Margaret walked out onto the garden deck at exactly noon. “LINE UP!” The fluffies, to their credit, showed a marked improvement in getting into formation. Once the fluffies had lined up and quieted down, Margaret pulled out the multicolored gardening tools she had bought earlier that day. The fluffies eyes fixated on the colorful trowels and rakes, Margaret immediately clueing into their thought process. “No, they are not toys.” The fluffies looked as though she’d just told them Skettiland wasn’t a real thing.
Sighing once again, Margaret made a mental note to pick them up some toys for recreation. Jim had told her under no circumstances to give them any toys not made for fluffies, as in his experience, nine out of ten times, they’d manage to kill themselves with it, and most of the time in a way that mentally scarred the other fluffies in the pen. Since she would be watching them the entire time they worked, Jim felt the cheap plastic tools would be fine.
“Today, you will begin work.” “Otay mummah!” Jackson piped up as he immediately attempted to dig a hole where he stood. Margaret chuckled inwardly. She’d had students like Jackson before, good natured and well intentioned, but dumber than a sack of potatoes. Reaching over, Margaret tapped him on the head with the trowel. “Not that kind of work. Listen up everyone!” All the fluffies, with the exception of Punky, were fixated on the old woman.
“Today, your task is to clean up the garden. You will pick up all poop in the garden, and move it to the litterbox, along with any of the brown plants.” “NO. PUNKWY NO AM POOPIE FWUFFY! ONWY POOPIE FWUFFIES CWEAN POOP!” Margaret was genuinely surprised by the outburst.
Walking swiftly over to the scowling pink mare, Margaret hefted her up by the scruff of her neck, bringing the now squealing fluffy up to eye level. “BAD UPSIES! NO WAN! DUMMEH MUNSTA MUMMAH PUT PUNKWY DOW NAO!” Using her other hand, Margaret gripped Punky by the head and forced her to look her in the eyes. The dangerous look in her eyes caused the pregnant mare to quiet down as Margaret hissed at her in the tone of voice she reserved for the kids in class who actively tried to piss her off. “Listen you little shit, the only reason I haven’t given you the same treatment as Bumbler over there is because you’re pregnant. I am RAPIDLY losing patience for your shit.” Punky flinched each time she used a ‘no-no word.’
“If you don’t shape up and behave, babies or not you WILL get the sorry stick, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Punky had soiled herself half way through Margaret’s tirade. Tears pouring down her cheeks, Punky began peeping and chirping, but Margaret was not letting her off yet. “Do you understand me?” She hissed at the mare. Punky nodded the best she could with the scruff of her neck held in a vice like grip by the old woman.
Margaret placed the mare down on the ground and turned to the now terrified crowd of fluffies. With yet another sigh Margaret sat back down on the deck and waited for the herd to calm down enough to continue her directions. “So as I was saying, you will collect all the poop and brown plants and place them in the litterbox pile.” Grapenut, who had been quiet until now, raised a hoof. “Wut am pwants mummah?” Margaret thought back to the crash course on fluffy terminology Jim had given her that morning.
“Plants are… Those tall grass nummies and those round dirty nummies that you didn’t eat.” She motioned to the uprooted tomato plants and beets rotting in the vegetable patch. Grapenut nodded sagely. “Gwapenut undewstand mummah, Gwapenut wiww pwace pwants an’ bad poopies in dah wittaw bocks.” Margaret smiled. The green Pegasus was rapidly shaping up to be her favorite fluffy, though she had her doubts that he was really just a Pegasus. “Buh mummah, do we weawwy haf to num poopies?” Button asked concernedly from his place in formation.
Margaret ignored him. He asked again with growing concern “Mummah, poopies nu taste pwetty, Button nu wan’ to num poopies” As Margaret ignored him once again, the rest of the herd began to grow agitated. Was their mummah really going to make them num poopies? The old smarty Doogie only made you num poopies if you were a poopy fluffy. Bullet, raising her hoof as high as she could, straining to get Margaret’s attention. Turning to face the mare, Margaret smiled. “Yes dear? You have a question?” “Does Buwwit hab to num dah poopies? Poopies no taste pwetty, nu wan’ be poopie mawe.” Margaret feigned shock. “No dear, of course not! Let me show you what these tools are for.”
Carefully, using Grapenut as an assistant, she taught the fluffies how to pick up the poop holding the shovel handle in their mouths. She could tell it was uncomfortable for the fluffies to hold the tools, and made a mental note to get some sort of soft covering for the handles when she went to town later. But, soon enough, the fluffies had grown comfortable enough to start making good headway into the piles of dead plants and piles of shit that dotted the garden.
The pregnant mares who were exempt from the work sat in the shade offered by the house, Scarlet and Clementine babbling to each other about how they were going to be the ‘Bestest mummahs evah’ and how ‘babbehs nee’ huggies and wuv’! Margaret found the babble cute, endearing, and quite possibly the most annoying thing she had heard since her days teaching health to the seventh grade.
Margaret looked to the last of the expecting trio. Punky sulked quietly, obviously upset by the scolding she had received earlier. Margaret grimaced. It was likely she would have to discipline her as harshly as she had Bumbler. Bumbler. Margaret’s grimace deepened. According to Jim, smarty syndrome was almost completely untreatable by any method, and any fluffies showing symptoms were almost immediately euthanized, often violently to discourage other fluffies in the pen.
Margaret hoped it wouldn’t come to that, resolving to drive the two hour round trip to the moderately large town nearby and visit their newly opened Fluff-city, a privately owned off brand version of Fluffmart. Hopefully they would have some educational materials, as well as some toys they wouldn’t be able to gruesomely maim themselves with.
Looking up from her thoughts, she saw that Grapenut, Bullet, and Button had already stopped working and had started a game of huggie tag. Jackson, to his credit, was still carrying the dead plants to the compost pile. Margaret frowned.
“LINE UP!” Startled by her voice, the fluffies took a bit longer than before to line up. Margaret looked at them with as much disappointment as she could convey. “Who told you to stop working?” Grapenut looked ashamedly at his hooves as Button puffed out his cheeks. “Wowk nu fun, Button wan’ pway huggies tag wiff Buwwit an’ Gwapenut, nu wan wowk.” Margaret looked at the sullen grey horse, head cocked to one side.
“Button.” Margaret’s voice held a dangerous edge to it. “Is that the way you talk to mommy?” Button immediately deflated and appeared to shrink where he stood. Margaret bent over and turned the fluffies head to face her. “Do you have anything to say to mommy, Button?” The little earthie mumbled an apology. “Button, mommy’s pretty old. You have to speak up. What were you saying?” Button began to tear up. “Button am sowwy mummah. Wiww speak wiff wespect nao.”
“Time for a new rule it seems.” She looked towards Grapenut. “Grapenut, what are mommy’s rules so far?” Grapenut racked his walnut sized brain for the rules she had set in place only the day before. “Umm, make gud poopies and peepees in dah wittah bawks, an’, um, tawk to mummah wiff wespect!” Margaret smiled at the stallion. “Correct.” Turning to the rest of the herd, her smile faded. “There is a new rule. When work starts, you must work until the sun sets or mommy says it does. Anyone who breaks this rule,” she paused for dramatic effect, “Gets no food until the next morning!”
A couple fluffies gasped at her proclamation. “Buh mummah!” Bullet wailed, “How wiww fwuffies gwow big an’ stwong wiffout nummies?” Margaret shook her head with mock regret. “Mommy can’t feed any fluffies who won’t work.” She instantly regretted her phrasing as the three pregnant mares started squealing and crying. Walking over to the trio, she softly stroked their backs. “You three are fine, soon mommies don’t have to work, and while you are raising your foals you won’t have to work.”
The three mares calmed down, still huffing from the exertion of their tantrum. “But,” Margaret added, “as soon as your foals can eat solid food, you will have to join the rest of them in the field, understood?” Sniffling, Clementine nuzzled her head into Margaret’s palm. “Yes mummah, Cwementine be bestes’ mummah den be bestes’ wowkah fo’ mummah.” Margaret smiled at the fluffy, held her head in both hands and kissed her forehead. “Good girl.” Scarlet waddled over to Margaret, placing her head on Margaret’s knee. “Scawwet wiww be gud wowkah fo’ mummah too!” Margaret smiled and pet her mane softly. “You’re a good girl too dearie.”
She glanced over at Punky, who quickly looked away. Margaret knew she was going to be a pain later down the line. Margaret only hoped she wouldn’t produce a smarty, though realistically, she knew there would be at least one.
Walking back to the deck, she turned to address the fluffies. “You may not think its fair that you have to work. You think that fluffies are only for huggies and love. But you were the ones who destroyed my garden. You were the ones who pooped all over, who tore down the plants, and ate all the flowers. So now, you will have to fix what you have done. Understood?” Margaret was delighted by the chorus of “Yes mummah!” that followed. She did, however, notice Punky sticking her tongue out at her from the corner of her eye. She let it go this time, deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle of addressing.
Pulling a deck chair to her, she sat and watched the four working fluffies diligently return to their task. The fluffies were able to clean about half the poop and dead plants from the garden when Margaret noticed the sky reddening with dusk. “Line up, and bring me the tools dearies!”
After collecting the tools, still slick with saliva, Margaret looked at Jackson. “Jackson, you were the best worker today, even continuing to work when everyone else stopped to play.” She shot a glance to the three, who wriggled in shame at her gaze. “So for tonight’s dinner, YOU get spaghetti!” The rest of the fluffies stared in shock as Jackson squealed in joy. “Buh mummah!” Bullet pleaded “Buwwit wan’ sketties too! Buwwit nu haf skettis in SO many fowebas!”
Margaret shook her head in fake sorrow. “Sorry dear, but only fluffies who earned spaghetti can have it. If you are good and work hard like Jackson, or do something REALLY special, mommy will give you spaghetti.” She instantly regretted her word choice as the fluffies attempted to win spaghetti through song and dance, the three mummahs practically shouting the lyrics to the Mummah Song at her, while Button and Bullet attempted to ‘dance,’ which amounted to them wobbling around on their back hooves, arms flailing wildly, a desperate hunger in their eyes.
Margaret almost broke into a case of the giggles, before she locked her jaw tightly and shook her head. “No, that’s not special enough. But I want you all to know I will be watching you, and I will be giving good fluffies rewards. Now, let me go get food. Please line up for food, soon mommies first, then mares, then stallion. After your all done eating we will see if Bumbler is ready to be nice, or if he needs more time in the sorry box.”
She walked inside and prepared the bowls of oats and carrots, lacing a bowl with the soon mummah supplements. She popped the Fluffy spaghetti in the microwave after making sure it wasn’t laced with anything. GMO and added sugars, but what wasn’t full of those now a days? The label saying it was “Fit for Human Consumption in Cases of Extreme Emergency” put her mind at rest.
Once she had the spaghetti at a reasonably warm, but still safe for fluffy, temperature, she carried the bowls out to the waiting crowd. Setting the spaghetti on the deck table, she put the bowl of carrots and oats laced with additives for the Soon Mummah trio. They ate hungrily, wolfing down the oats, but all throwing hungry glances at the bowl on the table. They already knew better than to ask though.
Margaret picked Jackson up and carried him to the table. “Eat up Jackson, you earne-“As soon as she had placed him down he had buried his entire head into the bowl of pasta. She sighed, walking inside to prepare another bowl of oats, carrots, grabbing a damp kitchen towel to wipe down Jackson with once he finished. By the time she had finished, the trio of mares had finished their bowl and Jackson was lying contentedly on the table, face red with sauce.
Setting down the bowl, she gave the remaining stallions the go ahead to eat as she wiped the sauce off of Jacksons beaming face. As she worked the marinara out of his fluff he wrapped his arms around her forearm in a tight hug. “Wub ‘ou mummah. ‘ou am bestest mummah evah.” Margaret hugged him back. As much as she hated the fluffies for what they did to her garden, they were just so endearing and cute she had grown to love them all. Well almost all of them.
Unwrapping herself from Jackson’s embrace, she walked over to the compost bin. Luckily for Bumbler, the compost bin was out direct sunlight for almost the entire day. It still received enough heat to become unbearably hot, and had it not been for the abundance of clouds that day, he would have been baked alive. Margaret recoiled at the wave of heat and stench that wafted from the bin. “So Bumbler, have you learned your lesson?” Bumbler looked up at her, knee deep in his own filth, defeat in his eyes. Margaret was hopeful he had learned a lesson. “Pwease, Bumbwah need wawa.”
Margaret lifted him by the scruff and carried the stallion to the fountain, a trail of urine and feces falling to the ground as she lifted him from the box. Dropping him roughly in front of the water, she waited for him to drink his fill. Margaret waited patiently for him to finish drinking. He fell back, still panting slightly.
“Well dear? Are you going to behave like a good little fluffy now?” Bumbler didn’t meet her eyes as he answered. “Fwuffy be gud nao.” Margaret smiled outwardly, but seethed on the inside. Even without knowing the telltale signs of a lying fluffy, she’d dealt with enough children to know when they were just telling you what you want to hear. She decided to let him off the hook for now, as another day in the compost bin would probably cause him severe damage, or death. She carried him over to the remainder of oats and carrots. “Eat.”
Bumbler launched himself at the bowl, scattering a good portion into the grass. Margaret waited for him to be about half way done before taking the bowl away. “Wait! Bumbwah nu done wiff nummies yet!” Margaret looked at him, eyes cold. “Too bad, dinner times over. Don’t you dare eat any of the garden or else.” Setting the bowl on the table, she walked over to the deck and took a seat. “Now Bumbler, a few things have changed since you got put in the sorry box. First, let me explain the new rules.”
After finishing her explanation of the rules, Margaret said goodnight to the herd, and walked inside, slamming the door a bit harder than usual. She knew the smarty had absolutely no intention of obeying the rules, or working at all. When Jim had told her smarties were completely unsalvageable, she had assumed it meant it took more time and effort to break them in that they are worth for a creature that usually comes out to around five dollars, tax included. But even after spending over a day in the compost bin, all she had gotten was around seven minutes of docile obedience, and she was pretty sure that was only due to him being far too dehydrated and hungry to talk back.
Looking to the old bullwhip on her wall, she wondered if it would be a bit too much. Having spent a good portion of her life as a cattle farmer’s wife, she had decided to buy it, but with the constant innovations in the herding business, it was obsolete by the time she had finished learning it. Now she mainly used it to scare off any coyotes that got to close to the house.
Housing was also an issue. Margaret knew that sooner or later shed have to build some houses for the fluffies. If a decent sized hailstorm came along, they would, without a question, be reduced to piles of gore. And while Margaret was certain they’d make good fertilizer, she had grown far too attached to most of them to risk letting them die. The problem was space.
She’d originally had the garden fenced in to give her an easy to manage area, but she owned most of the land within two miles of her. Any more than her current garden would be too much of a pain in the ass to handle by herself. But she wasn’t by herself anymore.
Smiling, she picked up the landline and dialed Bill, her son in law and the only contractor in the small town. “Hey Marge, what’s up?” “Bill, I’ve been thinking of expanding my garden a bit. Can you send over Thomas tomorrow around eleven?” Margaret heard him rustling through some papers on the other end of the phone. “Would two be ok? We already have a booking for eleven.” Margaret sighed. “That’s fine Bill. Give my love to Sue.” Hanging up the phone, Margaret got ready for bed. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a big day.