“Mummah wub babbehs, babbehs wub mummah”
“Mummah gib miwkies, babbehs dwink miwkies”
“Babbehs gwow biggies, babbehs gwow stwongies”
“Mummah gib huggies, babbehs wub huggies”
“Mummah wub babbehs, babbehs wub mummah”
Normally, Shane would be very excited and would pop a boner at hearing a soon-mummah song, as that meant there would soon be tiny little chirpy babbehs for him to rape. This time, however, something in his brain gently told him that was a bad idea, and he didn’t like that something.
“Dummeh thinkie pwace, Shane gonna hab bestest chiwpy babbeh enfies, thinkie pwace nu gonna stop bestest enfies.” Shane muttered. He had spent the rest of the day huddled in the corner, only moving to eat and drink and try to use the litterbox. Much to his dismay, he was unable to make any poopies, not even good litterbox poopies, only managing a small stream of good peepees before running back to his corner to hide in the open.
Sally, to Shane’s annoyance, was happily flitting between such disparate activities as singing to her belly, stacking blocks, chasing a ball, chasing the blocks, stacking the balls, gorging herself on soon-mummah kibble, and making good poopies and peepees, all while blissfully happy. Several times through the day, Pistol had stopped to check in on them.
“How are my little fluffies doing?” He’d ask, to be answered by Sally dropping whatever she was doing and running over to tell Pistol how much she loved him. He listened as Sally babbled on and on about toys and poopies, but her favorite and most frequented subject was now her ‘tummeh babbehs’.
“-an den tummeh babbehs nee mo’ nummies, an Sawwy hab big thinkies an den SAWWY NUMMIED DA NUMMIES!” Sally informed Pistol loudly enough that she could be heard from outside. Despite the inanity of her statements, Pistol listened carefully and patiently, even asking Sally follow on questions like were the nummies good nummies and such.
Pistol was surprised to hear one thing in particular, however. When he asked her what color her bestest babbeh would be, she rebuked him.
“Siwwy daddeh! Sawwy nu gonna hab meanie bestest babbeh, Sawwy onwy gon hab gud babbehs, an aww da gud babbehs get aww da wub an aww da miwkies.” She said, unmistakably prideful.
“Good for you Sally, that’s right, only mean mummahs have bestest babbehs, nice mummahs only have good babbehs. Who taught you that?”
“Sawwy mummah towd Sawwy an Sawwy bwuddahs an sissies dat wen Sawwy wa widdwe! Mummah towd Sawwy dat eben da nu-smeww-pwetty babbehs am stiww jus widdwe babbehs an jus nee wub an’ miwkies tuu!” Sally beamed at Pistol’s obvious look of approval.
From the corner, Pistol could clearly hear Shane muttering, as fluffies have less control over their volume then they do their bowels.
“Shane gon show dummeh Sawwy dat dewe aways bestest babbeh, an dat onwy bestest babbehs desewb bestest miwkies, oddah babbehs jus fow enfies an’ cowd time nummies.”
This time it took a moment, but soon enough came the predictable WHAM of Shane slamming his head into the floor against his will.
The next day, Pistol submitted his completed proof for the Riemann hypothesis to the Annals of Mathematics, and after reading the latest issue of Nature which had his elegant, three sentence long, Unified Grand Theory of Physics on the front page, he went to check on his fluffies.
Sally was, as ever, a vibrant ball of fluff, joy, and love, while Shane was still pouting in the corner.
“Shane buddy, your punishment is over, hold out your ‘hurtie leggie’ so daddy can make the owwies go away.”
Shane winced as the tack was removed, but the momentary pain was quickly forgotten as he realized that he could once again walk without pain.
“Owies am gonie! Shane suu happy!” He almost sang as Pistol nodded in approval.
It was then that Shane’s stomach growled angrily.
“Daddeh! Shane poopie pwace nu make poopies, an Shane hab tummeh owwies.” The stallion said, pointing at his belly the swelling of which was ever so slightly visible by this point.
“Since you were bad with your poopies, you have to wear the poopies cork for a while, and until I decide you don’t need it, you’ll only be able to make poopies once a day when I take it out. Speaking of which, it’s time for your once a day poopies, so-” Pistol placed Shane into the litterbox and pulled out the cork.
“Dummeh daddeh, Shane gib sowwy poopies!” Shane shouted as he spun around and sprayed shit all around the safe room. Pistol was less than impressed. He was, however, greatly amused when Shane suddenly clapped his hooves to his mouth as his programming activated. This time, Shane didn’t manage to hold the message in for long, as his concentration was disrupted by Pistol reinserting the cork, and out came the message.
“Daddeh, Shane wa ba an’ nee wheew ob hewties 'gain” Shane started huuhuuing loudly as Pistol carried him downstairs.
“Push the button Shane”
Shane hesitated but then shoved a hoof into his mouth and bit down hard. He only stopped biting down after seemingly issuing muffled promises of compliance.
Using his other front leg, Shane stepped down on the button.
The wheel landed on ‘fluff’ with the outermost option being ‘shaved’, so Pistol went off to get an electric razor.