The interior of the trunk was awfully cold by the time Roadside Assistance bothered to come and get Yeti’s new friend out of the ditch he’d spun into, but Yeti did not complain. He knew better than to talk inside the sorry box–he’d been taught much better than that as a calf. Still, he was mighty uncomfortable.
And it stank. Some time ago, the fluffalo just wasn’t able to hold his poopies anymore, and now the opposite side of the sorry box was coated in them. He sighed as he watched the vile mess congeal in the frosty temperature, udderly disappointed in himself. He would be even more so once the nice mistuw opened the box and screamed at what he saw.
“So sowwy, nice mistuw,” Yeti mooed, head hung in shame. “Yeddeh nu mean to.”
The man was trembling with fury now, a fury he simply could not and would not contain. His morning alarm had been set to PM, making him late for an important meeting. Then, as he was rushing as quickly as he could in the unsafe conditions–fuck this job, honestly–he saw what he THOUGHT was a lost toddler in the middle of the street! He swerved to avoid the child and fell into a fucking ditch, damaging his baby’s rear bumper… and if THAT wasn’t undignified enough, he realized it was actually just some stupid ratpig! He could’ve run it the fuck over! Now, as the coup de grace of this horrible, awful day, his baby has frozen SHIT all over it. He had NO idea how he was going to clean it, but he knew EXACTLY what he was going to do to feel better about it. His chest heaved as he grasped the fluffalo by the scruff, digging his fingernails in just for spite. Using his and its weight for leverage, he slung it into the yawning darkness of his garage, the final resting place of many a fluffy, with every ounce of his might.
Yeti landed neatly on his hooves.
While his gobsmacked new friend took a moment to process, the fluffalo took a moment of his own to appreciate his surroundings. The space held a kind of gloomy darkness that made it seem much larger, but the fluffalo was in no way eager to explore it. Dark stains splattered the stinking walls that smelled metallic and wrong. Nailed into them were rusted-over metal tools that glittered in the little light the painted-over windows permitted. Crunching under the fluffalo’s hooves was a filthy tarp that may have once been a color.
Yeti would have had something to say, but the man seized him by the scruff and began to drag before the thought could be fully formulated.
“You little shit,” he heaved through clenched teeth, having thoroughly exhausted himself manhandling the overweight fluffalo all morning. “You’re fucking disgusting, all of you. Fucking… disgusting.”