Continuing on with this story while I work through writers block on the ipad fluffy two-parter. This one’s a little on the shorter side but the next one to go up is a little on the longer side so it all evens out.
You are Aloe, the designer smartie mare.
You aren’t the strongest leader of a herd. Nor are you the most cunning, or intimidating, or smartest, but you are charismatic, and your designer teethies are sharp enough to make any potential usurpers have their doubts.
Especially because you know well how to use them. Currently, those very same teethies of yours are planted deep in the neck of a smartie whose territory you have just conquered.
You have him pinned face-down, as if giving him special huggies, and his hoofies flail uselessly at his sides, never connecting. Still, he struggles, screeching incoherently, and you can feel the tendons in his neck shred themselves on your teeth and his heartbeat fade as he goes out kicking and screaming.
Finally, you stand up. With their leader slain, the few remaining stragglers run off into the night, sobbing to themselves or swearing vengeance all the while.
The fluffies you had just ousted weren’t all bad fluffies as you had said, but they weren’t your fluffies, either, and more importantly, they were living easily and you were not. Why should a bunch of fluffies live easily in some human’s garden when they weren’t even able to defend it?
Licking the blood from your mouth, you turn to address your herd. “Fwiens, da baddie-fwuffies aww wun away. Dey ate bewwies, an’ dey pwayed in da fowas, and dey swept in da gwassies, but dey nu wan defen’ it! Dey wan’ bewwies an dey nu wan gib ouchies, so dis ows now!”
“So it is.”
You jump and let out an undignified eep as there’s a human not far behind you that you hadn’t heard approach.
Oh poopies. You know it never ends well when a human discovers fluffies in their yard.
You keep your distance and turn to glare at him, puffing your cheeks out in the off chance it makes you any more intimidating. You can’t tell whether or not it does.
“You have driven other fluffies away, yes,” the human continues, “but… why should I let you stay?”
He’s not looking at anybody else as he asks it— the question is specifically for you. And something about the way he’s acting reminds you of your old, meanie mommy.
You realize your herd, who have now gathered around in a crowd, would block any attempts at escape. If you run, you’ll look weak and get nowhere, so you stand your ground and do your best to provide an answer you think he’ll agree with.
“Betause… betauussse nice hooman mistah wet otha’ fwuffies pway in his gawden?”
“Mmhmm. I did, yes.” The human sniffs, whatever that means. “But those were my fluffies. I let my fluffies play in my garden, and then you drove them off or killed them. So, let me ask you again: why should I let you stay?”
Ohhhhhhhhh poopies. He’s really reminding of your mean mommy now, and you shift to bolt, only for a weird look in his eye to make you think twice about it. You do your best to appear agreeable.
“Ahh… mmmaibeyyy… Awoe’s hewd… could.. be nice mistah’s nyu fwuffies?”
It’s a hopeful pitch, to say the least, but one he genuinely seems to consider. The old human approaches and crouches down to level with you.
“Very well.” He whispers into your ear. “But I require a price. You will give me your ability to make babies, and you will surrender your herd to me to do with as I please.”
Hmmmmmm no. “Why Awoe agwee tu dat?”
The white-haired mister smiles big and toothie like, real big and toothie like, and he whispers back, “Ah, because you do not have a choice, little one. You have already let me come within arm’s reach, have you not? But think of your herd. You wouldn’t want to seem weak and foolish in front of them, would you? They’ll love you for your sacrifice.”
The way he talks makes you feel like there’s something greasy hiding under your fur. It makes you feel sickies. Your inklings were right— he is like your old mommy.
You don’t want to give away the ability to have any more babies! You’ve already had two litters and you love them and they’re the strongest and bestest babies ever. You didn’t even know it was possible to take away someone’s ability to make babies or what this meanie human will do with it, but you don’t doubt that human magics are capable of such a thing.
All the same, you know as well as any smartie how synonymous weakness is with death. “F-fine. Awoe Aksept.” You turn to address your gathered fluffies. “Fwiens! Stawwions! Mawes! Awoe has ‘ta big announsmen! Dis mista say you giv ouchies to his favowite fwuffies! He say you am bad and meanie fwuffies!”
A round of “das’ not twu!” and “am goo’ fwuffies!” sounds out in response to the accusation, though they simmer down quickly.
“But… dis mistah is a… a- a… nice mistah,” you reluctantly hiss. “He say he gon fo’gib you if Awoe give sowwies! Whut sowwies Awoe gib? Bigges’ sowwies. Awoe give… abilidy make babies! So nice mista no angwy at you. Yuuuu nu fowget this! Awoe am nices’ smawtie ebah!”
Your herd, as usual, are deeply moved by your address– to tears in several cases– and you look into as many of their eyes as you can so they don’t forget.
Because you will never live this secret humiliation down.
As you finish, the human mister produces a pokey-owie stick from behind his back, and at that point your bravery fails you. Agreement be damned, you hate pokey-owie sticks, and so you make a break for it, closing all of two steps before he pins you down and pricks your haunch anyway.
The last thing you feel as your consciousness fades is a pair of cold-fingered hands grasp your torso and lift you up, up, up, off the pavement and indoors.