There’s something undeniably exhilarating about holding an entire life in the palm of your hand.
You stare down at the tiny foal in your hand, and a wicked grin splits your face, your mind swirling with endless possibilities. It’s only just been born, and you were kind enough to allow its mother to give it “wickie cweanies” and a few minutes to feed before you slammed your heel onto her head.
Smiling down at the perfect, pristine white baby in your hand, you wipe the blood on your boot heel onto the concrete. You softly stroke its peach-fuzz-like fluff with your thumb as you flip it over in your hand; a quick inspection reveals you’re holding a baby filly.
You hold her up close to your face, and allow her to suckle gently on the tip of your finger. Pressing a tiny kiss to her soft belly, admiring her baby-blue floof of a tail, you croon softly to her. “Hello there, little baby,” you whisper, keeping your voice soft, not wanting to scare her. “I’m gonna be your new Mummah!” She peeps up at you upon hearing the word, wiggling her damp little body. “Oh, you poor little thing, I know you’re hungry. Don’t worry, I’ll get you home and fed very soon!”
This is the only foal that you want from the litter. Her siblings writhe in the dirt, blood, and filth that has gathered in the alley. They let out the cutest little peeps and chirps, and lift their tiny noses in the air, trying to smell their mother. Cupping your selected foal delicately against your chest, you keep it warm between your hand and your body. You squat down, wanting to watch the other foals suffer a bit longer before you return home.
Tiny, sharp pebbles get stuck in their fluff as they roll around, chirping, peeping, shivering in the brisk autumn air. Amused, you watch as one—bright pink, just like its mother—manages to find its way to Mom’s teat. You watch it suckle fruitlessly, obviously managing to get no milk from the smashed corpse.
You consider killing them before you leave, but decide that it would be much more exciting to leave them to die slowly. Who knows, maybe they’ll get lucky and a kinder soul than you will come by to save them.
But it’s much more likely, you know, for a hungry bird to find a delicious meal for its babies here.
You pluck up another foal with your other hand, this one a particularly vile shade of yellow-green, and hold it upside down by the tail. You revel in its obviously pained protests, shaking it roughly up and down. Faster than you expected, the foal falls hard to the ground, its tail fluff still clasped firmly in your hand. A small pool of blood quickly begins to form around the still-squirming foal, and you throw the severed tail over your shoulder.
As you rise to your feet, you take a deep breath, languishing in the sound of its raspy, agonized, chirpy scream. You stroke your selected baby gently as you turn on your heel and head back toward home.
On your way home, you make a stop at the Foal-in-a-Can vending machine that is slowly rusting outside of the local supermarket. You take a brief moment to survey your options—emphasis on brief, as the newborn foal begins to peep pitifully, cold in the brisk autumn air despite her vicinity to your body.
Shoving a few crumpled bills into the machine, you press a button, and a moment later, a little glass container tumbles into the receptacle. The label on top tells you that this is a colt. You pick it up haphazardly, making sure to jostle the container as you raise it up to eye level for inspection.
The foal inside is a light purple, with an amethyst tail. It looks to be about a week old, its eyes still glued shut. You shake the can again, and the foal peeps in distress, its mouth popping off the nipple at the tip of the container; formula dribbles down its chin, and it can’t seem to find the nipple again, opening and closing its mouth and chirping frantically.
This is going to be fun.
…
Once you arrive at home, you take your shoes off and head straight to the safe room that you’ve already got set up. You’ve been planning this for a while now, so you’ve stocked up on everything you need.
You carelessly drop the canned foal on the low (padded) table you have in the corner, making sure that his head is facing out, into the room. You cross the room to the little nest that you have ready for the little filly. A baby-size shoe box, lined with soft, freshly-washed blankets, cushions, and even a fluffy-sized stuffed toy to cuddle. Beneath the soft bedding, you have a little electric heat pad, to make sure that she stays nice and warm.
Delicately, you place the tiny baby in the nest. You watch her gently bump her tiny snout on the blanket. Weakly, she tries to turn her head, to get some sort of idea of her surroundings, but she is much too small; her head is too heavy, and quickly plops down to the blankets.
You stroke her tiny body with a gentle finger, murmuring praises as she chirps softly, attempting to nuzzle closer to your hand. “Such a pretty little baby,” you coo at her. “Mummah loves good babies. Are you going to be a good baby for Mummah?” The tiny creature manages to roll herself onto her side, and she reaches up with tiny, weak little hooves and manages to catch hold of your finger, weakly holding the digit against her warm, soft belly in a hug. “I think you are going to be a very good baby.” At this point, you raise your voice, making sure that the other fluffy can hear you. “Mummah only loves good babies. Bad babies don’t deserve any love from Mummah. Only good babies get love, and huggies, and cuddles, and bestest nummies. Bad babies make Mummah so sad; bad babies give Mummah heart-hurties.”
The older foal is chirping anxiously from where you left him in the corner; you ignore his cries for comfort in favor of the little filly in front of you. Tears leak out from her closed eyes, and she is hugging your finger desperately against herself. She bumps her head up weakly against you, and you can feel her terrified heart fluttering in her chest.
Leaning close and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, you whisper what a good baby she is before standing to prepare her a bottle.
…
Hand-rearing the fluffy pony is every bit as difficult as you expected it to be—so you’re glad that you only have to do it for one.
You’ve had the fluffies for nine days, during which you’ve come to the safe room every three hours to feed and care for your fluffy. You spare a quick glance at the canned fluffy—still lying untouched where you’d dropped him.
Today, when you enter the safe room at eight am, you are greeted by the sight of a pair of green little eyes peeking out from the can on the table.
You go about your routine as normal, completely ignoring the foal-in-a-can as you lovingly tend to the filly. After she is fed, burped, cleaned, and set down for a nap, you make your way over to the table.
You squat down in front of the canned colt, and it delights upon seeing you. “W-wub!” he chirps, speaking his first words. “Mummah! Wub! Wub!”
You stare impassively as the purple fluffy presses himself up against the wall of the container, trying as hard as he can to get closer to you, to be touched for the first time in his life.
Without saying a word—without any acknowledgement at all, really—you rise to your feet, turning on your heel to exit the room.