with sobs, sightless eyes staring straight forward.
“Wan’ die. Wibby wan’ die.” you whisper into the lonely darkness.