You are Blueberry, smarty of a herd living under a big hollow tree. You don’t know if you’re the bestest smarty, but you try hard to be a good smarty. You try to protect your herd, and make sure everyone gets good nummies and nobody has to num poopies. You also make sure that the old smarty’s family doesn’t go hungry either, and you’ve gotten close with the little brown filly. She was so happy when you told her she didn’t have to num poopies anymore!
But today is a sad day, and even the world seems to know it, because the sky is grey and cloudy. One of your herd has just gone forever sleepies. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. She was old, and had gotten sickies, and you knew that it was just her time. You’ve worked hard to keep your herd alive, and most of the few deaths since you became smarty are from things that are beyond your power to prevent, like worstest sickies. (You don’t know what kind of worstest sickies ended her life, but the hoomins call it cancer.)
From another herd you once met, you learned from a fluffy who used to have a hoomin daddeh that when a hoomin goes forever sleepies, the other hoomins bury them. It’s called a fun-ewaw. You don’t know why. There’s nothing fun about going forever sleepies.
But it’s a good idea. Bury the fluffy, where no munstahs can get to her and num her. Like the old smarty, who went forever sleepies doing what he loved, stuffing his face and being a meanie. A barkie munstah dragged him off after that. Fortunately, it was after you had shown the herd the smarty’s fate, drilling in what happens to stupid fluffies who num the nummies called “fwied chikkins”. Nobody’s touched them since.
You look at the old fluffy, whose red fluff was now mostly grey.
AM SOWWY FOW YU WOSS. AM NU BWUEBEWWY FAUWT.
You turn around. At this point, that voice doesn’t startle you anymore, you’ve heard it often enough. You know the fluffy, or sort-of fluffy it belongs to is a friend.
The Bone Fluff appears, and the old red mare is next to him. She’s see-through, and looks younger, and her fluff is red again. You know what’s going on by now. You get the feeling you’re the only one who can see them, because the Bone Fluff is letting you see them. You’re honored.
The red fluffy doesn’t really look sad, or happy. The Bone Fluff once explained to you that everyone leaves their feelings behind when they go forever sleepies, because of something called “gwands”. Mostly, she looks relieved. You are, too. You had seen how much she was struggling near the end.
Three of the bigger, stronger fluffies, including your best friend, who has become your second-in-command, walk over to the old mare’s body. The four of you gently carry the mare out of the den, to the spot you’ve chosen to bury your dead. It’s a good spot, away from the tree, and away from the wawas your herd drinks from and (very carefully) cleans itself in. (This was a lucky coincidence. You don’t know that dead bodies can contaminate drinking water.) Hidden from view by rockies and trees and beautiful flowers. The rest of the herd is already waiting there. The Bone Fluff and the mare’s ghost follow.
After laying her down, the four of you, and a few more fluffies, get to work, digging a hole with your hoofsies. It hurts a bit after a while, but you’ve learned that the more fluffies that dig, the less owwies. Before long, you’ve got a good hole dug, big and deep enough for the fluffy.
Before you put her in, you let the herd say one last goodbye. One by one, each fluffy walks up to the red mare, saying a few words and giving her one last hug. Her ghost and the Bone Fluff watch in silence. It must be strange, going to your own fun-ewaw.
First, her family, her babbehs, who are big fluffies now, around your age, and her babbeh’s babbehs. Her special friend had gone forever sleepies when you were just a colt. The old smarty, a fat puke green poopie face, had just left him behind and ran away when a birdie munstah had attacked the two of them. Then, the rest of the herd, all of whom loved the red mare. Then, you’re the last one left. You have a strange feeling that this keeps happening to you, but you ignore it.
You step forward and say your piece.
“Bwuebewwy am guin tu miss yu. Fwuffy wuz gud fwuffy. Gud fwend to hewd, gud fwend to Bwuebewwy.”
Fluffies aren’t the best at writing eulogies, but you see the mare’s ghost smile.
With that, the four little pall-bearers gently lower the mare into her grave, and bury her.
The fluffy that told you about fun-ewaws also told you that hoomins mark the spots that forever sleeping hoomins are buried with big square rocks, that they put some of those hoomin scribbly shapes on. Rocks like that are too heavy for any fluffy to carry, but your herd once found a big pile of smaller, shiny square rockie things (kitchen tiles, and you don’t know how they got there), that could be carried by two big fluffies each. You asked your toughies to bring them back to the den, and even though it took a few bright times to get them all back, and a few of them got broken on the way, your toughies obliged. They respect you much more than the old smarty.
You had two of them bring a rockie thing out here at the start of this bright time. You don’t know how to make sure it stands up straight like the big rocks the other fluffy told you about, and you don’t know how to put on the hoomin scribbly shapes, but you put the rockie thing over the spot the old mare was buried, marking the grave as well as you can. You then walk over to a patch of flowers, returning to place a pretty red one on top.
And with that, the fun-ewaw is over.
The herd clears out, much work left to do.
Then it’s just you, the Bone Fluff, and the red mare’s ghost.
DAT WUZ BEAUTIFUW. WHEWE DID YU WEAWN ABOUWT FUNEWAWS?
You explain about your encounter with the former house fluffy. The Bone Fluff nods. He’s been to many fluffy fun-ewaws. Usually, it’s house fluffies getting a touching send-off from a loving owner. Sometimes, it’s a hoomin burying the evidence of their misdeeds. And it’s sometimes a “cremation”, though that word isn’t in the fluffy vocabulary, and most fluffies that are “cremated” are still alive when it happens. The Bone Fluff has seen the best and the worst of hoominkind, you know.
The phantom mare turns to you and smiles.
“Fank yu fow gibin fwuffy fun-ewaw. Am pwowd of yu, Bwuebewwy. Yu am gud smawty. Yu keep bein gud smawty. Keep bein gud fwuffy. Otay?”
“Otay.”
“Fwuffy mus gu nao. Speciaw fwiend am waitin fow fwuffy.”
She gives you one last hug. Her hoofsies go right through you, and like the Bone Fluff’s hugs, it’s cold, and chilly, but you don’t mind.
WE WEAWWY MUS BE WEAVIN NAO. DEATH OF FWUFFIES GOT A WOT TU DU. DEATH OF FWUFFIES HAF APP-OYNT-MENT WATEW WIF A FWUFFY IN A… IN A BAWKIE MUNSTAH.
The Bone Fluff hugs you too. Another chill.
NU TAKE DIS PEWSONAWWY, BUT DEATH OF FWUFFIES HOPE DEATH OF FWUFFIES NU SEE BWUEBEWWY AGAIN FOW WONG TIME.
You understand. You like the Bone Fluff, and you’re sure he’s grown fond of you too, but almost every time he shows up, it’s because someone’s gone forever sleepies, or is about to.
TAKE CAWE OF YU HEWD, BWUEBEWWY. AN NU FOWGET TU TAKE CAWE OF YUSEWF, TUU.
And with that, the Bone Fluff and his charge depart. They walk off into the distance, and they’re gone.
