Your name is Penny, and you hate poopies.
They’re awful, dirty, no-smell-pretty, they always hurt, and they’re what make you a dummy fluffy that noone can or SHOULD ever love. They cost you so much in your life. You hate poopies.
When you were a little baby, your fluffy not-mummah would always hurt you whenever you made poopies. As a chirpie, it was shoves, and a harsh voice. You couldn’t understand what she was saying, but it made your heart hurt. When you opened your eyesies and started walking, she would bite your ears. When you were a talkie baby, she started using sorry hoofsies. You never knew why she was such a meanie to you. You would make poopies, then she would eat them, and then do meanie things to you. You did your best never to make poopies at all. It hurt, but you just wanted not-mummah to love you. But it would always come out anyway, and it would make not-mummah mad. One day, meanie not-mummah took her sorry hoofsies and used them to push your little face into the poopies you made.
“Dummeh stoopie poopie babbeh. No more poopies! Pookie no wan eat poopies no moa! Babbeh eat own poopies!”
“POOKIE. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
Not-mummah scrambled away from you, her matted backside dragging across the soiled floor. “P-pookie thought dat b-babbeh am owd enuff to num own poopies nao…” She trailed off quietly.
You hu-huued into your mess, tears brimming, mouth full of foul muck. The angry voice scared you, but you couldn’t see.
“Pookie. All I asked is that you feed and clean up after these fucking foals, and you still can’t do it right. You know what this means.”
Not-mummah cringed and started scrambling away. “NUUHUU!! NU WAN! NU WAN SCAWY GWINDEW MUNSTA!!” She began to sob uncontrollably as she was lifted out of sight.
You didn’t see your not-mummah after that.
You did get a new nestie place though! It was bigger, and full of different foals! You got to hug and play with toysies, but only sometimes. There was only one ball.
The nice mister told all the foals about something called the litter box. And to make poopies there.
You huffed to yourself. All these fluffies were bad fluffies. They made so many poopies, and never cleaned up after themselves! You were determined to be a good fluffy. No, the best fluffy.
But then nighttime came. Your tummy hurt. You squeezed back as long as you could, but your little tummy, full of big fluffy kibble for the first time, twisted and turned. You felt like you had to make sicky wawas. You picked your way out of the fluffpile, the harsh blue LED of the ‘nightlight’ hurting your eyes and putting everything in sharp contrast, especially how big and dark the room outside of the big nestie box was.
Dizzy, you hovered your face over the soiled litter box. You hated the smell. It made you feel sicker. But you were thinking about how you hated poopies so much, that you lost concentration! A sickeningly warm dribble turned into a forceful jet, semi-solids flying behind you in a wide fan.
Behind you, the fluffpile screamed to life in a chorus of crying and protest.
It didn’t matter how hard you tried, you were the worst fluffy. You made poopies, and that made you bad. You didn’t even move as they surrounded you and gave you sorry hoofsies. You didn’t speak as the bright times came and the nice mister yelled at you, and put you in a dark sorry boxie. You just cried. You deserved this.
You are Penny, and you are a big fluffy now.
And you HATE poopies. It made you sick just thinking about it. You’ve tried holding it in, but it always came out in the end, so much more and so much worse than it ever had before.
You hated your poopies. If there was just a way to make them go away forever.
You couldn’t even make scardie poopies anymore, because you were so scared of the poopies itself. Every time you felt that rumble in your tummy, you broke out into a cold sweat. All you could feel was the shelter not-mummah biting your ears and giving you sorry hoofsies for your bad poopies, your first real human mummah crying from the smell and how they made you live outside after it happened just once.
You thought that good poopies went in the litterbox, so that’s where you went, always always, just like the nice mister at the shelter beat into you taught you. But you knew deep down that all poopies were bad poopies, and making poopies made you a bad fluffy. So bad that your first human mummah left you outside and never came back for you.
You tried everything you could think of to stop pooping and to be a good fluffy.
Even after you figured out that most things pooped after they ate, and you stopped trying to eat, it didn’t work. You stopped eating, and then pooped right after deciding not to eat, so it didn’t work. You were really hungry after making those poopies too, so you went back to eating.
You tried blocking up your poopie place, sometimes by sitting down really hard, or pressing your poopie place against the wall. Surely the mass of the whole house should be enough to stop the dreaded poopies? But instead it came out anyway, all over the wall, or the floor. ANY poopies was bad poopies, even when you tried to stop them. That’s when they kicked you out of the yard and said to never come back.
You spent what felt like forever living on your own, having to eat yucky garbage nummies, and trying hard to stay away from the other fluffies your first human mummah warned you about.
Poopies made you sad, they were proof you were a bad fluffy, the worst fluffy, and that’s why you were all alone, and eating garbage. Proof of how you deserved to be by yourself, and be a dummy no smell pretty fluffy forever.
Then one day, something happened that you least expected. Usually you try to stay out of the way, because you knew that as a fluffy that always made bad poopies, any humans around you would be mad. But you couldn’t run away fast enough this time. You cowered in the back of the alley, nowhere to run, the pressure building in your guts as you tried reflexively not to make scared poopies in front of the human mister.
Your name is Daniel, and you’re looking for a fluffy. You’d always been curious about them, but never wanted to spend money on one. The only experience you had was babysitting your cousin’s spoiled brat of a fluffy, but you thought they were more like dogs. They’re only as good as they’re trained to be. Of course, that sentiment didn’t stop your cousin’s neighbor from going to jail when their pitbull broke through and mauled the fluffy. Allegedly. We don’t talk about how people told him over and over not to let his fluffy climb on the countertops, or why a fluffy who dies from mauling would have full body burns.
But, now you’ve inherited a full set of equipment for keeping a fluffy. And you were determined to see if you could make a companion out of a feral. Surely they weren’t all warped caricatures?
You spied a dusty lavender ball of fluff rooting through a crumpled brown grocery bag, and decided to make your introduction. They seemed placid enough, and looked alright. The flashes of copper eyes were striking against the washed out colors of it’s body.
Approaching the powder blue tail, you barely got a word in before it heard you and dashed further into the alley, faster than a cat chased by a cucumber. You eventually cornered it. It simply shook and stared downward, and the sight broke your heart a little bit.
You got down on it’s level, and spoke as carefully as you could.
“Hi there. Why is a pretty fluffy like you by yourself?”
The fluffy’s shaking seemed to intensify. “B-because Penny is a dummeh no good poopie fwuffy.”
You shook your head sadly. Not only did this fluffy used to have an owner, but they were clearly an abuser to make a fluffy talk about themselves this way. It wasn’t even brown and it called itself a poopie fluffy!
“You don’t sound like a dummy to me. How would you like to come live with me?”
“Penny no desweb to wiv wif nice mistah, jus mess up aww da time. Am bad fwuffy.” It sniffled, still shaking, still avoiding eye contact.
You didn’t care anymore, this sealed it. This fluffy was coming home with you. It just needed a little reprogramming was all. You used to do this all the time while fostering other animals, back when they were more widespread. It shouldn’t be too different.
“It’s okay, Penny, was it? I can teach you how to be a good fluffy.” You were confident this actually was a good fluffy that was just abused and brainwashed into thinking it was bad for no reason. Nothing a little careful attention couldn’t fix.
Your name is Penny, and you have a new daddy. He’ll teach you how to be a good fluffy, for sure. He seems tall and brave, especially since he can make one of those big, growly, fast metal monsters carry him wherever he wants to go.
The pressure from the scardie poopies subsided now that you weren’t startled by your new daddy anymore, but you still had to go really really badly. But you held it in.
Your little fluffy brain was hell bent on never making poopies again.