Hello! I am Saxi! I’m a freelance web developer and I work from home. My house is pretty modest. I make enough money from my job to afford it and my lifestyle, but a little extra cash for hobbies is always welcome.I have an empty room in my house that was dedicated to my cat (who passed away a few years ago). I decided that a fluffy or two would be a fun pet idea. I have always been fascinated by them.
The idea to become an amateur fluffy breeder came to me when I saw an advertisement for a new initiative to bring happy healthy fluffies into hospitals and care homes as emotional support toys. They were looking for breeders to buy fluffies of inexpensive and common colours (to keep costs down) and of good physical and mental state (hense why shelter fluffies were not always the best option). I decided to sign up and after getting my (surprisingly easy to get) license to breed, I was ready to get my first fluffies!
The terms and conditions required me to have a satisfactory living space (which they already approved) and have at least four fluffies from different family trees living there in a happy and healthy state. Sounds pretty easy (probably)!
My Current Saferoom
Just regular fluffies for now, though I am interested in angoras and microfluffs in the future.
That is part of the plan. Because I need four fluffies from different backgrounds, I’m gonna find each one from a different place. A feral will be one of those.
In order to qualify for the program I will require a fluffy from four different families. I’m gonna take this a bit further and take them from different backgrounds as well. One feral, one from a shelter, one from Fluffy Mart and one from… I’ll figure that out later. Preferably foals as well. They would be easier to train at a younger age.
Right now I think I will go look for some ferals. There’s a fluffy park near my house. Lots of ferals go there because it’s a safe(ish) place and they live around the trees and bushes, as well as the alleyways nearby.
Le Park
Looks like we’re pretty populated today!
Let’s have a look at the closest one.
This seems like a wholesome start.
“Hello there, little fluffy! I see you have babies!”
I really suck at small talk.
“Y-yes mistah! Mummah hab gud babbehs!” She seems to calm down seeing that I am not moving to kick her or anything.
“I’m just taking a walk in the park here looking for a foal to take home,” I state bluntly. Might as well tell her what I’m after, even though she’s probably not gonna want to part with them.
“Pwease nice mistah! Nu take pwetty babbehs! Babbehs nee mummah an milkies!”
“Don’t worry. I see you are a good mummah. I won’t take your babies.” I ponder a moment before saying, “Would you and your babies like to go to a shelter? I’m going there today and I can take you down.” I figured I might as well bring them along. The box-with-a-towel-in-itI brought with me would be big enough for the family, and maybe one or two more full-sized fluffies.
“Wow! Hewe dat babbehs? Nice mistah gon take us to nicest homesie! We find nyu mummah ou daddeh!” I guess that would be a ‘yes’.
The foals all chime in immediately, “Nyu housie? Bigges heawt happies!” “Tank ou nice mistah!” “Wub nice mistah!” It feels real good.
“I’m going to go have a look at the other herd over there for a bit. You stay here and finish your nummies, okay?”
“Otay bestes nice mistah!”
Man that was so wholesome and sweet! One of the most adorable things ever! Makes you wonder why anyone would want to abuse or kill such amazing emotional creatures!
Oh yeah. Now I remember.
I’ve never actually interacted with a ‘smarty’ before. Nobody keeps them as pets and most shops usually don’t even bother trying to sell them.
“Dummeh hooman! Gib hewd aww da nummies nao ow smawty gib ou wowstes sowwy hoofies!”
Wow. It’s almost word-for-word from the other smarty encounters I’ve seen videos of and read about. I guess a simple sales pitch is easier to practice. Unfortunately I have even less of an idea of how to talk to a smarty so here goes nothing.
“Hello there smarty! I am uhh… looking for a foal to take home!”
The smarty responds with, of course, more insults and empty threats, “Dummeh hooman! Gib nummies nao fo hewd an speshul fwen! Speshul fwen nee bestes nummies fo tummeh babbehs!”
Ooooooh the mare is pregnant! I thought she was just really fat.
“Well I don’t have any food with me right n-”
“HOOMAN GO GET NUMMIES! Get nummies nao ow get sowwy hoofies an sowwy poopies!”
Goddammit I was hoping not to have to deal with fluffy shit until I actually OWNED one, “I’m not going to get you any nummies. Nummies cost money and I’m not doing it for free. And if you shit on me I WILL throw you.”
At this point the ‘soon-mummah’ speaks up, “Take owd babbehs fo nummies! Soon-mummah nu nee ugwy owd babbehs! Make nyu pwetty babbehs wif nyu spechul fwend!”
This is the polar opposite of the other mummah in the park. I mean a parent willing to trade their child for a meal isn’t the best parent to begin with, so taking the foals to the shelter would be the best course for them right?
I look around and see a very depressed man at a hot dog stand.
I can’t see his face but I know he’s dying inside.
“Alright. I’ll get you nummies from that cart if you give me your old babies.”
“Huwway! Soon-mummah get bestes nummies fo bestes tummeh-babbehs!” If she could move she would probably be dancing.
“Smawty wiww awwow dis! Dummeh hooman take babbeh an give nummies!”
I put my box down on the ground, “Alright. Put the babies in here. I will go get nummies for you.”
Without hesitation the heard rounds up the protesting, squirming and crying foals and put them in the box on the soft blue towel to the cries of “Huu huu nee mummah! Nee milkies!” and “Mummah hate babbeh? Am bad babbeh?”
Like the previous foals these ones had no manes yet, meaning that they were still in the nursing stage (If the demands for ‘milkies’ weren’t enough of a clue.) Truly sad. They will find better homes probably.
“Alright. wait here,” I carry the box of squirming foals, watching carefully to see if any try to climb out. Their tiny size and weak limbs combined with the tall steep sides ensure they can’t, but I still don’t want to drop a baby I just rescued.
The CHIMERIC MEAT TUBE MERCHANT offers his wares to me. I will be taking this purchase out of my ‘fluffy budget’. I have set aside $1000 to put towards exclusively fluffy-related things.
They are understandably unhappy.
Got that dog. Current funds: $999
I always try to fulfill my promises whenever I can, even to asshole smarties and bad mummahs. I approach the herd again as they eagerly crowd around my feet begging for nummies, except for the ‘poopie’ mare who just sat back and watched. I felt sorry for her. I’ll let her eat first then rescue her with the others. I quietly move up to her and present the hotdog.“You look the most hungry. You get to eat first,” I say gently and place the hotdog at her hooves. She looks up at me with an adorable excited expression and exclaims, “T-tank ou nices mistah! Poopie wub gud nummies!” she takes a bite and I feel a rush of good feelings as I really see myself making a difference for this young mare.
That all changes when I hear the telltale “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE!” from behind me.
I didn’t even have time to react as the herd swarms the mare with surprising speed and begin to tear her apart.
I’ve never heard a living creature make a sound so horrid in my life.
“DUMMEH POOPIE FWUFFY! AM WOWSTES FWUFFY! NUMMIES ONWY FO BESTES MUMMAH AN TUMMEH BABBEHS!” screeches the pregnant mare as the entire herd collapses onto the poor poopie, too malnourished to fight back.
After the moment of shock I jump into action, “Oh FUCK no you little ungrateful shits!” I boot the toughie as hard as I can in the hindquarters, causing him to briefly take flight and land few meters away, stunned. I then grab the raggedy mane of the smarty and drag him off. It had bitten a huge chunk out of the poopie’s leg already. “You fucking greedy shit!” I shout and grab his tail, tossing him across the field like a duffel bag of wet socks.
With the two bravest fluffies incapacitated, the others run off screaming and crying in fear. Good fucking riddance I say. The poopie is no longer moving. Every part of her is covered in tears, shit and blood. She’s not breathing and blood is pooling out of a huge wound that the rest of the herd tore into her. There was nothing I could do.
At this point I notice the pregnant mare is gone, along with the hotdog. The spoiled bitch must have grabbed it when her henchmen started brawling. She didn’t get far. I saw her a little ways away pathetically waddling towards the other half of the park. I call out to her, “You’re the most spoiled cowardly shitrat I’ve ever seen! You don’t deserve babies! I’m gonna catch you and make sure your new babies go to someone else!” She drops the hotdog and ‘sprints’ towards the road. If I wasn’t so pissed I would have laughed at her attempts to move her fat ass faster. I went after her.
Fat fuck.
The begging kept up as I approached, more tired of her shit at this point than angry. I’ll slap her up a bit but those babies deserve a good life away from this cretin. No harm will come to them on my watch.
Fucking shit.
This fucker was doing 60 in a 30 zone. The mother was launched up above the car and landed on the asphalt below. All four legs very obviously broken but she was somehow still barely alive; bleeding, silent but still breathing. I took a plastic grocery bag from my pocket and put her inside. If I hurry to the shelter the on-site vet can at least try to save the foals. I put her gently in my trunk on a stack of newspapers and made sure the bag wouldn’t suffocate her, then went back for the box of foals and the other family I found.
Thank goodness they didn’t see their entire family get demolished.
I drive on down to the shelter and hurry the pregnant mare straight inside the emergency door. The rough-and-tumble fluffy specialist immediately went to work trying to stabilize her and save the babies. He looked more like a trucker than a vet.“She might live. Gon’ haveta’ 'liver the yung’uns first. She looks due any minute. Foals would be ready t’come out if they ain’t dead from impact.”
After leaving this man to his devices, I go back to the car and carry the box of fluffies into the main entrance.
“Be right there in a few minutes! Al needs my help with the mummah you brought in,” a female voice calls from the back. I just sit down in a chair and watch my box. Was this job gonna be this hard all the time? I knew fluffies could be exceedingly stupid and selfish but never really experienced it first hand like that. I’m starting to wonder if I would be cut out for this.
I try to push those thoughts from my mind as I walk over to a sizable play area where some of their orphan foals are on display. They are of course of all breeds, colours and sizes. They range from ‘chirpy stage’ to ‘talkie stage’ with some of them bearing short manes already. Most of them are playing around with various blocks and balls in the enclosure. Some are unable to play with the others due to obvious physical restrictions and seem pretty left out. The chirpies were aranged on a small raised platform with short walls and a soft blanket on it in front of a few bottles to keep them safe from being tread upon by the rowdier older foals.
In the corner of the play area is a separate smaller partially fenced-off section. Some foals that would most likely be ‘too frightening’ to the others are kept there it seems. Most look to be scared of each other and are hiding or playing alone with the less colourful toys the other foals abandoned. While some of the ‘normal’ foals show signs of abuse, these ‘munstah babbehs’ have much more obvious signs of abuse and possibly genetic anomalies.
A rough sketch for visualization
The reception is mixed.
They’ll adjust to it eventually. The pudgy green one will probably be demanding milkies and threatening poopies in no time.
I decided to leave the box on the floor in the corner and check out the babbeh pen. Lots of foals, talkies and a few chirpies.
Look at this princess!
A very pretty foal (by human standards). I would like this one myself but I can’t guarantee she would get along with the others due to being both a ‘poopie’ and an alicorn.
What a strange foal. He has great colours and no mutations or other qualities that would seemingly make him a ‘munstah’. What is he doing here? He may have a very deep and intense backstory. Perhaps I should inquire-
Jesus Christ on the Cross what the fuck is that?! There’s something up with a lot of these fluffies. Brooding backstory will have to wait, I NEED to know where these Dunwich fluffies came from.
This demands immediate attention though.
“Hey down there! Yellow and pink foals!” I call down. The two foals look up at me, the yellow one dropping the brownie down on the stack, causing the green earthy at the bottom to squeal loudly.“Hey! That baby has been telling you to stop! He’s hurting!”
The yellow one pipes up, “B-buh babbeh make bestes babbeh stackie wif widdew babbehs!”
“You’re hurting that green foal! Take the babies off each other right now. No more stacking babies,” I say sternly.
“O-otay nice mistah,” the yellow one droops a bit as he starts to climb down the structure to the babies. The pink and blue curly fluff has already started taking the brown foal off the top.
“Sowwy gweenie babbeh. Cuwly not heaw babbeh noisies. Bigges sowwies! Cuwly an Sundwop gib greenie-babbeh bigges huggies fo feew bettah!”
Huh. That was pretty easy. These two are mischievous but seem to be trained and obedient. They must have had previous owners. Much better behaved than the ferals I found.
“DUMMEH MUMMAH GIB BESTES BABBEH MILKIES NAO!”
“HEWP! Milkie tief!”
Of course.
[visible disgust]
“Woah there little guy!” I reach in and pluck the little squirt by his midsection, “She said no. Those are not your milkies. You will get milkies later.”
He squirms in my grip and poops again. He hasn’t stopped pooping since I found him. He HAS to be running out, right? “DUMMEH HOOMAN! NU GIB BAD UPSIES! GIB MILKIES! BESTES BABBEH NEE MILKIES NAO!”
I look around and spot a coffee station with foam cups for customers. I grab a cup and put the spoiled twerp back in the box. I say sternly to him, “You have been a bad baby. You are acting very mean to me and to the other fluffies. You will get the ‘sorry cup’ until the nice lady comes back.”
“Dummeh hoomin! Bestes babbeh nu get sowwy cupsies! Bestes babbeh onwy get milkies an- w-wai! Nu! Nu put babbeh in dawkies! Am onwy widdew babbeh! SCREEEEEEE!”
That was pretty easy too.
I think I might be cut out for this after all. Foals don’t seem to be too much trouble. They’re easy to subdue and once they’re adults they will be well-behaved. I start to feel better about my ability to handle being a ‘daddeh’ when a terrible screech is heard from the secluded part of the pen. I rush over to see what happened.
Uh-oh.
Looks like that brown foal was trying to play with the bicorn and fell on him. Looks like something is gonna go down. I better intervene.Before I could make a move however, the blue one bolts for the orange talky.
“Don’t you dare hurt that baby!” I shout, but am interrupted by the big cyclops charging between them, . He stands in the way of the blue unicorn and takes the full brunt of his horn. He hugs the little foal and whispers, “Close your eyes, child.” He reaches out with his eye closed and whips the blanket off the small foal in the corner that has wandered close to the brawl. With one look at the strange shifting colours of his fur, the other fluffies immediately begin to vomit uncontrollably. Completely incapacitated, I tentatively reach in and re-cover the odd-coloured talky.
“What a fucking mess.”
“Yeah and I have to clean it up.”
Oh damn.
“I’m sorry miss. I swear I didn’t do anything!” I try to explain while also trying to look as respectfully as I could.
“Don’t worry about it hun, it’s all part of the job. I see you met the ‘Super Babies’ already.” She is rather unbothered by the amount of blood, vomit and shit created.
She puts on a pair of gloves and bends down and pick up the injured foal. I pretend to be interested in the other, now scared foals in the pen to avoid glancing at… things. She chuckles a bit, but I’m not sure if it’s at me or the baby. “Poor thing~ Looks like it’s not too deep. Al will fix you right up, don’t worry.” She wraps the foal in a clean towel and takes him into the back. I watch her gently carry him to the back where Al is, then comes back with a wet sponge and bucket of soap water.
“So you’re the new breeder around here? Al told me you were feral hunting when you found that mama,” she says, getting down to clean up the pen.
“Um, y-yes I was! I was hoping to get starting foals from different backgrounds to grow up together and maybe form bonds naturally” I reply, trying to avoid looking in her general direction again.
“Ah I see! So I take it you want one of those boxed ones you found then? We can give it a check-up, shots and a good cleaning for you, free of charge! We need to do that with all new arrivals anyways. I can also hook you up with any of these babies here, though I wouldn’t recommend the… ‘special forces’ for breeding. Some tested very low on fertility, and the genes are unpredictable. Plus the whole ‘munstah babbeh’ thing would make it harder for them to fit into this little herd of yours.”
“What is the deal with them anyways?” I inquire.
“Police found them in a drug bust. They had an fluffy mill in their basement as well. The parents were several generations inbred with minor mutations of their own and boosted to shit with birth accelerators both legal, illegal and homebrewed. They were both alicorns with decent colours that they wanted to farm the shit out of. Cops said they were producing nearly fifteen babies per birth with only two weeks gestation. As you can imagine, only a few of the foals actually live through that. These were the only live ones out of hundreds of discarded foals. Owners couldn’t even be bothered to throw the rejects out; just drop them on the floor. These ones lived down there with corpses for a few days it seemed before the police found them. The mother died in the last birth and the father jumped from their table unable to live with it.”
“Wow… that’s pretty heavy,” I couldn’t really believe how casually she was talking about it.
“It’s really sad and I wish I was more sickened by it, but the shit these things go through prior to finding us just makes you kind of numb to it after a while.”
“I’m sorry to hear that… Is the big guy okay? He took a horn to him I think.”
At this point she had finished cleaning and stands up, looking the cyclops over briefly before replying, “Nephilim has some thick skin. He’s pretty safe from low-impact baby horns.”
I look at the gentle giant hugging the now-soothed bicorn, “Looks like he has a big heart too.”
“Unfortunately no. That part of him is still normal-sized. He has chronic low blood pressure. That reminds me, I better separate those two before the big guy passes out on top,” she leans down again and gently pries the two apart. Sure enough the goliath closes his eye for an immediate sleep. “Anyways, Al should have the status of the mama and her babies soon. It’s a pretty difficult labour due to her injuries. In the mean time, why don’t you choose what babies you want to take home?”
“Hmmm why don’t I ask them?” I place my box on the floor by the pen, “So little babies! Which of you would like to come home with me? I’ll take one from the pen and one from the box. Come line up on the yellow blankie! Box babies can just line up in front of the mama. Let’s make it fun! Tell me why I should take you home!” I was in much better spirits seeing all the excited foals lose their fear and start running for me. I even let the pudgy one out of his sorry cup.
“Awwww~ looks like you might have a way with fluffies after all! This is the wholesome cuteness I needed after today. My name’s Mya by the way,” she sighs, back to her more cheerful self from before. I blush of course.
“I’m Saxi! N-now lets see what cute babies want to come home with me!”
“So this little guy is brothers with the other ‘abnormal’ foals?” I ask Mya."Not exactly, she replies, “He’s not related by blood. It looks like there was a second family of what I assume were ‘iridescent’ fluffies. They were supposedly moved before the police raided and he was left behind. Iridescent fluff is tricky to breed because you need the right combinations of colours. They look ugly with the wrong colours and in rare cases can actually make other fluffies dizzy and sick. Even the fluffy itself.”
I watch the tiny foal move in the direction of the other baby sounds, bumping into a wall and trying to feel his way around it. “Is he blind?” I ask Mya, even though the answer is already obvious.
“Yep. After he met up with Nephilim and some older fluffies, Nephilim ‘baptized him’ in what we assume is bleach or something. It’s why he’s blind and probably part of why he has such a scratchy voice and respiratory issues. Good news is he doesn’t vomit at his own fluff. The voice and respiratory stuff could also be genetic but we’re not sure. He’s a runt as it is so it’s possible.”
“Bleach does sound like an idea to fix his problem. Or fluff dye,” I suggest.
Mya shakes her head, “Even if applied properly, bleach will still cause harm to such a small foal. We tried dye for a little bit but it can get expensive, at least by ‘non-profit shelter’ standards. Iridescent fluff needs a bit more than normal and even for such a smaller-than-average baby. He also prefers to be covered with a blanket and feels insecure without it so having him wrapped up with his already shy nature is the most convenient.”
“Poor guy…” I reach down and gently try to pick him up.
“EEK! Wha dat! Wha touchie babbeh! Nu wike!” he cries in his raspy little voice.
“Don’t worry little guy. It’s me. I’m just putting you on the blanket with everyone else.” I slowly lift him up and try not to startle him again. He lets out another small squeak as I do.
“N-nice mistah nu gib big upsies! Babbeh scawed of upsies!”“Shhh don’t worry. You’re not going to be that high.”
I place the tiny foal on the towel with the others. He moves his little hooves around a bit, not being used to the softness of the fluffy blankie.
Truffle has gotten there already, though a good distance from the other foals to avoid scaring them. She seems nervous of course, but a little hopeful. I do adore her colours.
The little cyan foal seemed to be playing with her lizard friend inside the play structure. “Bwuddah nu weabe sissy! Sissy onwy hab wizzy fo fwen! Nice hooman take babbeh an wizzy too!” As excited as the colt is, the filly would be pretty devastated. I know I’ll have to deal with separation anxiety as a breeder, but at this point I have other ideas for my choices anyways.
Sundrop seems to be contemplating whether he wants to go or not. Usually this would be an open-and-shut case for fluffies which is interesting. Curly interrupts his though with an exclamation of “Cuwy got dem!” as he pushes three little soft balls toward him. Three… moving balls? That chirp?!
They’re pretty cute all roly-poly like that not gonna lie.
“Curly!” Mya scolds, “I told you not to play with the chirpies!”
He looks up, ashamed as Sundrop speaks up for him, “B-bu chirpy babbehs nu can get to yewwow bwankie! Cuwy an Sundwop nee bwing babbehs su nice mistah can pick chirpy babbehs!”
Mya’s expression softens and lowers her tone, “I’ll forgive it just this once. Be careful with them.”
And with that they roll the chirpies onto the blanket and step back to watch. The other little talkies join in and start to show off in standard fluffy fashion.
You got the whole squad dancin’
“I think from the box I will take… Truffle and… the ‘Baby out of Space’ there.”
“You sure? Breeding these would be pretty hard and have unpredictable results,” Mya warns me.
“If it doesn’t work out I’d at least love to have them as personal pets,” I look over to the box of ferals now.
Mummah seems upset.
I start to think of what I want for my ‘herd’. I know I for sure want ones of different backgrounds, but perhaps having some of different personalities would be fun too. I already have two shy ‘freaks’ as I just couldn’t pass them up, so a more outgoing personality would be ideal. The red baby has been friendly to me from the start and super excited. However, I think I have a different idea…
“I’ll take tubby over there,” I say confidently.
Mya looks at me surprised, “Him? He’s a fat spoiled little ‘bestes babbeh’! He doesn’t even want to go with you. You sure?”
“Yep. I want all kinds of personalities. I’m gonna have to deal with brats anyways I might as well practice now.”
“Well it’s your choice. I just don’t want to see him back here with his leggies and tongue gone,” She winks playfully, but I know she’s genuinely concerned for him.
“Don’t worry. You can keep this box and towel by the way. I’m going to find a smaller one for the new foals. I need to go to Fluffy Mart anyways for some more equipment. Can I pick them up after lunch? Is that enough time for shots and paperwork?”
“Sure thing, hun! And by then we’ll know if-” she’s cut off by Al peeking into the room, shaking his head sadly, “Nevermind. Looks like the mother and babies didn’t make it. I’ll let you know your total for adoption fees when you get back.”
I bid her farewell and head out. My goal was four different foals from four different places. I got an extra one because the Baby out of Space was just too precious to pass up. Looks like I’ll have five now. Or more if there’s a bulk sale or something. We’ll have to see. But first, I’m hungry and I know where my next fluffy will come from.
I get in my car and drive over to Fluffy Burger. They give out foals with combo meals, and it’s a perfect place for a new little tyke. I pull up to the drive through and ask for a double Fluffy Burger with Fluffy Fries and a Pepsi. Beef of course. I never liked the taste of fluffy personally and the idea of my food being able to talk back is quite unnerving. I’ll write this off as a ‘work expense’ and take it from the ‘Fluffy Fund’.
Upon getting my meal I pull into the parking lot, already hearing the telltale “Su dawkies! Nu wike sowwy boxie!” from inside.