Rusty, a little fluffy pony with a coat the color of a sunset and big, innocent green eyes, was perfectly content.
He heard Mummah’s soft footsteps approach, and then the familiar warmth of her arms as she scooped him up. “My sweet little Rusty,” his Mummah said, pressing kisses to his fluffy head. “I have to go away for a little while, to college. But don’t you worry, my brother, your Uncle Mark will take such good care of you until I come back.” She hugged him close, her scent filling his nose, and for a moment, all was right in Rusty’s world. She gently placed him back in his cloud bed, another soft kiss on his forehead, and then she was gone.
He had been lying in his soft cloud bed in Mummah’s room, dreaming about her warm hugs and gentle voice, when Uncle Mark’s heavy steps came down the hallway. The door swung open, the light harsh, and before Rusty could even sit up, the man’s big hand grabbed him by the scruff.
“Bad upsies!” Rusty squealed, little legs kicking helplessly. “No wan’ bad upsies, pwease!”
But Uncle Mark didn’t care. He carried Rusty down the creaking steps, ignoring his wiggling and tiny frightened chirps. The basement air hit Rusty like a cold slap. Then—without a word—Uncle Mark tossed him into the new pen sitting in the middle of the concrete floor.He also ripped off Rusty’s little collar with his name tag, tossing it into a dark corner with a grunt.
Rusty landed on soft foam tiles, but the walls around him were tall and colorless. He noticed a little mesh window and pressed his fluffy face against it, giggling with glee at the blurry shapes he could just barely make out beyond. His joy was short-lived, however, as Uncle Mark produced a big roll of duct tape and, with a few swift, heavy-handed motions, covered the window completely, leaving only a dull gray surface. He couldn’t see out, no matter how hard he tried. He pressed his hooves to the wall and stretched up on his hind legs, little body trembling.
“Mummah?” he called softly. “Wan’ upsie, pwease?”
But there was no answer. Only the faint hum of pipes and the sound of Uncle Mark walking away, leaving Rusty alone in the dark.
Rusty didn’t know how long he slept. Down in the basement, time didn’t move the same way. It was always cold, always damp. When the sudden clang of pipes and a man’s angry shout jolted him awake, Rusty’s little heart raced.
“Goddamn pipes leaking again!” Uncle Mark’s voice thundered. Rusty scrambled to his feet, desperate for attention.
“Uncwe Mawk! Rusty need wittah box! Nee’ make poopies, pwease wet Rusty out!” he pleaded, standing on his hind legs, pressing his little hooves against the tall wall. His soft face peeked just barely above the edge.
Uncle Mark turned toward him, wet laundry in his hands, and snapped.
“Look, you little shit rat, I don’t give a fuck about you and what you want. Only reason you’re still here is because my sister loves you for some goddamn reason and she can’t take you to college with her. It’s in your best interest to shut the fuck up and just exist in that shit rat pen until she comes home.”
Rusty flinched, tears forming in his big green eyes.
He didn’t understand. Cowwege? What was that? Where was Mummah? Why hadn’t she come to get him yet? She always came when he cried for her. Always.
Rusty’s voice broke into a sob.
“Wusty can’ see! Can’ see, Uncwe Mawk! Nee’ wittah box! Pwease wet Wusty out!”
But Uncle Mark didn’t care. He just turned back to the noisy, clanging machine and slammed the lid shut. The washer began to rumble, growling and banging like a monster trapped in a metal box.
Rusty whimpered and sank to the floor. The shadows were bigger now, and the room felt like it was breathing. There were no toys, no litter box, and no Mummah. Only the endless growl of the washie machine and the feeling that something inside him was going wrong.
After what felt like forever, Rusty tried to keep himself busy. He found the edge of one of the soft floor tiles and tugged with his teeth. The foam peeled up with a satisfying rrrip, and for a little while, that was enough. He pushed the torn piece around the pen, pretending it was a toy car, pretending he wasn’t alone.
But soon, his tummy began to rumble. It hurt.
“Uh-oh…” he whispered, pressing his little hooves against his belly. “Wusty nee’ go wittah box…”
He looked around desperately. The corners were bare. No pan. No sand. No place to be a good fluffy. So he called out again.
“Uncwe Mawk! Pwease wet Wusty out! Nee’ make poopies! Wusty be good, pwomise!”
No answer. Just the rhythmic thumping of the washer and the dripping of the pipes. His tummy cramped again. He tried holding it, but he couldn’t. And then suddenly, relief. Warmth and shame spread out beneath his little rump.
When the smell hit him, Rusty started crying.
“Wusty sowwy… Wusty nu bad fwuffy… Mummah say good fwuffies nu make bad poopies…”
He backed away from the mess, shaking and sobbing.
A while later, heavy footsteps came down the stairs again. The door creaked open, and Uncle Mark’s voice filled the air.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck—” He stopped short, gagging as the smell hit him. “Fucking hell, it reeks.”
Rusty whimpered. “Wusty nu mean! Nu wan’ make bad poopies!”
Uncle Mark rubbed his face and groaned. “Unbelievable. Guess that’s on me. Didn’t even put a goddamn litter box in there.” He leaned over the pen, grimacing. “Can’t leave you caked in shit either. You’d probably get sick and die, and my sister would lose her mind.”
Rusty looked up at him, tears streaking his dirty little face, hoping that meant he’d get out.
But the man just sighed and muttered,
“Guess I’ll clean you up. Then you’re going right back in there.”
Uncle Mark scooped Rusty up by the scruff, ignoring the little fluffy’s terrified squeals. He carried him to a large utility sink near the washing machine. The cold porcelain of the sink was startling against Rusty’s warm fur as he was placed under the tap. A gush of frigid water streamed over him, shocking his small body. Rusty shivered violently, his cries lost in the rush of the water as Uncle Mark quickly rinsed away the mess, still gripping him tightly by the neck.
This was nothing like Mummah’s baffies. Mummah always used warm water and bubbly “sudsies” that smelled so “pwetty.” She would sing soft songs and gently rub his fur until it was all clean and fluffy again. Uncle Mark didn’t sing. He didn’t use sudsies. He didn’t understand how to give a good fluffy a proper baffie at all.
After rinsing him, Mark quickly patted the sobbing fluffy dry with a mostly clean rag and tossed him into an old cardboard box while he cleaned up the pen. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, scrubbing at the soiled foam tiles. “Should’ve just put a goddamn litter box in there to begin with.” He found a small pan from the box the pen had come in and quickly added a bit of litter specially made for fluffies. With the new litter box in place, he yanked Rusty out of the cardboard box and unceremoniously plopped him back into the pen.
Rusty whimpered again, curling into a tight ball in the corner of his pen. He missed his soft cloud bed, the one Mummah had made so cozy for him in her room, with all the pretty colors and pictures on the walls. He was a good fluffy, he always was. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t go back there. Why couldn’t he just have one toy to play with? He missed his blankie, too. This kind of thing didn’t happen to good fluffies, did it?
There, curled into that sad little ball of damp fluff in the corner of the pen, Rusty fell asleep. Cold, with no soft bed or warm blankies for hugs from Mummah. All he could do was curl even tighter and sob to himself.
___
He had kibbles and wawa, but never any toys or special treats like spaghetti. He missed his ball, his building blocks, and that fun little monster truck toy that went really fast whenever he pulled it backward along the floor. All there was to do was lie there on his side, staring at the wall, trying not to smell the mess in the litter box, to remember Mummah’s face, her voice, her hugs and kisses. But it always just gave him the worst heart hurties. He didn’t even try to talk to Uncle Mark anymore.
The vibrant greens of Rusty’s eyes seemed to dim, replaced by a dull, faraway stare. He no longer cried out for Mummah, the words themselves feeling alien on his tongue. The hope that had once flickered like a tiny flame within him had slowly, irrevocably, been snuffed out. There was only the cold, the damp, and the endless, silent wait for a Mummah who would eventually return. She had to, right?
Just then, Rusty heard the door to the basement fling up and someone frantically coming down the stairs.
It was Uncle Mark.
“Hey you little shit rat, perk up. Emily is in the driveway!”
“Emiwy.” Rusty thought to himself. “Dat…dat am Mummah’s name!”
But all he coud do was lay there on his side, almost like his little brain couldn’t believe it.
Uncle Mark yanked open the pen, grabbed Rusty, and practically flew up the basement stairs, two at a time. Rusty, still half-limp, felt the sudden jarring motion but offered no resistance, his eyes vacant. Mark burst into Emily’s bedroom, the familiar scent of Mummah’s perfume hitting Rusty’s dulled senses, but it brought no joy. With a frantic toss, Mark dropped the fluffy onto the soft, cloud-shaped bed under the desk, the very bed Mummah had made for him.
Rusty landed with a soft thud, remaining in the semi-limp position, staring blankly ahead. His ears didn’t twitch, his tail didn’t wag. He was just a small, still ball of fluffy fur.
“Come on, you little shit, snap out of it!” Mark hissed, his voice tight with panic. He prodded Rusty gently with a finger. “Wake up! Emily’s almost here! She’s gonna be pissed!”
He could hear the distant thud of a car door closing. Time was running out. Mark grabbed Rusty and shook him lightly. “Rusty! Say ‘Mummah’! Say ‘happy sketties’! Do something, you useless shit rat!”
But Rusty remained unresponsive, his green eyes still and empty, reflecting none of the light from the window. Mark’s heart hammered against his ribs. He heard Emily’s voice, closer now, calling out, “Mark? I’m home!”
“Shit!” Mark whispered, grabbing Rusty and trying to prop him up, forcing a happy, sitting posture. He smoothed Rusty’s fur, trying to make him look lively, but the little pony simply slumped back down. The hope in Rusty’s eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling stillness.
“Mark? Where are you? I brought you some of those horrible snack cakes you like!” Emily’s voice was right outside the door now.
Mark cursed under his breath, shoved Rusty as upright as possible against the pillows, and then darted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Rusty heard the quick patter of footsteps, then the muffled sound of Mark’s door closing across the hall. He just lay there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the underside of the desk.
“Rusty! My sweet little Rusty!” Emily’s voice was closer now, muffled by the wall between them. “Where are you, little one? Mummah’s home!”
Rusty heard the words, felt a faint echo of familiarity, but it was distant, like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp. Mummah? The word felt foreign, heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He just stared at the desk leg, a dull, empty ache where his heart used to be.
He heard Mummah’s voice, a little louder now, through the wall, “Mark? Where’s Rusty?”
Then Uncle Mark’s voice, annoyingly cheerful. “He’s just in your room napping on his little cloud, happy as can be!”
A moment later, the door to Emily’s room creaked open. The light shifted, and a familiar scent, almost forgotten, drifted into the room. Emily stood there, her eyes wide with a joy that slowly faded to concern as she took in the still, silent fluffy on the cloud bed. Rusty lifted his head, a monumental effort, and his eyes met hers. For a brief, fleeting instant, a tiny spark ignited. A faint smile touched his lips, and his tail gave the smallest, weakest twitch.
“Rusty? Oh, my sweet boy!” Emily knelt beside the bed, her voice trembling. “Rusty, it’s Mummah! Are you okay? Talk to Mummah, sweetie!”
She reached out, gently stroking his damp, matted fur. Rusty felt the touch, heard her words, but no sound came from him. He tried to move, to stand, to nuzzle into her hand, but his little legs felt like lead. The strength just wasn’t there. He just lay there, a small, sad ball of fluff, his eyes locked on her face, a silent plea in their depths.
“Mark!” Emily’s voice, usually so soft, now cut through the air, sharp and laced with an anger Rusty had never heard before. “What have you done to him?!”
Mark, who had been lingering nervously in the doorway, flinched. “What do you mean, Em? He’s fine, just a little… sleepy.”
“Sleepy?” Emily’s eyes, now blazing, swept over Rusty’s dull fur and vacant stare. “He’s practically catatonic! He smells like a sewer, his fur is matted, and he hasn’t even acknowledged me! Look at him, Mark! This isn’t my Rusty!”
Mark shifted uncomfortably, his cheerful facade crumbling. “Look, I… I might have left him in the basement for a bit. Just, you know, to keep him out of the way.”
“The basement?!” Emily shrieked, her voice rising. “For ‘a bit’? Mark, Fluffies need near-constant attention! If you neglect them, even for a short time, they get incredibly depressed, and they just… they give up. They want to die! You left him alone in that cold, dark basement, with no toys, no comfort, no one to talk to? Do you have any idea what that does to a fluffy?”
Mark looked down, shuffling his feet. “I… I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. He’s just a fluffy.”
“He’s not ‘just a fluffy’!” Emily’s voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes. “He’s my best friend, my little baby! And you, you heartless idiot, you may have just broken him forever! I don’t know if I’ll ever get my little Rusty back!”
She gently scooped Rusty into her arms, cradling him close. She began to stroke his soft little head, murmuring reassurances. As her gentle touch continued, a faint flicker of light returned to Rusty’s dull green eyes. Emily, seeing this small change, let out a shaky breath of relief. “Thank goodness,” she whispered, a watery smile touching her lips. “You’re a very resilient little variant, aren’t you, my sweet boy.”
Carrying him carefully, she walked into the kitchen and opened a can of spaghetti-Os. The familiar, sweet aroma wafted through the air, and Rusty’s ears twitched. Suddenly, a tiny spark ignited within him. “SKETTIS!” he announced loudly, his voice a little hoarse but unmistakable.
Emily sat down a bowl full of the warm, red pasta in front of him. Rusty, with surprising speed, began to lap them up, his little face getting covered in sauce. When he had finished every last strand, he looked up at Emily, his face streaked with red, and began to cry, “Mummah! Mummah!”
Emily hugged him close, her own tears mingling with the spaghetti sauce on his fur. “Geez, Rusty,” she said, a small, tearful laugh escaping her. “That’s the last time I ask Mark to watch you while I head to my creative writing class. You really went to shit in those three hours.”
The End