THE GREAT DIVIDE
The yellow pegasus had just had the most beautiful dream about running in a green, grassy field with her special friend—a monochrome white unicorn stallion—before taking off into the clear blue sky. She loved the feel of the wind on her cheeks as she flew over the hills and trees, over ponds and meadows, and then back down to the ground where her big, strong stallion and all of her pretty foals awaited her.
“Mummah, mummah! ‘oo came back!”
“How time tiww babbeh am big wingie-fwuff an can fwy wike mummah?”
“Mummah, babbeh nee’ miwkies!”
“Hewe, babbehs! Come dwink wots of miwkies!” she said, as her soft hooves touched the ground. The foals all bounded over to their mother, whose large, supple teats were full of life-giving milkies. She cooed as her babies suckled gently and rhythmically, and her special friend nuzzled at her shoulder.
“Fwuffy wuv speshuw-fwend!”
“Gowdenwod wuv ‘oo, tuu!” she sighed, before turning to her foals and singing the mummah song that all dams knew from memory.
“Mummah wuv babbehs, babbehs wuv mummah,
dwink wots of miwkies, gwow up an be stwong!”
She continued singing as the foals each drank their milkies in turn, and then settled in to sleep on their mother’s warm fluff. As the sun set over the mountains in the distance, she startled awake.
The reality into which Goldenrod awakened stood in stark contrast with the verdant fields and bright colors in her dream. She awoke with a large yawn, and then sighed as her nighttime visions escaped her as quickly as they had come. She looked all around and could tell that she was in the same pale-yellow box in which she had been for many forevers.
Her only comfort in the world was the tiny ball of yellow fluff that struggled, chirping to be at her side. The little pegasus filly had colors very similar to her own, which only made Goldenrod love her even more. It was the foal’s chirping that had brought her back to the real world.
“Hewe, babbeh! Dwink wotsa miwkies!”
She watched as the foal reared up on its front hooves, but the situation was hopeless. The filly chirped in desperation.
chirp chirp
“Babbeh, come tu mummah! Miwkies make babbeh gwow big an stwong!”
Goldenrod’s pleas continued, increasing with intensity as the foal became more and more hysterical. She struggled to reach the little filly, and her wings beat against the top of her enclosure in her feeble attempts to reach the baby with sustenance.
Huuuuu…wai babbeh nu come dwink miwkies? Am gud mummah! Haf wotsa miwkies fo wastest babbeh!”
chirp chirp**chirp
The tiny foal’s eyes were still shut, but she still recognized the dam by sound. So Goldenrod kept begging and sobbing until a loud bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz echoed throughout the chamber. She collapsed in exhaustion, having yelled herself hoarse. By the time she lifted her eyes, the pegasus filly had found milkies, and fluttered her tiny wings in satisfaction.
“Das wight, babbeh! Dwink wotsa miwkies…gwow up an’ be stwong!”
She closed her eyes, cooing at the gentle, rhythmic suckling at her teats. This was her routine, day in and day out.
“Come on, babbeh! Come dwink miwkies! Babbehs nee’ miwkies!”
The foal’s cries seemed more desperate today. Goldenrod knew her baby wasn’t drinking enough milkies—why didn’t she come to her?
Every day, the dam had more than enough nummies to both feed herself and make milkies for her foal. She awoke every morning to a large pile of the bestest grassies and flowers a fluffy could ask for. It was all gone by midday, but in spite of only having one baby she never felt engorged.
And that one baby never drank her milkies.
“Babbeh, come tu mummah! Mummah haf wotsa miwkies fo pwetty wingie-babbeh!”
chirp chirp pfffrrrrt
Another source of constant frustration for Goldenrod was that her baby always made poopies wherever she wanted. She never made bad poopies.
“Nuuuu, babbeh! Bad poopies nu wook pwetty on da fwoow! Nu smeww pwetty, eevah! Nee make gud poopies!”
pfffrrrrt The hard clump of poopies hit the nest’s floor.
“Nuuuuuuuu!”
But the pegasus dam wasn’t as concerned about her foal’s misadventures as she was about its perpetual distressed chirping for milkies. Especially since the little pegasus would never come over to her and drink them. Instead, the little “wingie-babbeh” seemed to prefer to stand on her hind legs like a dancie-baby and chirp indignantly.
chirp chirp
“Babbeh, mummah am wight hewe! Mummah haf wotsa miwkies, bu’ babbeh nee come an dwink da miwkies!”
At this point, Goldenrod could see her foal’s protruding ribs when she stood on her back leggies—a sure sign of malnutrition. She knew that fluffy babies should have fat tummies that dragged the ground, like soon-mummahs!
Her heart broke at this exchange, which happened several times per day, every day of the week, until finally
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
chirp
Goldenrod’s foal had opened her eyes yesterday, but lingering dread surrounded the momentous occasion. The filly’s eyes were an unnaturally pale brown, and the skin all around was puffy. It pleased the dam that her baby’s belly had started to drag the ground, but her ribs were still visible behind her front leggies. And her fluff wasn’t growing in soft and thick in the way that it should.
“Pwease, babbeh! Come tu mummah an dwink miwkies! Babbeh nee’ miwkies!”
The tiny pegasus looked at her mummah and gave another weak chirp. She tried to flutter her atrophied wings in recognition, but they merely twitched as she stumbled towards the mare with the hope of milkies.
Goldenrod cheered her on. “Come on, babbeh! Awmost dewe!” But when the foal merely reared up on her feeble back leggies again and chirped in desperation, she lashed out in frustration.
“Dummeh babbeh! Wai nu dwink mummah’s miwkies? Nu wuv mummah?”
Suddenly, her heart filled with compassion (and regret at her harsh reaction) as the filly fell over backwards and chirped in pain.
cheeeeaarp
“Oh, babbeh! Mummah am sowwy! Mummah nu wan be meanies tu babbeh—jus’ wan’choo tu dwink miwkies an nu be wittwe dummeh babbeh!”
chirp chirp The foal struggled to find her footing. Her fragile wings both bent out at awkward angles, and Goldenrod feared the worst.
“Huu huu…nu can gif babbeh miwkies…nu can gif babbeh huggies fo make huwties gu ‘way…am wowsest mummah evah!”
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
chirp Goldenrod watched as the broken pegasus foal shambled over to the rubber hose which dangled from the ceiling in the corner of her enclosure. At the bottom of the hose was a rubber nipple, from which the foal suckled her meager rations. For once, the baby was silent, as she kneaded hungrily at the artificial feeder.
“Huu huu…mummah haf wotsa miwkies, babbeh? Wai dwink miwkies fwom da dummeh bwack fing an nu fwom mummah’s miwkie-pwaces?”
Then, she tried to do something that rarely crossed her mind anymore. She struggled forward, barely able to move, and she reached out with her front leggie in an attempt to touch the nursing foal. As always, she was unable to do so—the restraints which immobilized her back leggies and kept her milkie-places attached to…to those things…prevented her from getting any closer than a few inches away from her only baby.
She had been in the restraints for so long that she barely noticed them anymore. And she was even less conscious of the constant suck suck suck suck of her apparatus. Except when her baby was nursing. For it was in those moments that she realized how unnecessary she was. When her baby wanted milkies, all she could do was cry, call out, and struggle in her harness.
“Huu huu…dummeh mummah am wowfwess…”
suck suck suck suck
The sucking on Goldenrod’s milkie-places continued their unabated rhythm as the dam watched her foal struggle to breathe on the floor a few inches away. As the filly’s inhalations became more and more labored, and her chirps grew more and more weak, Goldenrod became increasingly aware of the constant sucking.
suck suck suck suck
The sound entered her ears as an unwelcome, sickening reminder of her foal’s frail state. It quickly turned into a steady, throbbing drumbeat in her mind that heralded the coming inevitable conclusion.
Her baby was about to die.
chirp wheeze chirp
“Huuuuuu…mummah stiww haf miwkies, babbeh! Come dwink miwkies! Mummah haf aww da miwkies ‘oo wan!”
wheeze cheearp
“Pwease come tu mummah, babbeh! Babbehs dat nu dwink miwkies am foweva sweepies babbehs!”
wheeze chrp
It was no use. Her baby lay on its side, its chest rising and falling slowly as it suffered. Its pale brown eyes bulged from their sockets, and its tongue lolled from its bleeding mouth, where underdeveloped teeth protruded at odd angles. Hopelessness overtook Goldenrod. There was nothing she could do.
But she could try.
“Hnnnnnnnngh!” the pegasus dam struggled and strained. Determined, she focused her eyes on the foal in front of her instead of the apparatus that held her back.
“If babbeh nu come…hnnnnnngh…tu mummah…nnnnnnnnngggh…den mummah come tu babbeh!”
The dam stretched out with both front hooves and gripped as best she could at the wood chips that covered the bottom of her cage. Then, she pulled herself forward, inching closer to her dying baby…
bonk
“Owwies!”
She recoiled as her nose banged against an invisible barrier. A small smear of blood, snot, and spit appeared on the clear glass wall between the mare and her foal.
“Huuuuu…wai am meanie nu-see waww dewe?!? Wai nu wet mummah get tu babbeh? Babbeh nee miwkies, ow babbeh am gon’ take foweva sweepies! Huu huuuuuu…”
But the wall had done its job. Goldenrod could do nothing but watch and cry as her tired, starved pegasus foal breathed her last.
wheeze wheeze gyackkkkkkkkk
“Huu huuuuuuu…” the mare sobbed, hiding her face behind her front hooves. “Babbeh am foweva sweepies! Am mummah-nu-mowe!”
suck suck suck suck
Goldenrod lay face down in her enclosure. The tiny pegasus foal had been her life—now that its life was over, so was hers. There were no more chances for love, nor huggies, nor play.
She kept her head down against the mulch, because each time she lifted up her head she saw the lifeless body of her “wingie-babbeh”, its cold, dead eyes staring at her in judgment. A mummah’s purpose was to make sure her babies all had love, huggies, and all the milkies they needed to grow up big and strong. She had failed in that task.
Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, she heard a click on the other side of the cage. The door opened in front of her, and a human not-hoof covered in slick, yellow not-fluff entered and picked up her dead foal. The baby may be dead, but that didn’t mean she wanted it taken away. It was hers!
“Nuuuuuuu! Nu take babbeh! Nu take babbeh! Babbeh nee miw—nee mummah!”
But the yellow not-hoof didn’t care. It took the little pegasus out of sight, and then returned with a wet towel, which it used to wipe the bottom of the baby’s side of the cage clean. No more desiccated fluff, and no more bad poopies!
“Huu huu…babbeh am aww dat mummah haf!”
But then, a miracle happened: the yellow not-hoof returned, closed almost in a fist. It loosened its grip, and a little yellow foal tumbled out! Its fluff was yellow—just like hers!—and it had a pair of tiny wings on its back that fluttered as it chirped.
chirp chirp
Goldenrod perked up immediately. “Babbeh! ‘oo am otay? Nice hoomans gif babbeh bestes’ huggies an make da’owwies gu ‘way?”
The little sightless foal, not comprehending the dam’s question, merely chirped hungrily.
chirp chirp
“Hewe, babbeh! Mummah haf wotsa miwkies! Dwink wotsa miwkies, an gwow big an stwong!”
The grad student removed his rubber gloves. He was certain that the potential investors would be convinced by his tour and demonstration, and that both he and the university were about to make millions.
“You can usually keep the mares going for about four or five months before they hit the ‘wan die’ loop. Once they do, we hook up a new mare and drop in one foal after another, and do it all over again. Our operating costs are minimal.”
“Very impressive, Mr. Hunter,” said a woman with short, blonde hair who stood near the front. “You say that your ‘fluffy pony dairy’ system began as your senior project?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct. My team and I performed all of the behavioral research, designed all of the equipment, and have been running the operation as a working dairy for the past two years.”
A balding, hawk-nosed man spoke up next. “What patents do you have?”
“We have a process patent on the ‘foal incentive’ method, and design patents on both the mare and foal feeders, as well as on the fluffy milker.”
An older man with well-kept light brown hair asked, “What are your sales?”
The student grinned. “In our first year, we sold $600,000 in milk through our distribution channels in the Northeast. In year two, we expanded our distribution into the Great Lakes region and launched our Cheval du Cochon Débile cheese label, which has really taken off.”
The balding man interrupted, “How much in sales?”
“Two million in year two.”
A collective gasp echoed throughout the large room. Hunter continued.
“It’s obviously scalable—I could open up a fluffy pony dairy in every major city with the right investment. And Deepika here,” he said, pointing to a young Indian woman who walked in with a tray, “is one of our specialists from the Food Sciences department. She can tell you more about the cheeses. But, of course, showing is telling.”
Hunter smiled as Deepika offered each of the investors a product sample. He knew exactly what was going through their heads as they tried out his wares. It was a fucking food of the gods.
For being stupid pig horses that were created in a laboratory to be children’s toys, fluffy ponies certainly had some rich milk. In fact, it was richer than any other livestock animal, and the fat content made it perfect for cheese production. The soft-ripened, bloomy rind cheese they produced could be compared to Brie—if only Brie were that delicious.
“Oh, my god…this is phenomenal!”
“I could eat this with every meal!”
“Just one question,” the balding man said, “do you have any Premier Cru Burgundy around? This would be the perfect pairing!”
“I would gladly offer you a glass,” the graduate student said, regretfully, “but Morgantown has a really strict law against open containers, and we don’t have a license. That being said, was the cheese you just tried worth twenty-seven dollars a pound? Because that’s what people are paying for it in the cheese shops in DC and New York.”
“Holy cow,” the older man said. “Well folks, I think we’ve heard enough to get the gist of Mr. Hunter’s business. Now, you said you and the University both have a stake, correct?”
“Yes, sir. According to my agreement with WVU, I own sixty percent. Their contributions of resources and facilities entitle them to forty percent.”
“Fabulous. We’ll have to let our attorneys perform due diligence, of course, but I think we can come to a preliminary agreement while we’re in town. You up for dinner at Bianchi’s?”
“Sure. You know, they were one of the first restaurants to serve our cheese?”
The shorter, balding man with the hawk-nose oooohed. “Well, I know what I’m ordering, then.”
The group laughed as they all exited the cavernous facility. Outside, the crisp autumn air blew through the colorful trees, carrying leaves across the green, grassy cow pasture outside. A Holstein cow watched the humans pass, and then leaned down to pull up a patch of clover as the sun descended behind the mountains.
Mia hated the powder more than anything else about her work-study job. It got in her hair, her clothes, and her sinuses every damn time. Even if she wore a mask.
Three times a day, one of the “grunts” (as Mr. Hunter liked to call them, whether they were work-study students or ag-school interns) would load the prescribed amount of shit-smelling powder into the tank and pull the lever. The soupy mixture was supposed to simulate mare’s milk, but Mia knew well enough that all it did was keep the foals from dying too quickly. On top of that, it gave them shit that was hard as a rock.
“Bon appetite, you little fuckers,” she said, as she descended the ladder. Of course, it was highly unlikely that anyone heard her over the familiar bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
sound that came from the foal feeder as it mixed its sludge.
Now, time to check for dead ones. Looking for dead foals was pretty easy—if a foal wasn’t moving, you could tap on the one-way glass door once. If the foal still didn’t move, you took it out, cleaned the cage, and replaced it with a new one. The policy was to try to find one with similar coloration to the mare (or at least to the dead one you had just chucked out). She grabbed her cart and started making the rounds.
tap tap Yep, dead as a doornail. Mia opened the cage, and wrinkled her nose at the stench.
“Nuuuuuuu! Nu take babbeh! Dat am wastest babbeh dat mummah haf!”
The young woman rolled her eyes as she tossed the dead foal in the STOCK bin with a thud. Then, she methodically took out a sanitary wipe and cleaned out the soiled cage, pushing the contents into the WASTE bin, from which it would be dumped into the much larger waste tank. The waste tank was connected to each dairy mare’s hindquarters by a funnel and tube—it smelled like the grave, but in the end it made the school’s corn grow extraordinarily well.
She made a note on her clipboard: a32 – medium green, purple mt. Then, she moved on, collecting the dead and cleaning cages as she went.
Once Mia had set aside the dead stock and dumped all of the waste, she grabbed her clipboard and headed over to the stockroom. Inside were four large foal bins—each of which had a feeding tube with eight nipples at the bottom and a heat lamp to keep the foals from dying of exposure. One bin was labeled with a “1”, the next with a “2”, the next with a “3”, and the last one with a picture of a t-bone steak. The labels were removable. The student knew that first she needed to check the bin with the steak.
Yep. Empty. Apparently, the buyer’s truck had been there already today. Because that bin was empty, she detatched the feeding tube from #3 and pushed it down the hall.
She was able to find matching foals for every empty cage except one—an orange mare with a white mane, whom the boss had named “Creamsicle”. Mr. Hunter said the mares stayed slightly more sane if you gave them a name. Of course, that didn’t mean they all needed unique names—there were, at last count, twenty-three “Bessies”, eighteen “Goldenrods”, and no fewer than seventeen “Watermelons”.
Mia whistled as she pushed the foal bin, destined for the delightful steak label, back to the stockroom, when she heard an ungodly scream coming from aisle D.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEE! BIGGEST POOPIES!”
sigh Goddammit. It didn’t take long for the work-study to figure out what that meant. When the mares gave birth for the first time—and the only time here—they were so stupid that they believed it was just a really big, nasty shit.
She rushed the foal bin back to the stockroom and grabbed the empty one with the steak on it, and then took it out to the floor. The birthing dam wasn’t hard to find, as the force of her explosive shit had nearly knocked off her waste funnel. Mia opened the cage door and removed the funnel, giving the foals enough room to come out.
“Huu huu…Bwuebewwy sowwy, nice wady! Nu mean tu make big poopies aww ovah da pwace!”
“Ugh, nasty,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the disgusting funnel, which she quickly set aside. “You’re not just taking a shit, Blueberry. Your foals are coming.”
The dam’s airborne legs wiggled in excitement. Mia was glad she couldn’t see the stupidly joyful expression on her face—it was bad enough to have to hear her voice. “Weawwy? Babbehs comin’! Bwuebewwy am be mummah soon!”
The student wanted to wander off and do some of her fixed tasks, leaving the annoying “soon-mummah” to fend for herself, but the mare’s groans put a stop to that.
“HNNNNNNNNNNGH!”
splort
chirp chirp
“Babbeh! Dat sound wike babbeh! Pwease gif tu mummah, nice wady!”
Mia ignored her, placing the chirping foal in the basket which hung from the side of the foal bin. It writhed and chirped, probably desperate for sustenance.
“Pwease gif babbeh tu mummah! Babbeh nee’ miw—HNNNNNNNNG!”
splort
chirp chirp chirp
An orange foal. Jackpot, she thought. Exactly what she needed to replace the one in J16.
splort
chirp
Welp, there’s your “bestest babbeh” right there. She quickly wiped the foal off and set it in the basket with the others. All told, the blue earthie gave birth to a healthy litter of seven foals. Mia’s quick hands even allowed her to get the funnel back in time to catch the afterbirth, saving her the messiest part of the cleanup.
“Yaaaaaay! Bwuebewwy am mummah! Nice wady gif babbehs tu mummah nao? Babbehs nee miwkies an huggies an wuv!”
Instead, the work-study closed the cage door, ignoring the dam’s pleas. She walked around to the other side and dropped her blue earthie colt in on his rump, and he immediately started chirping for milkies. To guide him in the right direction, Mia gave the rubber nipple a squeeze. The colt awkwardly hurried over to the artificial feeder, despite his mother’s protests.
Once the orange filly was situated with her new “mummah”, the young woman rolled the foal bin back to the stockroom and moved the labels around. The new arrivals got the “1”, and got hooked up to the feeder. The ones who had the “3” but weren’t needed as replacement foals got the t-bone steak.
Mia checked her phone. She had several texts from friends, asking her to go out. Fuck it, she thought. It’s Thursday night, and there’s a barstool on High Street with my name on it.
She decided that Fernando could check for “wan die” mares when he came in the next morning, and finished her shift by incinerating the dead foals. The company had a high-efficiency oven, which burned the bodies down to a fine powder. Once the powder was safely in an old feed bag, she turned out the lights and locked the door.
THE END
