It’s weirdly homey, sitting beyond the fluffy retaining wall and finalizing the paperwork with Luna, Clara, and Sean. Clara is the one who started it all, a sweet older lady with puffy hair turning white and legit granny glasses. Sean is her husband, the kind of strong and silent tower of a man that was popular in the forties. On his lap is Cookie the house fluffy, ancient for her kind. Named for a soft, tawny coat with chocolate-brown dots, she’s almost white with age, now, and sleepily blinks her big, cloudy eyes at you.
You’ve done most of the paperwork online, but there are a few more forms to fill out, and Clara wants to hear you tell Sundae’s story beyond the checklists and short paragraphs. Recounting all the bullshit Sundae has been through, it’s a profound relief to be able to glance over and see her, here and now and making friends with the therapy mares. Things to seem to be going well on that frontShe asks soft, clarifying questions, gathering as much information as possible, and Sean doesn’t say anything. It seems like he might as well not be here until Cookie says, “Huggies, Daddeh,” in her rusty little voice, and turns in his arms to hug him as a single tear works down his cheek.
“Yeah,” you say softly, remembering all the screaming nightmares and heartbreak over lost babies you’ve had to deal with since Sundae came into your life, and how you don’t regret a second of it, “it’s kind of a lot.” At least here and now you can watch Sundae playing nicely with the therapy mares and some of the foals, her voluminous pink tail held the way she does when she really is happy and relaxed.
“Can’t stand those mill pissants,” Sean grumbles, tenderly cradling Cookie in arms that still look like they could do some severe damage, even though he must be at least fifty-two.
“Same, girl, same,” you drawl, and he chuckles slightly, before looking sharply over the wall and shaking his head.
“Happy for the kids, but they need some manners.”
Clara sighs, looking both annoyed and amused. “I know, dear, I know.”
As she speaks, you follow their gaze out into the main room where a pair of fluffies are getting very friendly indeed, a massive, scarred, orange earthie stallion snuffling intently at a little black alicorn’s butt. Right as he moves to cover her, a tall man, the closest of the watching humans, calls out, “Side room!” like a chaperone at a dance, hurrying over to separate them. The mare looks abashed and the stallion truculent, but they fall in line and follow him to a door that you had assumed as storage.
“So,” you say, “is that one of those things we haven’t gone over yet?”
“When a pair of fluffies seem to be becoming special friends,” Clara says, “their humans can authorize special huggies, but those have to take place in the side room, for obvious reasons. Highly unlikely that Sundae will get there in a week, but we can also give you a list of affiliated therapeutic fluffy daycares closer to your home.”
“Oh my god that would be amazing.”
“You have come a long way,” Luna says. “It’s always touching to see someone care about a fluffy so much.”
You just shrug. “I’ve always had pets, and you know how some of them just steal your heart.” You look over at Sundae, pleased to see her rolling a ball back and forth with a bright pink alicorn.
“I certainly do,” Clara says, and straightens your small stack of forms. “Now that these are complete, feel free to get settled int your cabin.”
Apparently you’ll be picking up your keys from the guy at the gatehouse (Connor today, covering for a Shawna-Marie whose kids have come down with something, apparently) and then making your way down the little five-mile-an-hour paths to cabin 4-B. Hardly a real cabin, it’s closer to a bougie little cottage, which is just as well. You’re in no mood to chop firewood or haul water. Well, okay, chopping wood passes the time and keeps your arms in decent shape, but fuck not having running water. Never again.
Of course you stop to check in with Sundae on your way out, she would probably freak the fuck out if she just looked up and you weren’t there. She has been forced, bribed, and tricked into just about every kind of shit situation, so you go and find her where she’s playing huggie-tag and call, “Sundae!” in the embarrassingly sweet tone that always comes so easily to you when you’re dealing with her.
Sundae has what most people call ‘teddy-bear’ style ears, not as prominent or mobile as some, but you can still see them swivel toward the sound of your voice before she turns her head and then scampers over to you, big golden eyes wide with excitement about all the ‘nicie fwuffies’ she has met. You smile and pet her, giving her curly, powder puff coat the affectionate squeeze-ruffles that come so naturally.
“I’m going to get the place we’ll be staying ready, okay?”
Sure enough, she does look a little worried. Dapple breaks away from the game to come sidling up as if she has no particular purpose in mind. “Otay, Boss-Mummah,” Sundae says in her dutiful little voice, and Dapple leans casually into her side, the contact making her relax a little.
“I’ll be back soon, puffy baby,” you tell her, and give her a little kiss on the snout before getting up and heading back out to the car.
You don’t linger or look back, because that makes it seem like there really is something to worry about. Instead, you make your way down an even more narrow road, turned into a gorgeous green tunnel by the overhanging trees, and find the gatehouse, where an enormous and terrifying (but extremely polite and soft-spoken) man with an eyepatch and a piratical scar under it gives you the keys to #4 and points you in the right direction.