(Note: I’m aware of the weird changes in voice/perspective writing-wise. It’s been a while for me, so I’m incredibly rusty, and also parts of this were written a few months ago in fragments, and I’m trying to patch it together into a coherent whole. I’ll try to keep the switching distinct so it isn’t too confusing. Hopefully)
The drive home was strange. This fluffy seemed eerily silent. Didn’t they have an incessant need to chatter constantly?
Regardless, Daniel had a whole plan worked out to help transition his new fluffy into his home. He did loads of research, and was determined to make this go as smoothly as possible.
After the short tour (Penny seemed to be distracted and disinterested, which was extremely peculiar for an alley fluffy in a new home), it was time for voiding.
Daniel did his best to wrangle the wiggling horse precariously held at arms length. He’d dealt with a fluffy afraid of water before, and intended to head things off at the pass by trying to get this thing to shit before he even mentions the word ‘bath’. He never expected ‘poop’ to be the thing to freak a fluffy out, though. It was one of the simple things they often took a weird delight in, but here this one was acting as though she were being threatened with death.
“Pwease no bad poopies! Huu huu!!” She was already hyperventilating, flipping around and wiggling almost as hard as a freaked out cat.
“Calm down Penny! This is fine! It’s okay here!”
“NO MORE BAD POOPIES!!” She screeched and struggled even harder, full-body sobbing, her tail soaked with dribbles of urine as she held it firmly against her backside.
Sighing in disappointment, Daniel resigned himself to the fact that his modest little dream of finding a regular fluffy with regular fluffy problems was apparently an order too tall for the universe to handle. He changed his grip then, scruffing the struggling creature firmly, bracing it’s back against the lip of the generous garbage bin, and roughly pressing on it’s lower abdomen.
The screaming abruptly cut to the sound of a messy, forceful stream of shit hitting the other side of the bin. The smell was unbearable, and the volume unusually massive, even for a fluffy. The thuds of occasional solids eventually stopped, as dribbling of entirely liquid waste was all there was for the next 30 seconds straight.
“Holy fuck” Daniel did his best not to vomit in his mouth.
The fluffy shivered and whimpered, eyes screwed shut in near catatonic fear, body heaving with suppressed sobs.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.” Daniel lifted Penny out of the bin. Her entire lower half was soiled. The fluffy remained silent. She stayed silent as Daniel used his old kitchen gloves to squeeze the poop from her tail. She didn’t make a peep when the water for the bath was being drawn. She only quietly cried as she was being bathed.
Penny was covered in the filth you would expect from a street fluffy, the layers of dust and debris falling from her coat and clouding the water. The only upside to fluffies being water-averse being that they tended to keep cleaner than other animals. Usually dogs covered in garbage juice would stay that way. A fluffy would rather die than be moist (and usually, they often did).
The silence during bathtime was even more eerie, contrasting with the extreme fit she had thrown before.
Now bathed, dried, and wrapped in a blanket, Daniel placed the buried fluffy in it’s new bed.
“Okay Penny, we’re back in the room. Do you want to talk about what happened?”
The fluffy looked up at him through it’s tears, face swollen from crying. “Nice mistah stiww keep fwuffy? Eben aftew bad poopies?” It’s gratingly childish inflection was exaggerated by it’s stuffed nose. Daniel tried not to think about the snot gathering on the blanket next to it’s face.
“Those weren’t bad, Penny. I wanted you to poop in the bin.”
The fluffy sniffed with a mixture of resignation and gentle derisiveness. "Aww fwuffy poopies bad. Poopies make wittew mummah sad, and big daddeh suu angwy.”
He had no idea what that even meant. Probably some abusers flipping out on it for missing the litterbox by a micrometer or something. Shrugging, he decided to leave her alone to cool down while he made them both dinner. Not spaghetti, he knew to save that.
Maybe some beefaroni mixed with some kibble might help her regain her chill.
Your name is Penny, and you have the tummy hurties again. It’s twisting and squeezing so hard inside, even harder than what your new daddy did to you earlier.
The familiar plastic blue bin taunts you from the corner, and you can practically taste the grit. The nauseating fake pine smell almost seems to follow you, and like an unwelcome guest, the memory of the smell of your poopies comes along too. You squeeze your see places shut and try to ignore it.
You won’t make poopies.
You barely sleep.
Daniel looked at his new ‘companion’, even though it wasn’t acting very companionable. It hardly talked to him, hardly moved. Sometimes it would get up and play with the blocks, but it wouldn’t be long before it looked uncomfortable again and would stiffly walk right back to it’s bed. It spent most of it’s time watching FluffTV on the cheap tablet he’d mounted to the wall (He would never understand wasting a perfectly good flatscreen on a fluffy, they don’t know what 1080p means).
He haphazardly guessed it could be some kind of shock. Maybe the abuse this fluffy went through before was so severe that now that it’s safe, the symptoms are manifesting?
He wasn’t sure. But what confused him the most, was that it had been two days, and the litterbox was practically pristine.
Shaking and sweating in your little fluffy bed, you buckle down for another hard night. You’re trying to get some sleep, but all you can think about is how smelly you are, and how much your tummy hurts. But you’re being a good fluffy, right? For the first time ever in your little fluffy life, you haven’t made bad poopies.
So why do you feel so dirty? Why can you still smell the poopies even though there isn’t any?
Your breathing comes in short, quiet pants.
Why does it always hurt so much?!
You whimper and curl into a tighter ball as another wave of cramps overtakes your tummy.
Then you feel a warmth starting to gather behind you. And the smell intensifies.
Your eyes immediately snap open as panic overtakes you. No, it can’t happen again. You won’t let it happen again!
Maybe if you do it far far away from here, your new daddy won’t know you’ve been a bad fluffy?
You stumble out of your now-damp nestie, the low light of the saferoom night light not enough for you to tell how much of a mess there is. You toddle over to the gate, knowing that if you can make it outside, and far far away, it might just work. You press your hoof against it, and it doesn’t budge. Then your head. The side of your whole body. You try to kick it with one of your back hoofsies, but that just makes more of the bad-poopies come out, and you sob loudly.
You spy the litterbox on the opposite side of the room.
No.
You try again, rattling and pushing against the gate, desperate to save yourself, desperate to keep your new home, desperate to be good. You’re panicking now, breathing ragged. The pain gets to be too much. You feel the sicky wawas coming up your throat.
You sit down, pressing your backside hard into the short, flame-retardant carpet. It does keep the solids in, but the liquid seeps underneath you and directly into the fibers. The smell nauseates you, but not as much as the heart hurties you give yourself.
What a bad fluffy you are.
You begin dragging yourself, praying the friction, the movement, your desperate internal pleading will stop the flow of liquid disappointment from staining your life yet again. Unknowingly leaving a trail of guilt across the room.
You try the wall again, nausea reaching an overwhelming peak. You’re too weak to keep enough tension between your leggies and the wall, jittering and rocking forward slightly, a piece of filth painting a line down the pastel green wall.
Your mouth fills with wawas, and you know the sicky wawas are next. Those can safely go in the litter box, they never escaped or made anybody mad like your poopies did.
You don’t make it to the litterbox.
Instead kneeling halfway there, in the middle of the nice room your new daddy made for you, and you spill from both ends, crying in between heaves.
You’ll never make daddy happy now.
He’ll never love you again. He trusted you and you betrayed him. You really are the worst fluffy that ever lived.
Despondent and spent from your own body wringing you out, you let out a few tired hu huus. Body now shaking from the heaving sobs in your chest, you resolve to at least try to fix things.
You bow your head down, and begin eating. You’ll clean this up.
“What the FUCK!”
The exhausted Penny flinched, sure that it was all over for her now.
Daniel went to go greet his weird fluffy for the morning, and discovered a disaster. The entire room was covered in a frantic trail of shit covered hoofprints, centralizing around a massive stain in the middle of the room. Its smelled worse than a frathouse after spring break. The acrid stench of bile mixed with feces was overwhelming, with the undercurrent of fermentation that made it uniquely unbearable.
Nothing in the room was untouched. Even a section of the wall looked like someone had made a broad stroke with a shit-covered brush. Brown stained the plush microfiber nest, and even the tablet had a smear across it’s screen. He silently affirmed to himself that getting the toddler resistant case was a good and necessary purchase.
Strangely, he couldn’t find any solids. Just the evidence of liquid and putty-like waste ground into every surface.
Penny herself was a mess. Pieces of dried shit tangled in her fluff, concentrating in frequency down her body until it reached her backside, where they abruptly gave way to bare patches of skin. She’d paused with her tongue hanging out, trembling leg in the air, having tried to lick herself clean, and done it so vigorously as to strip away her own fluff.
His resolve to punish her melted at how wrecked and pathetic this creature looked. It immediately turned to horror as he watched her fear transform into a strange blank expression, before she leaned over, heaved, and-
That’s where the turds were.
“NOPE. STOP.”
He said firmly before she could bend down, clearly intent on trying to eat the foul (probably thrice-eaten by this point) mess.
He didn’t think he’d have to obliterate his savings this soon, but it looks like it was time to hit up a vet.
But first, a bath.
