It has been a fuck of a drive, but you’re finally here. Sundae is wide awake and staring out at all the pretty green trees, and you can’t really blame her, it is gorgeous out here. Wide, rolling fields but big tracts of deep, dark remnant forest, too, with the kind of big, old trees where the branches meet across the road. Your little house by the park is pretty sweet, but this is amazing. Your grandparents had a farm, so it’s kind of homey, too, and you’re expecting the multiple, low buildings, all the bird-feeders, and the whole field of hay. There are fluffies scampering and playing in the fields, with each other and with a few human companions, and at the sound of your wheels on the gravel, everyone looks up, making sure that nobody runs in front of you. You’re watching for fluffies, too, but it’s nice to see safety-consciousness.
The gravel driveway leads up to a little parking lot in front of the main farmhouse, a sprawling, wood-beamed building, painted a deep, forest green, with cheerful yellow shutters. You get out of the car and release Sundae, who desperately needs to take a dump. Fortunately, there’s a cutesy little Good Poopies This Way! sign, and once you point Sundae down the little path, she trots right off to one of those big, outdoor latrines people can build for fluffies in country settings like this, finding a clear spot and flicking her voluminous, curly pink tail up and out of the way, because your girl knows how to keep herself clean. There are buckets of lime, and you toss a shovelful over Sundae’s pile, explaining why the whole place doesn’t stink to high hell.
“You good?” you ask, and Sundae bobs her little head like an agreeable sheep.
“Sundae feel pwetty again!” she chirps, and leads the way back up to the farmhouse. She slows down as you get close to the building, sticking closer and closer until she’s pressed against your leg as you reach the parking lot again. You can feel how nervous she is, and sigh.
“You wan’ upsies, pal?”
“Pwease,” she says, sitting up on her haunches and holding up her little stuffed-animal arms. You scoop her up and tuck her into your t-shirt, where she always feels safe, and head up the steps. Before you can knock on the door, a unicorn mare pops out of the over-sized cat-flap. She’s small, but still taller than Sundae (which most fluffies are) and soft brown all over, the kind of color breeders hate, but with the kind of pattern they love: spots on her haunches, over her eyes, and on her legs, right above socks of the same kind of cream-blonde color. They even match her luxuriant tail and her mane, half of it tied up out of her eyes by some obliging human. Her horn is the same soft violet as her eyes, and she smiles up at both of you.
“Hewwo! Is ‘ou Miss Uma an’ Sundae?”
You nod. “We are.”
“Fwuffy am Dappwe,” she says, and you dimly remember her as one of the therapy mares listed on the website. “Nyu fwen’,” she adds, and it’s a statement, not a question. You have to smile, especially because Sundae is watching her now, big, golden eyes wide and fascinated.
‘We’re a little later than the humans expected,” you tell her, “but not much.”
“Dey teww Dappwe,” she says. “Pwease, come in.”
There’s the kind of mudroom entryway you’d expect in a farmhouse, and Dapple gestures at a bench, where you sit down to take off your shoes. “Babbehs might get confuzed ‘bout sketties,” she explains as you unlace your Docs, and you chuckle, Sundae letting out a little giggle where she’s kind of tucked and smooshed under your chin as you bend down.
“Can’t have that,” you say, and you definitely have seen it happen.
At the inner door, Dapple presses a happy green button at fluffy height. You’ve seen the system before, for fluffies to request access in and out of saferooms, in households with a lot of fluffies, animals, and kids, and/or where something dangerous might be going on, like in the home of a person who welds or something.
A young woman answers with a friendly smile. You’re not particularly tall, yourself, she’s so short that her gloriously large and puffy afro makes her only a few inches taller than you. “Hi! I’m Luna Umeibe. You must be Uma Ascher, right?”
“The same,” you tell her, and gesture to where Sundae is still tucked into your shirt. “The growth is Sundae.”
Luna giggles. “Aw, what a cute baby! It’s okay to be shy,” she adds, speaking to Sundae now. “Lots of fluffies are when they get here.” Back to you, she gives you another of those sunny smiles. “I do the initial meet-and-greet. Clara says it’s because I’m the youngest and have the most energy. I’m sure you read over the website, but we have four therapy mares, you’ve already met Dapple, here,” she says, crouching to pet Dapple, who leans into the touch and happily wags her tail. “And with shy mares like Sundae, that’s where we like to start, once she gets comfortable enough. For now, I can show you around. Would either of you like some water?”