“No, no. It’s not that hard. Try it again.”
“Huuuuu su sowwy daddeh…pwetty namesie am…am…”
"Yeah? Come on…"
“Kabba…heeba?”
THWACK
“OWWWWIES! WAI HUWTIES? NU GIF WOWSTEST HITTIES TU SMEWW PWACE!”
“Kalahira. Ka. La. Hee. Rah. You have one more chance not to sound like a bad Borat impression.”
“Huuuuu nu wike dis game…”
“SAY IT!”
“YEEEP! Wawaweewa! Wawaweewa!”
…
That was a month ago. She’d been left in an alley, pregnant and sad. Tummeh babbehs doomed to grow up without a daddeh! Without wawm howsie! Kalahira was so sad. She didn’t want her meanie namesie anymore. It had taken bestest daddeh away! She’d been so excited when he brought her home from the park she’d been raised in, but when she couldn’t pronounce her name, he dumped her two towns over where she’d never been before.
But all that changed when new daddeh Don came.
He was an older hoomin. His hair was graying and thin on top, his face locked in a permanent expression of "Hm? Hm…" The classic suburban daddeh type, she thought. He told her her new name was Ginger and that she and her babbehs were going to live with him. “My kids say I’m lonely.” That made Kalahira sad, but then she remembered she wasn’t Kalahira anymore and went with the nice mister.
Her babbehs had just started talking. Nothing major yet, just basic stuff like “miwkies” and “mummah” and the ever popular “wub.” Nyu daddeh wasn’t talking much, but she followed him home singing while she went. As they arrived at his home, he beckoned her in.
He had a small saferoom setup in the living room of his single story ranch house. It was delineated by some babygates and fencing he’d put up. It had a bed, a blanket, and a couple toys. Had a small litterbox and a food/water bowl too. The toys were all extremely soft, and the nummie bowl had a bunch of twisty curvy ridges and canyons in it. It made eating fast hard. She had to go slow or she wound up hurting her teefies on the plastic.
But the nummies bowl wasn’t the problem.
The litterbox was too small, clearly meant to be the last temporary one you buy before upgrading to the “adult fluffy litterbox.” Don had bought it because it was the cheapest, but it was the cheapest because it was too small for a grown fluffy but not small enough to be designed for babbehs. It wasn’t terribly popular as most folks would just get a full sized one early in life and either hook up ramps to it or position it where they can get in. Nobody ever upgraded through this one.
But the litterbox wasn’t the problem.
The litter was coarse. Scratchy and pointy, it stuck in the mummah’s hoofsies and clung to her fluff. It smelled bad, like soggy newspapers, and it kicked up more dust than she was used to. Her babbehs hated it too. The dust would fill the air down close to it, so they’d all be coughing and wheezing while they did their business.
But the litter wasn’t the problem.
The toys weren’t all that much fun. There was a ball, sure, but it didn’t bounce all that well. It was soft, but not in a huggable fluffy way. More in a squishy foam way. She didn’t like it as much, and it smelled like chemicals. The blocks were worse. They were made out of the same squishy foam material, and had been left in humid conditions long enough they’d swollen slightly. As a consequence, the blockies wouldn’t stay stacked. Ever.
But the toys weren’t the problem.
None of these things were the problem. In fact, all of these minor issues could be easily solved, thought Ginger, if she explained them to Daddeh Don. But that was the problem. He had very strict rules, and the biggest one was “no noise.” It’s why the toys were foam. It’s why the nummies bowl is meanie. Even the litter in the litterbox was picked mostly because it didn’t make crunching sounds when stepped on.
But noise meant speech as well.
On day one after he explained the rules (“Don’t make noise or bother me. I’ll get you if I want something.”) Ginger went to the playpen and started feeding her babbehs and singing a mummah song. She got about two lines in when a shout came from across the den. “Hey! Keep it down! I’m watching Columbo.” Ginger was startled, but she understood. She quieted down substantially, practically whispering her song to her cooing babbehs. She didn’t even notice daddeh approach.
SMACK
With an open hand he slapped her upside the back of her head, sending her tumbling forward and knocking her babbehs off her tummeh. “Whoooooa! Hewp! Mummah faww downsies! Sabe Gingew, daddeh!” But instead of the warm arms of daddeh, she was met with the lash of a sorry stick across her tummeh. "I! Said! To! Be! QUIET!" With the last hit he really leaned into it. Blood spotred her pretty blue tummeh fluff, but the real wounds were yet to be apparent.
Over time daddeh made clear what he meant: No sounds. No talking. No singing. No humming or whistling. No chirps or peeps from the babbehs. Violations resulted in abuse. Mummah would get hit, with a sorry stick if she was lucky. They were extremely painful, but it was all surface level damage, only skin deep. Sometimes daddeh would just use a rolled up magazine or a wooden spoon. Once when he was on the back deck and she was basking in the evening sun one of her babbehs started excitedly peeping. It was the chubby purple colt who still couldn’t talk. All her children had been slowed developmentally due to the lack of singing and speaking in their lives, but poor little Grape couldn’t speak at ALL yet. It never dampened his love for life, though. He was her most excitable and adventurous child.
“Shush! Babbeh nu make woud noiseies! Daddeh nu wike!” But it was too late. Daddeh stepped off the patio toward them, and just when Ginger thought he was going to pick her up, he stopped and grabbed a fistful of gravel. Then, he threw it at her from ten feet away, showering her and her progeny with a couple dozen small pointy stones.
The babbehs started melting down, and Ginger went into damage control. “Nuuu! Babbehs, kwiet pweeze! Daddeh nu wike woud!” Daddeh had gone inside and by the time he returned she’d calmed the foals. Grape had been especially difficult, but now he was curled up in her tummeh fluff hiccoughing from all the milkies.
Daddeh had a jar in his hand. An empty peanut butter jar. The lid had holes in it, and so did the bottom. The holes up top were about the size of a small marble, while the ones in the bottom were more akin to a pepper shaker. Wordlessly, he yoinked Grape and put him in the jar. Then he casually dropped the jar as he walked back inside.
Ginger was confused. He’d never done this before! He’d only given hurties to good mummahs, and sometimes flicky hurties to babbehs, but never this! She trotted after daddeh unsure what to do. “D…daddeh? Wai put Gwapey babbeh in wittwe sowwy cuppy?” He wheeled around and kicked her in the side. Not hard, but hard enough to knock the wind out of her and tumble sideways about six feet. "I told you to SHUT UP." He then turned and went back inside.
Ginger laid in the grass for a few moments, crying softly. Her babbehs came to cheer her up and give her huggies. “Wub mummah!” “Miwkies? Wub!” “Huggies! Wawm!” It didn’t help. It just reminded her that her adolescent colts and fillies still had the vocabulary of recent walkie-talkie babbehs. She scooped them all up onto her back and then trudged over to the jar.
Grape was inside and he was throwing a fit. He was down on his belly, thrashing his weggies around and screaming. “SCREEEEEEEEEE! WAAAAAAA! HUUHUHUHUHUHUUUUUUUU!” Ginger tried to give huggies, but the meanie jar was too powerful and blocked her love! She shuddered. Hoomin magic was terrifying.
She tried to scoop the jar up onto her back, but couldn’t. It was unwieldy and hard to grasp. Then she rolled it across the lawn to the two steps up onto the porch. Grape was sobbing and making scaredy chirps while she did, but the worst part was when she tried to get him up the stairs. She tried rolling it up with her nose, but she kept dropping it. Then she tried positioning it with her hoofsies, but weeks of blockies that don’t stack had made skills like that hard to maintain. After many forevers, she got the soggy smelly mess of a foal onto the deck. She was rolling him over to the dog door when daddeh returned.
“He’s not coming in here.” She looked up, puzzled, but dared not speak. “Christ, what’re you deaf? He’s not coming in. Leave him out here. I don’t want him anymore.” Ginger started tip tapping nervously. What did daddeh mean? How could she give Grape bestest milkies if he couldn’t even come inside? She tried to roll the jar again, but daddeh stopped it with his foot. “No. Leave it.”
The sun was low in the sky and her babbehs were hungry. Head hung in sorrow, she followed daddeh back inside, leaving only Grape on the deck, booping his tiny hoofsies against the side in a desperate attempt to recall his mother. She ate as quick as she could, suppressing several owwies, and soon started feeding her babbehs. When they were done, she realized Grape hadn’t eaten and went out through the fluffy door.
The jarwas still upright, and Grape was a quivering heap in the bottom. While Ginger had been indoors a couple squirrels had decided to bother Grape, and they were running around and jumping on the jar while he cowered in fear of their bushy tails. Ginger chased the meanie squirrels away and positioned the jar so her milkie place went through one of the holes on top. It was too small and gave her nipple hurties, but Grape was able to KIND OF latch. It took much longer than normal, but he fed. He didn’t get as much as normal, though, because his shitty latch combined with being fed last. There wasn’t as much milk and he spilled a decent amount of it, so to speak.
Still hungry, the pitiful purple chunko sat on his haunches and made his tiny huggy leg pose. His quivering lip and wet eyes made leaving hard, but it was getting dark and Ginger knew she wouldn’t be safe. The jar would protect Grape, she hoped, and she rolled him close to the dim garden light before returning inside.
On the deck, Grape sat alone as the sun disappeared. The garden light illuminated his jar, but he could barely see to the edge of the deck. It was just so dark. While he strained his immature eyes to see, the noises began.
Grape joined them.