“Mummah, wut am ‘Pwow’ fo’?” Grapenut asked inquisitively as Thomas demonstrated how to hook fluffies into the machine. “It’s to make the ground soft and easy to plant things into dearie.” Margaret replied. Thomas had done a fantastic job. The plow was beautiful, and she still couldn’t believe that Thomas had really thrown it together in two days.
Made out of some soft, light pinewood, it was a standard two horse model, almost the same as she had seen in her parent’s barn back when she was a child. The steel blade of the share was obviously custom made, as was every other part. The straps for hooking fluffies into the plow had been cushioned with quilted fabric, and he had even taken the time to paint and varnish the whole thing.
Margaret walked inside the house and retrieved the old Folgers coffee can she kept behind the TV. Retrieving five hundred-dollar bills from the roll of money hidden inside, she walked back outside, handing it to the young man. Thomas’s eyes went wide. “Margaret this is far too much money for-“ Margaret interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “Shut up and take the money Thomas, you earned it.”
She turned to see the fluffies sniffing the plow, confused as to its purpose. Smiling, she called the fluffies to attention. Obediently, the herd lined up, with the exception of one. Margaret turned with a scowl to see Punky too busy grooming the tiny pink and black foal. “Punky.” The mare flinched, but pretended not to notice. “PUNKY.” Margaret’s voice carried an edge to it now, but still Punky continued to ignore her and began humming, loudly and off-key, a tune which Margaret could tell was her ‘Bestest Baby’ song. Margaret knew because it was the same tune she had been singing throughout the night after she left.
The ‘Covert Ops Teddy’ Package had already proven its worth. The instant Margaret had left the garden, Punky began to sing to her favorite foal, at the same time she complained to the foals about the ‘Meanie owd wady munstah’. Margaret had learned the ranking system she had set in place by the feeding schedule.
First, the black and pink ‘Bestest Babbeh’ was allowed to drink as much as it wanted, then the “pwetty pink babbeh” was allowed to drink, then the “Not-so pwetty babbehs” were allowed to drink. She had also listened with rage as Clementine tried to remind her of the baby rules, only to be met with a hoof to the nose, as well as threats of further “Sowwy Hoofsies” should she tell Margaret. As much as Margaret wanted to walk outside and boot Punky over the fence, she didn’t want to reveal that she was keeping an ear on them at all times yet.
But right now was different. Right now, Punky was willfully disobeying rules. Silently, Margaret crept up behind the mare. “PUNKY!” The mare yelped as Margaret shouted her name from directly behind her, wheeling around as her foals chirped and peeped in distress, all releasing a stream of ‘scaredy poopies’ as their mother turned to face Margaret.
“Why ‘ou yeww a’ Punky?” The mare demanded furiously as she stomped her hooves in anger. “Punky, when I call for the herd to line up, that means the whole herd. Not ‘everyone but Punky line up’. Am I understood?” Punky scowled. “Dummeh munsta no yeww a’ Punky!” Before Margaret could react, Punky had wheeled around yet again, tail lifted to her back, and screamed “TAKE SOWWY POOPIES!” before releasing a foul wave of effluent at the old womans legs.
The rest of the fluffies gasped. Punky too, seemed a bit shocked at what she had just done. Margaret, however, was barely managing to hold back a grin. Finally, she had a reason to discipline Punky and not worry about hurting her babies.
She turned to face the herd, their mouths agape in horror. She picked a fluffy at random. “Jackson, can you tell me what rule Punky broke just now?” Jackson, in shock, turned to Margaret. “Punky make poopies outside o’ wittah bocks!” Margaret heard Thomas stifling laughter.
Grapenut raised his hoof. “Punky did not tawk to mummah wiff wespect.” Margaret nodded somberly. “Punky has had so many chances to behave. Yet every time I give her a chance she wastes it.” Grabbing the fluffy by her back leg, Margaret lifted her up roughly, Punky letting out an involuntary “BAD UPSIES!” as her foals peeped and chirped in fear.
Carrying her to the deck, Margaret retrieved the sorrystick from its place by the door. Margaret sat down on a deck chair and laid Punky over her leg, teats hanging over her leg. Punky began to squeal and struggle to get away. Margaret tightened her grip and took aim.
The first strike caused Punky to void her bowels, this time it was much more solid. Margaret guessed they had some sort of storage sac for holding the foul, liquid shit to release it for defense purposes. “POOPIE PLACE HUWTIES!” Margaret wondered if certain phrases were programmed into the creatures, or simply the result of a lack of vocabulary and intelligence. Margaret threw a glance at the herd, who continued to flinch with every stroke of the stick.
Stopping at thirty strokes, Margaret leaned in towards the gasping fluffy. “Dearie, have you reflected on your actions yet? We can always go on for another thirty” The fluffy began to sob. “Fwuffy am sowwy mummah.” Margaret considered continuing until she could hear actual remorse in the sobbing mares voice, but a look at the trembling herd, barely containing their scaredy poopies, told her it wasn’t a good idea to continue.
Dropping the mare roughly on her backside earned a new scream of pain from the rebellious mare. Walking over to the hose, she rinsed her legs off, the fluffies shying away slightly from the spray of cool well water. Returning to the deck, water dripping from the old work pants she wore, she took a seat to collect herself.
“Who is that darling ray of sunshine Marge?” Thomas asked from his place at the fence gate. Margaret stood and walked over to him. “The smarty’s mate.” Margaret grunted. “Been meaning to discipline her, but I never want to do it unless they give me a reason to in front of all the rest of them to do so. She apparently got cocky since I refused to do so before because she was pregnant and I didn’t want to risk a miscarriage.”
Thomas nodded solemnly. “She’s going to be a pain in the ass for sure. Got all the markings of a smarty.” Margaret cocked her head. “A female smarty? I thought only stallions could be smarties?” Thomas laughed. “Nope. While it’s a lot rarer, a female can be a smarty, usually happens to fill a void in a herd when the previous smarty dies.”
Margaret looked at the mare, currently huuhuuing in pain as her foals climbed her tender teats to feed. “Why babbehs huwt mummah?” Punky sobbed before screaming in pain as the red foal latched onto the teat. Margaret was confused. “The smarty’s not dead. Is he? Shit.” Pushing past Thomas she walked through the gate towards the old pecan tree. She saw Bumbler in the same position she left him, hoisted by his front hooves with his back hooves just barely touching the ground.
Bumbler was in a bad state. Half of his face was crusted over with dried blood, his ragged ear crawling with horse flies, feasting on the rotting scraps of meat still held on by thin strands of flesh. Grabbing the small pocketknife she carried, Margaret cut the baling twine holding the fluffy up, and he collapsed weakly at her feet. Thomas almost retched as he came near.
“Christ Margaret, I know he hurt another fluffy but this is a bit much isn’t it?” Margaret nudged the fluffy with her foot and he groaned softly. “Bumbwah sowwy. Bumbwah neva’ huwt fuffy again.” Margaret shrugged. “He’s still alive. Looks worse than it is, shithead only took a single lash.” She turned to face the young man. “Didn’t you say to kill him?” Thomas looked at her in shock. “Yeah, like put him down or shoot him in the head, not this!” Margaret laughed. “Well at least he’s actually sorry this time. Hold on, I need to get some things from the kitchen.”
Inside the house Margaret retrieved a pair of heavy duty shears and a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and cellar. The booze had been Leo’s; it was a high proof home brew Leo had brewed in his second year of retirement. Tasted awful but was around eighty percent alcohol by volume, so it would suit her needs.
Walking back to the tree, Margaret lifted Bumblers head and placed it in her lap. “Now dear, I want to make a couple promises to me before I help you okay?” Bumbler stared back at Margaret silently, but nodded slightly. “Ok dearie, firstly, if you ever, EVER hurt another fluffy, I will tie you to that tree and leave you there for the rest of your short, miserable life. Am I understood?” Another slight nod. “Second, you are NOT the leader of the herd, I am. Understood?” She saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but as she reached for the baling twine he quickly nodded. “Lastly, I want to talk to you about your babies.”
“Bumbwah is daddeh?” he rasped through his dry lips, a twinge of hope in his voice.
Margaret smiled stiffly. “Yes. I want to let you know the baby rules.” Bumbler listened as she listed the rules, nodding in agreement to each rule. Satisfied that he understood the rules, Margaret softly stroked his mane. “Bumbler, this is going to hurt, but it’s the only way to make sure you won’t go forever sleepies later, okay?”
Bumbler looked at her, scared. “Pwease no huwt fwuffy mummah.” Margaret sighed. “I’m sorry dear. Thomas can you come here and hold him still please?” Thomas obliged, straddling the fluffy while holding his nose. “God he stinks. Do it quickly Marge.”
Margaret placed the shears at the base of the fluffies torn ear and quickly cut through. Bumbler opened his mouth to scream, the only sound escaping from the dehydrated pony being a slow hiss. Margaret uncorked the bottle of whiskey and doused the stump, pouring a bit down into his ear to kill any wayward maggots or eggs.
Margaret dried the area with her sleeve before tilting the fluffies head to pour the remaining whiskey out. She checked if Bumbler was still awake, but it appeared he had lost consciousness the moment the alcohol had hit his ear. Thomas stood to the side stony faced. Margaret flung the ear off into the tall grass past the tree, hoping that he had been sufficiently traumatized into obedience.
Lifting the fluffy by the scruff, she carried him back to the garden, laying him in the shade by the deck. The other fluffies, especially Grapenut, stared at Bumbler with a mixture of fear and anger. Margaret was interested to see if any of them would forgive him or if he would be an outcast. Working with these creatures constantly reminded her of her days as a teacher.
Pushing those thoughts aside for another time, Margaret called Thomas over to her. “Now, before we were so rudely interrupted, we were about to walk them through using the plough.” Margaret picked the two most similarly sized ponies, which happened to be Button and Bullet, to be the demonstration pair. She had hoped to put Jackson into the plough as this seemed like something he would enjoy, but he, while in no way a runt, was significantly smaller than the rest of his peers.
With some help from Thomas, the two fluffies were hooked in. Thomas showed her how to lift the back end a bit to position the blade of the plow in the right spot. With everything set, Margaret gave the ponies the command to walk forwards.
“Alright dearies, walk towards me!” Bullet and Button answered with an “Otay Mummah!” And began to strain against the straps of the plow as they attempted to walk towards her.
Instantly, problems became apparent. Due to Button being a stallion, he was a bit stronger that Bullet, the row slowly curving towards his side as he pulled a bit harder. Coupled with this, the two fluffies had no sense of coordination, their paces completely mismatched. Margaret was prepared for this; she had expected the two to fail in the first place.
“This looks like it will take some training Marge.” Thomas chuckled. “Of course it is, but I have about a dozen years left, and nothing better to do.” Margaret replied with a laugh. Thomas pulled out his phone to check the time. “Shit Margaret, I have to go, I’m fifteen minutes late to an appointment, Betty wants a fucking pagoda built in her backyard and I have to be the one to tell her it’s against code.”
As Margaret listened to the sounds of Thomas’s truck pull out of her driveway she turned her attention back to the two fluffies, who were panting slightly from the exertion of walking the plow about ten feet. Margaret desperately hoped the fluffies would be able to build muscle, her plans for expanding her garden hinged on their ability to do hard work. Setting them up to redo the line, she suddenly remembered the three legged races that were a staple of the old schoolhouses field days.
Walking inside, Margaret retrieved some baling twine. “Mummah, wut stwingy thing fow?” Bullet asked her inquisitively, a hoof raised as much as possible. Smiling, Margaret lightly bound her leg to Buttons, the other fluffy just as curious as to its purpose as Bullet was.
“This is to make sure you guys walk together at the same pace dearies.” Button attempted to raise a hoof before giving up and asking her “Wut am pace mummah?” Margaret stopped tying the legs together as she desperately tried to think of a way to explain the concept of pace without continuing to have to explain what something is each time, before deciding to just pat them on the head. “Nothing you need to worry about dear.”
Setting the plow up for another run, she decided to try and coach them a bit. “Alright dearies,” she touched their legs positioned on the outside of the plow, them giggling as she stroked their legs. “These are your outside legs, okay?” Bullet giggled and cooed. “Otay mummah, dat tickews.” Smiling, Margaret moved to touch the legs she had bound together. “These are your inside legs, okay?” Button, nodded. “Otay mummah, dese awe inside weggies!” He lifted his bound leg and shook it, then lifted his other legs. “An’ dese awe outside weggies!”
Margaret smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Very good Button! Now, when I say OUTSIDE, you step forwards with your outside legs, and when I say INSIDE, you step forwards with your inside legs, okay?” The fluffies smiled and nodded, eager to make their mummah happy.
Taking her place on the other side of the vegetable patch, the tilling began. “OUTSIDE! INSIDE! OUTSIDE! INSIDE!” The fluffies struggled a bit at first, Bullet nearly having faceplanted when she mixed the legs up, but steadily they made way through the field, the tilled line, while not straight as anything a machine or Margaret herself could have made, was straight enough to work with. As a bonus, with the fluffies walking in sync they weren’t nearly as exhausted. Margaret smiled. It was only a line in the dirt, but it was done entirely by fluffies, with only minimal coaching from her.
Margaret had the fluffies run three more lines, by the end of which the two were panting hard. Unhooking the two from the plow, Margaret carried the two over to the fountain for a drink. Softly stroking the two, Margaret was happy. For the longest time since Leo’s death she had been alone at home. She had come to genuinely enjoy the time spent with the little horse creatures.
Button and Bullet finished drinking and nuzzled up to Margaret’s leg. She stroked their manes before standing up. The sun was just beginning to set. Smiling, Margaret walked inside and began to prepare dinner, preparing some spaghetti for the two work horses and oats, carrots and apples for the rest of the herd. The field wasn’t completely plowed yet, but it was more than enough for her to begin to plant. But that was a matter for tomorrow.