You are the “Responsible” breeder. You sell fluffies with good temperaments for slightly profitable sums thanks to your “expert” breeding skills. And by “Expert” you mean you don’t beat the shit out of them for every possible offense. Nor do you think the “sorry stick” should be a banned object. Your methods are calculating, but with good intentions. You produce the best quality fluffies you can in a responsible manner.
And right now, you are responsible for explaining the concept of death to a bunch of foals wailing in the pen at the dead body to your hands.
You had added five new foals last night. Only four made it to the morning and the filly pen is in disarray. A maroon red and black haired filly suddenly passed away in her sleep in the fluffpile. You discovered it during their morning feeding with a bunch of fillies poking it and asking if it “wanted nummies”. Worse of all, their wailing attracted the colts who looked up from their breakfast and saw the dead body in your hands too. They started wailing instantly. You try to get the wailing fluffies to shush as you inspect the body.
No bruises, blood in the mouth or scratches. No signs of crushing, vomit or shit in the face so you rule out suffocation. No water either, so that rules out drowning. It’s system must have just shut down. “Sudden Fluffy Death Syndrome” the vets call it, for the lack of a better term. Fluffy Pony always finds a way. Someone already pre-ordered the foal and a bunch of accessories. Blood-ish red and a black mane? Goths would have killed for that coloring. The payment was on hold and never goes through till the fluffy is in their hand. But you never like to explain how it just upped and died on you, never mind lose a sale. Looks bad for the store’s image. Not that breeding cartoonish horse-pig animals that talk is a good look in the first place.
You explain gently to the foals with regard to their limited intelligence that their friend went “Forever Sleepies” and “daddy is sad too” but that’s OK. She’s happy forever and she will always be happy. They may be sad, but they will soon be happy that she is happy too. Their minds seem to accept the simplified explanation of the stages of grief. It’s no Kubler Ross model, but it will do. They go back to eating their chow and having a prolonged hugging session. Hugging might end up fixing their grief. At least you hope so. A “Sad” pen is usually bad word of mouth and a day of unsellable foals.
You make your way outside in the murky and cold drizzle to dispose of the corpse. You don’t anticipate a lot of customers today and it’s a bit too wet to let the free range pens out. A still breeze chills you as you look in the bio-waste dumpster. Dead fluffies lining the bottom. You anticipated the odd death, but you never thought you would be organising weekly pick ups from the bio-waste disposal company. You look at your watch and notice you are a little late from your usual opening time. Dead fluffies are costing you time and money you need to keep the place open.
You make your way back inside and flip the open sign on your door. You open up your laptop at your desk to your communications suite and start answering your e-mail and social media (You are responsible to get clued in on consumer trends, obviously). Fluffies don’t sell themselves. They do a super bad job of it in the first place. You have to do it.
Your email to the potential buyer is awkward. But they seem to accept that it’s just an inevitability. Everyone knows fluffies can be fragile creatures. You offer a small discount on the accessories if they order another fluffy as an apology for the inconvenience but it looks like their cold black hearts were set on that fluffy going off the “CradeOfFilthDoll” e-mail address and you don’t expect them to order anything else. You have no black foals in stock, at least. You curse your luck over losing that sale since they were paying a decent amount for it and fumble with your pen in frustration as you mark a note down to try breed some black foals for that all important goth market.
As the place settles down. You think about logging into the fluffy forums to discuss psychology with other breeders and owners before you hear the door open. A young, small, slim build, woman enters the store as she shakes down her umbrella outside. You weren’t anticipating anyone either. Most of your customers e-mail you ahead of time, even abusers.
You flash a smile and greet her as she comes through the door. After a brief wipe down of the condensation on her glasses, her eyes dart around the store and a gigantic grin on her face like she’s finally found what she’s looked for all this life. You give a quick and polite spiel asking if she needs anything and to just ask you if she needs something in particular. She seems to stumble over her words a bit, saying she needs a companion but she eventually gets to her answer. She needs a fluffy. One that will be attached and give a lot of comfort. Ah, someone who’s maybe a bit lonely. A fluffy can be a very good companion if trained and raised right you believe. You assure her she came to the right place.
You invite her over to your desk and bring out the question sheet as usual for any customer interested in actually keeping a fluffy (and not shoving a “Bang, Bang, Bangkok’’ firework up its ass when they get home). She’s a little bit mousey but perks up when she talks about how much she wants a fluffy. She has done her homework too regarding your questions and answers them all with glee. The only issue is that her space in her flat is at a premium, even if her landlord allows pets, but you assure her it’s fine. You have plenty of “Safe Pen” fences in stock and let’s face it, an entire room is overkill for a fluffy. Hasbio just wanted to minimize complaints and refunds by claiming fluffies need an entire padded room to themselves. She mutters out an “OK” like it’s not what she’s looking for. But you can discuss that when you get to accessories anyway.
She mentions straight away she’s looking for a foal as she knows they can get attached easily, someone to be a good friend, someone to be at her side forever and love her. You start to get a bit unnerved. She’s not hiding, she’s an abuser. A thought runs across your mind……no, can’t be one of them. She’s too nice and polite to be one. You tell her you might be able to find a fluffy new friend today as you rise from the desk. You take her over to the foal pens to see the technicolor bundles of hugs. The foals seem to have gotten over the death of their friend earlier and are content hugging it out or sleeping off the activity from the morning. She looks into the colt pen and a fluffy seems to catch her eye. A unicorn with a shocking pink mane and a white fluff is eagerly stacking some blocks. The woman almost squeals in glee and asks if she can hold it. You smile back and tell her you have a meeting area with a glass pen full of toys. You will bring over the foal and his file in a moment if she takes a seat there.
You open up the folder on the side of the pen and take out the file. You quickly scoop up the nervous foal who hides in your arms and cries about “Nu wan upsies”. Unicorns are always nervous around “Upsies” as Hasbio thought it was cute. You just worry You place the foal in the penas he waddles around the pen with a slight limp. You remember that one, He had an incident with a ball and a collision with another foal a week ago when running too fast and not looking. He should be fine in a few days you inform the woman. The foal gets over his brief trip in the air and starts talking to the “Nice wady” and asking politely for hugs, just like you taught him. You take an opportunity to look at the file so you can sell this one a bit better…
”Mallow” - Unicorn type. Energetic, Active. Doesn’t look where he’s running. Two quick sorry boxings on record for this to try get him to take care when playing. Not malicious, Just a bit rambunctious. One sorry sticking for demanding food while you were scooping it out. Learned quickly to not demand things. Loves human contact. Very attached when he knows you. Ideal for someone who can spend time with him and keep him active. Shocking pink mane and Snow White fluff. Feminine colors on a male fluffy so a high grade is out of the question. High end of mid-grade price. About $30-60 depending on how he develops.
Mallow. He’s the first one to greet you in the morning at the colt pen and ask for hugs normally, but has been really nervous and agitated lately after the accident. If you were unscrupulous, you might have lopped his balls off and sold him as a mare. He’s lucky you aren’t that sort of breeder. You remember it was a little bit of a hassle to train. Not really malicious. Just over eager and collision prone. At the same time, maybe not the fluffy for this woman considering he tired his own mother out frequently with his energy. It’s a shame, looks like those two could be friends. Mallow is eagerly chasing and hugging the woman’s hand while she tickles him. You sit down with the woman at the play area and start to discuss Mallow’s temperament. While you can sell her safe pen fences, he might need a lot of activity and a big area to play around in so she might have to dedicate more space than she thinks.
“That’s OK” she responds as she tussles the colt’s mane. “He’s perfect for what I need. We’re already becoming good friends”. She smiles and pets him again before announcing “I want you to pillow him”
You knew it. You fucking knew it. It’s a pillowfluffer.
“Daddeh, wha a piwwow?”
You mutter something about it being something you sit on to the fluffy and tell him to stay in the meeting area and not move. You quickly ask the woman to come back with you to the desk as you know that discussion is appropriate in earshot of the fluffy or any fluffy in the building.
“You want me to pillow him?” you enquire in a forced hushed tone. You know the fluffy
“Yes, I want you to pillow him. He is very attached and wants my attention so I know he’s the right one. They become a lot more loving when they only depend on you” she smiles. It unnerves you.
You lean back in your desk chair. You know this is a problem. You know that a vet obviously won’t do it. But she might take it to another breeder who will fuck up the pillowing process and get her custom instead. You can’t afford to lose paying customers. At the same time. Pillowfluffs are doomed to a life of misery, depression and health problems. You can’t have your store and your fluffies generalised and associated with being pillowfluffer enablers if you want to attract pedigree breeders. Especially with the word of mouth you have been building about your store. Hugboxers will rage online endlessly about you and being tagged with pillowfluffer business is bad news. Never mind pillowfluffers are insane drama magnets who demand just as much attention from other humans as they do their legless fluffies.
You start to make your pitch to convince her not to do it. “Lady, I’ll be blunt. I don’t discriminate on who I sell fluffies to. And I do make Pillowfluffs for customers who ask. But I must warn you, pillowing is a very bad idea. Fluffies that are pillowed, they simply can’t adjust, they never adjust to life without their legs. The foal you picked is very energetic and loves to play. He would completely freak if he lost his legs and never be the same fluffy again. He might even ‘derp out’ from the shock”
“Oh, but I’ve read other owners online raising them successfully. I’m an expert in the pillow community” she responds with a vainglorious grin. “And I’m sure I can keep him happy. I work from home. I’m only at the office a small time of the week. He will always be in my lap. He looks like he’s craving attention. And I’ve already done my research. The more energetic ones are the more dependent ones. He’s the one I want and I want him to be the happiest pillow fluff of them all”
You furrow your brow a little, this one is a harder nut to crack and thinks she knows better than you. You can try to scare her a bit. “I understand what you read online, but some of those people don’t understand what the fluffy is going through. Their fluffy might be a depressed miserable wreck and they won’t know it because the fluffy is only happy when their owners are nearby. And if your job requires you to go back to the office, he will be even more alone, depressed and lonely. Their personalities can change, they can lash out and bite, they can start crying continuously, They can go into a ‘wan die’ loop at any time, they can even reject you as an owner. ”
She seems to be a little annoyed at your concern and she thinks she knows better. As much as you’d like to prove her wrong and send her back to the internet with her tail between her still attached legs. You can’t scare off a potential customer though. It’s just lost money and you can’t afford that with the rent stacking up. You try to steer it back on course. “I understand why you want one. I just feel I can set you up with a better fluffy who doesn’t need as much space and energy. They will give you the bond you want to have and still live a happy fluffy life. A happy fluffy tends to keep the owner happy”.
She glares into you with a cold stare and calmly goes into her tirade “I see videos of amputees all the time on tumblr who are happy. They are happy as long as they have warm blankets and a human to depend on. They love spaghetti more than other fluffies. As long as they have a human to be dependent on and a TV when I am away I am sure he will be happy. I’ve been talking to people on amputee fluffy forums for a while. I am very confident I can give this fluffy a happy life without its legs and that will make me happy too. He will love longer than other fluffies and won’t be hurt. A lot of the anti-pillowers make things up just to scare people off”.
The internet. Misinforming people and canonising their ignorant opinions into “facts”. Especially telling people with dependency issues that a miserable, depressed bio-pet is the cure. You know of the pillowfluffer community. They thought they were genuinely helping because they took away their fluffies legs at first to “cure” smarty syndrome or stop mares from running away but now it’s just a self-important excuse to make fluffies totally dependent on them and their egos. They don’t understand just how important even moving and playing is to a fluffy and just because their fluffy is happy with them, means it’s happy all the time when it will usually cry and scream once the human is away.
Your mind sighs, This is a battle you aren’t going to win but you have one last chance at the war. She wants a pillowfluff because she wants someone or something to be totally dependent on her. Her mind has been poisoned by this completely wrong community. You look over at Mallow. He seems to be getting a little bored and putting his little hooves on the side glass to get attention he desires. He’s already addicted to the hugs from the woman. You make your last play to try deter her from going through with this. You open a drawer in the desk and take out a contract form out of an indexed file. You hold it under your hand and pass it over. The top reads in bold red letters under your company header
FLUFFY + PILLOWING SALE AGREEMENT
“OK, I’ll pillow him. But I must tell you that you have to purchase him first. He’s $60 on his own. I charge $200 for the pillowing as a follow up sale. After that, it’s up to you to source its veterinary care as I don’t refer pillowfluffs to the vets I work with as a courtesy to them. To be extra clear, if your fluffy’s behavior changes. I will not accept it back as a return and will have a local shelter take it where I cannot guarantee it will live a healthy life. If the fluffy dies during the operation. I will bill you for the fluffy and return the rest of the money. Once you sign the contract and purchase the fluffy, you agree to the terms. I’d ask you to read it and think about it. If it helps, I’ll give you $30 off the cost of the fluffy not to pillow him and if you take him as is. My offer is on the table”
The woman adjusts her glasses as she reads over the contract. You try every trick in the book. Some people would think you were a bad businessman, trying to keep people from spending . You know better. Pillowfluffs are nothing but trouble for you and your business. You start recalling your annoyances in your mind as she reads the contract
You tried keeping the first one pillowfluff that was returned to you and learn a bit more. That was a bad idea. It cried all day when it wasn’t with you. You gave it another fluffy as a friend to try stop it crying. The pillow fluff bit the other legs in frustration after not being able to reach the ball they were playing with and left a huge gash and a terrified fluffy. You never thought a fluffy could be that vicious but frustration is a powerful motivator. You had to take it out back and euthanise the pillowfluff and the bitten fluffy a few days after as it became a nervous wreck around any other fluffy.
Now, you don’t want any in your store, near your breeding pens or anywhere in the vicinity. Pillowfluff owners never come back for accessories, toys, treats or food the way other customers do either. Preferring to stay in their own little circlejerk online and post pictures of their depression cases in harnesses smiling while taking a bath. Their ubiquitous hashtag #PillowfluffsAreHappyFluffs disgusts you. Less loving owners and more a cult of approval. The only reason the fluffy is smiling is because it’s getting attention and stimulation for an hour instead of being left alone, motionless and miserable. Not because they got over a fluffies natural fear of water like these selfish pricks like to think.
Most pillowfluffers flake out when it becomes an annoyance. The local shelter doesn’t want them. All they do is cry, mope, eat and shit on each other all day. Only abusers or fluffy amputee owners will adopt them in the rare case it actually happens. You all want rid of the no legged menace for the good of the responsible fluffy community and the fluffy ecology. But that fucking pillow fluff community online is absolutely convinced that amputating fluffies is perfectly fine as long as “Custom modifications” to bio-toys remain legal.
Yet when a customer demands one, you can only obligate and maintain damage control. They will just go off to another breeder with less of an issue and a cheaper price. But there’s only so much you can do. You can never prepare a fluffy for a life without its legs. It can’t cope at all. It’s an unnecessary problem created by the vain and selfish to feed their ego.
Your thoughts are interrupted with her only question “Do you have a pen?”
She stares at you cold at ice through her glasses before she goes on a “I completely understand why you are worried since you put great care into your fluffies. But your, ugh, misinformation about Pillowfluffs. I don’t need long ‘Legsplaining’ lectures from people not involved or who just judge us because we’re different. I know what I’m doing and I know you care. And I know you won’t botch the operation like the others, because you care. I want him pillowed or you don’t get paid”.
Checkmated. She knows you don’t want to lose her as a customer. And she just implied you were a hugboxer when you are about to tear the legs off the fluffy. The fucking nerve of some people…
You sigh as you tell her you will do it for the agreed fee. Your scare tactics have completely failed. She signs the contract and registration before asking for a litter box, A sorry stick and sorry box, some food bowls and worst of all, an actual pillow for the fluffy to spend it’s life on. You ring it all up. You offer a free ball but she’s convinced she won’t need it because she will provide enough stimulation. You tell her the fluffy is now hers and she can go ahead and name it.
Her smile is creepy, yet completely genuine as she passes the contract over to you as she introduces herself as a new mommy to the now newly named Marshy. He’s overjoyed as he bounds in the meeting space. He better enjoy his legs while he has them. You walk over and explain the operation will be done once the store closes and she can pick him up this evening. She gives you an explicit instruction to put the sleeping fluffy in the travel box so his new mother can explain he was “rescued from the leg stealing monster” when he wakes up. “The leg stealing monster”. That slimy worm thought of everything including breeder books. You see her out through the door, though she waves goodbye to the fluffy who eagerly waves back. You cringe as you place him back in the foal pen. You hand him a ball and tell him to go play with the other fluffies as you think about the real leg stealing monster skipping down the street.
After closing time. You pick up the newly named Marshy and bring him back to the medical room. You go through the physical and check for any problems. He cries and sobs a little a little as you move his left back hoof. You feel a small lump there too. May have been that collision with another foal you mentioned earlier. When you ask him to “Give huggies”, he seems to cry a little as he sits on his hind. Giving huggies in pain. Sign of a truly good fluffy. Poor guy. The pain’s about to become unimaginable to human minds.
You ask him the same question about leaving the pen. He will miss his friends but he’s completely enamored with his “Nyu mummah”. She knows her fluffies since she had the poor foal convinced she was going to be his new mother. You also ask him to make some good poopies for you in the litterbox for obvious reasons.
You prepare your surgery box. Which is really just a plastic pink box with the lid removed and a disposable blanket. You tell him you need to step outside as you place him in the box and to be a good fluffy. He seems to not be worried that you used an old Sorry Box and modified it to be a bit more comfortable since he can see out the top. You give him a quick hug with your hand and let him wrap your legs around your arm before you tell him to be good. It’s the last one he will ever get with his legs.
You step outside the medical room and walk to a wardrobe in the home adjacent. Your “Scrubs” sit out there. A black sports turtleneck, black working trousers and a paintball mask. Theatrical, maybe. But you can’t have the fluffy ever thinking it’s “owd daddeh” is the one searing of its limbs. An amputee can immediately get depressed and scared of humans if it thinks the person who is chopping off their limbs is the one who has cared for it all it’s short life. Fine if you are an abuser, but this one is going to a “Loving” new owner. You don’t know if she loves the fluffy or loves herself though.
You re-visit the medical room and turn off the lights. Immediately you are greeted with a shriek of “Nu wike dawkies! Mummah hewp Mawshy!” from the newly named Marshy. You throw a blanket over the box and take him away. You can feel him scrambling in the box. You wish you could just tell him it’s OK. But it’s not. It’s not OK at all.
You enter down to your basement. A medical table with an alcohol spray and disinfectant sits in the middle of the room. On the sides line a moveable tool box, a desk and some wardrobes contain supplies. You aren’t an abuser. But you can’t treat some things in the medical room. Fluffies are stupid, but they can retain memories from extreme trauma or joy and they will recognise the medical room. You switch on the light as the fluffy “huu’s” and cry to itself under the blanket. You take out a foal sized immobilisation board and sit the fluffy on the table. You take out what looks like a set of shears, and plug them into the electrical socket nearby. You put on some rubber gloves and snap them. The fluffy twitches and backs away from you, terrified out of it’s tiny mind. Time to get to business.
You take the fluffy out and wordlessly slot him into the immobilisation board. The fluffy cries out and begs for its new mother instead of the “Scawy Munstah”. If only it knew she’s the reason it’s currently terrified. The fluffy squirms and struggles. The farting coming from it’s rear indicates you did your job and made sure it didn’t have any shit left to spray.
You pull him up by the mane so his back two legs are still stuck in the board and he can’t run away. The fluffy is pleading for clemency from the “Munstah” as you take his right front leg in your hand. You feel about, looking for the joint attaching the thigh bone to the body. The squirming fluffy isn’t making things easier. Finally, you seem to get a grip of the joint. You gently but firmly take hold and pop it out to the side to dislocate it. The joint slips out with a small tug
The ear piercing scream never fails to make you jump. The foal goes into hysterics, sobbing and screeching in your hands as the leg pops out of its socket and dangles limply in the air. A fluffy’s nerve center is much more sensitive than a human’s. What would be a painful experience for humans is unimaginable agony for fluffies. You take the second leg in your arm as the fluffy thrashes around, looking for any escape from the pain. Another grip and a gentle pull and the next joint pops out of place followed by another air shattering screech. Your own body shivers looking at the two dangling legs and the crying fluffy completely wracked in unbearable pain.
“HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! NU MOWE HUWTIES! FWUFFY GOOD FWUFFY!!! AM OWNY BABBEH!!” the fluffy desperately begs you with all it’s defensive might.
It hasn’t passed out yet and it’s panicking so much it’s forgetting its new name. Yet it’s completely right. It hasn’t done anything wrong but be the one chosen by his new owner.
You pull it out of the immobilization board as you don’t need it any more for the operation. You remember the left back leg was giving him some trouble. You feel around for the joint again and pop it out, squeezing the leg a bit. It doesn’t work as the fluffy is now chirping and peeping like a newborn in severe distress. The fluffy is in severe pain, so much it might go into shock and die from trauma. You curse under your breath and reach for the last leg. You reach for the joint and pop it out while adding a little squeeze to try push them past the pain threshold and reset the body. There’s a small peep and a sudden thump as the foal collapses on the table.
Silence fills the room as you look at the white foal collapsed on the table, its leg bones sticking out at awkward angles. You reach your glove down onto its body and try to feel for heart rate. A steady thump can be felt in your fingers and you can feel the foal’s stomach and lungs move. You sigh and take the mask off to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It finally passed out from the pain and is breathing fine. Fluffies die easily of shock and heart attacks. Would have been a waste of time and a good fluffy otherwise. Never mind that grown stallions and mares won’t pass out during the operation. The smallest mercy is that he was having it done while he was a foal.
You take a drink of water as you return to the device you plugged in earlier. It’s currently producing steam in the cool air which means it’s ready. This your “Stumper”. A modified pig tail docker. It works by placing the fluffies leg in between the she over where the joint should be and snaps shut, taking the leg The stumper is superheated and instantly cauterizes the wound and leaves a clean stub that heals quickly due to Hasbio’s clotting bio-technology. Of course, they won’t regenerate. Just heal significantly quicker than other animals. You move quickly before the passed out foal wakes up. Feeling for the area where the joint was and careful not to hit the connector bone on the torso, you separate out the bone further from the torso joint, and pull slightly down on the limp leg to stretch out the skin.
The stumper shears into a fluffies soft skin like a knife through butter. A small hiss can be heard as it cauterizes the skin instantly over the joint and burns off the fluff completely. A clean cut that will leave a small skin covered stump once it heals over with only a scar where the skin was bonded, indicating that it had legs in the first place. Just like a pig tail docker. The leg limply falls onto the table, a small bone can be seen in the top with the shredded muscle. It’s immediately discarded to the bio waste basket you keep beside the table as you apply antiseptic ointment and dress the stump in bandages to allow them to clot and heal.
You repeat the process for all four legs as you check to make sure the poor fluffies heartrate and breathing is fine as you check each one. Finally, Your ghastly work is done with only a few small splatters of blood on the table. You pet the unconscious fluffy. It’s been through a lot today.
You return the fluffy to the medical room upstairs and leave it in the travel box as you prepared. You need to go back to change into your regular work clothes after a quick shower to make sure the stink of fluffy blood isn’t on you. You return to find a chirping fluffy crying out and wiggling in the box. His eyes still closed and in a nightmare of agony and pain. Poor guy hasn’t fully come back yet though you are glad they are alive. He should be ready in an hour or so. You close over the flaps of the box as you were instructed to by your demanding customer. You wish you didn’t have to fold the flaps but money is money.
You take the opportunity to feed the rest of your fluffies and make sure there’s no incidents in the meantime. You swat a breeder mare on the rump with the sorry stick for demanding some spaghetti but the fluffies seem to behave. Which is not good for you since you’d rather be disciplining some foal than waiting for that piece of to come back. Not soon after that thought passes you by, then Satan herself appears at the door, wanting their package. You can hear a sad sniffle of “Why weggies nu work?” as you take the box up. You wish you could apologise to the poor fluffy you raised. But you can’t reveal the ruse.
You bring the box outside to find your smiling customer. You try to tell her to be cautious but she is already lecturing you about proper post-operative pillowfluff care and the stumps healing after 24 hours like this was your first rodeo. You indulge her if only for her to get out of your sight quicker. After her rant ends, she takes her boxes and puts them into the back of the car, fluffy included. She remarks how great a job you did will let all her online friends know how much you care and direct them to your store before she drives away with her new companion.
You grab “Mallow”’s file from off your desk and look at picture of the happy foal who couldn’t even sit still for the photo. You put Mallow’s file in the paper shredder.
You pray that the woman doesn’t tell her friends.
You are Marshy. You are the saddest fluffy.
You were happy with all your friends and then you met a nyu mummah who wanted to take you home! She gave you a pwetty bestest name! You were so happy! You would laugh and run and dance for her!
Your weggie hurted a little. But you knew hugs for your mummah would fix it!
But when owd daddeh went to get you ready. A mean munsta took you!
You were so scared. The mean munsta was so mean! He gave you so many huwties!
He took all your weggies! Your weggies!
When you woke up, owd daddeh was there and he said it was fine! It wasn’t! A mean munstah took your weggies! You only had stumpies now!
Buh he gave you to your nyu mummah who took you to a nyu housie.
Owd Daddeh said he would find and give big huwties to the munsta. Nyu mummah said she would protect you from the munstah too.
You sit in your mummah’s lap. She’s at her big bright tee bee talking to someone.
She gave you sketti when she came home. You like Sketti. She even took your picture on her shiny black box so she could show it to her friends.
She’s so nice.
You wish you could hug her
But You can’t. You have no weggies.
You never will be hugging your new mummah
You will never be dancing for your new mummah
You will never be playing blockies with your nyu mummah
You make sad wawas.
You want your weggies to come back so you can wuv your nyu mummah.
Pwease weggies. Come back….