You hold the nervous filly in two hands as she points you in the direction of the canned foal.
…Well, as she tries to, anyway. She is a fluffy, after all, and still a baby at that.
You don’t mind Ellie’s slow attempts to locate the sound—it’s always interesting to hear what kind of sounds creatures make when they think they’re going to die.
You are impressed by the tenacity of the tiny colt’s pipes. He’d had not a drop of milk in three days, which is evident in the dry, rasping wheedle that clings to every desperate chirp and screech and cry.
You continue to patiently hold Ellie, snickering to yourself as she takes longer than ten minutes to literally guide you across the small safe-room.
By that time, the canned foal has fallen silent. You place Ellie down on the padded table.
Her eyes may have opened today, but she’s still far from fully developed. As soon as you place her leathery little hooves down on the padded surface of the table, her knees give out beneath her.
She peeps, distressed. She fell with her hooves crossed over each other in a strange way, and she’s unable to stand back up. Her forelegs are tangled together, her disproportionately large head weighed down.
“Mummah,” she chirps, wiggling. “Ewwy am stuckies! Mummah hewp Ewwy, pwease!”
Fully conscious of the shit-covered foal who is suffocating to death before you, you make sure to take the time to soothe the filly, giving the fur behind her ears a quick scratch to calm her down. You press a sweet kiss on the wiggly fluffy’s back before you gently untangle her legs.
True to her fluffy nature, she seems to have forgotten the canned foal behind her, who is out of her line of sight and is no longer making noise. She is too distracted by giving your hand “bestest huggies for bestest Mummah!”
This is the first time that you have been able to fully look at the little colt that you purchased from the vending machine. Sure, you were able to sneak peeks here and there, but for your plan to work, he had to think you didn’t know he was there—which meant no staring.
Now though, you are free to stare as you wish.
You lock eyes with the suffering foal. He is staring at you, shit and piss covering his entire body, bloody vomit caked in the fluff around his eyes. There is a solid inch or two in back of the can that is hard-pressed with shit, pressing the poor foal even further against the (shatter-resistant) glass. The case was designed to have released the fluffy about a week ago, and the colt had clearly vastly overgrown it. There is not one square millimeter of this fluffy that is not shoved painfully tight around its container.
Ellie has crawled onto your lap at this point and is hugging your torso, her original goal completely forgotten. “Ellie, my good girl, look! You were right, there is another fluffy here!”
At this, she gasps, turning around quickly.
She takes one look at the suffering foal and then lets out a terrified chirp. She dashes over to the can—which smells exactly as bad as you would expect—and latches around it in a hug.
“Howd on, odda fwuffy!” she cries, and looks at you over her shoulder. “Mummah wiww sabe you! Mummah, pwease hewp odda fwuffy!”
“Anything for you, little one.”
You reach into the cabinet below the table and retrieve a large doggy weewee pad; you spread it flat over the padded surface before reaching over and plucking up the can. Its weight staggers you a bit—it’s not heavy, but it sure as hell is heavier than a typical Foal-in-a-Can! Grimacing as the stench of shit hits your nostrils, you pop the lid on the can and hold it upside-down.
Instantly, you are forced to swallow back a mouthful of vomit as the smell violently assaults your nostrils. You hold the can upside-down over the pad, and a disgusting stream of piss and shit plops out of the can. As you expected, though, the filthy colt is firmly stuck inside, and will have to be removed by force.
“Ellie, my sweet girl, this fluffy is very stuck inside this can. Now, don’t worry, I’m going to get him out, but I want you to close your eyes, okay? It might hurt him a little bit when I get him out, but I’m only doing what I have to do. Do you understand, my good girl?”
Ellie takes a moment to think before responding. “Ewwy fink su. Mummah nu wan huwt widdwe fwuffy, but migh’ haf tu. Bestest Mummah nu wan Ewwy gettin’ scawed by fwuffy huwties.”
“That’s right, my good girl. Now, I want you to keep your eyes closed, no matter what you hear, okay? This little fluffy is very scared, so it is going to make a lot of scaredy sounds. Even if it sounds like he has the worst owwies, I don’t want you to be scared. I’m not going to hurt him any more than just a tiny bit that I have to. Do you understand?”
“Ewwy undewstand. Fwuffy haf su big scawdies, makes him fink he haf wowstest huwties dan dey awe.”
“That’s right. Now, be my good girl and keep your eyes closed. If you open your eyes without me telling you to, then you will be a bad fluffy. You don’t want to be a bad fluffy, do you, Ellie?”
She is instantly shaken by the thought of being a bad fluffy. “Fwuffy nu am bad fwuffy! Ewwy keep see-pwaces cwosed! Ewwy pwomise! Ewwy wiww be gud fwuffy!”
You give her a few soft kisses and some nice pets to calm her down again. “I know you will be my good girl. Go ahead and close your eyes now, baby.”
“Yus Mummah!”
You wait a few moments, making sure that she really does keep her eyes shut. Once you’re sure that she will, you vigorously shake the canned foal. You are not trying to dislodge it—you know it is far too packed in for that.
No, you are trying to wake him up.
He is about to get his first ever touch, and from his Mummah, no less! You want him to be awake for it.
For a few seconds, he remains unconscious. Then, after a particularly hefty shake, his chin smashes into the glass beneath him. Whether it’s the impact that woke him or the pain, you don’t really care.
“Hello, little baby,” you greet him, and you watch his mouth flap open and closed, trying to breathe. “I didn’t know that you were there! I’m going to get you out of that can, okay? I am going to touch your leggies and pull you out.”
As soon as you say the word “touch” his entire face lights up, oxygen deprivation and all. Slowly, you reach into the bottom of the can. You hold both of the foal’s back legs together in one hand, gagging again at the feeling of both wet and dry shit matted into the vile fluff.
The second you make contact with the filthy colt, he starts chirping and peeping up a storm. Apparently, he’d physically relaxed enough at your touch to give him enough room to breathe.
It’s exhilarating. This fluffy—this adorable, sentient, loving creature—has been alive for almost a month, and has never known anything other than suffering.
This tiny creature has never experienced a gentle touch before.
The fact that you can neglect and abuse this tiny little creature—whose sole purpose in life is to love and be loved—to the edge of death, only to make its whole day—no, its whole life—just with one kind touch.
But that kind touch isn’t what you woke up the fluffy for; not really.
What you want him to feel is the pain—both physical and mental—at his betrayal as you silently, secretly rejoice in his agony.
Bracing your left hand firmly on the can, you begin to pull on his legs.
He is firmly stuck. You pull harder and harder, and the fluffy begins to protest.
You pull as hard as you need to, and you can feel bones and joints, snapping and shattering in your hand.
“SCREEEEEEE! WEGGIES HAF HURTIES! WOWSTEST HUWTIES! SCREEEEEEEEEE! MUMMAH, SABE FWUFFY! NU MOWE HUWTIES! NU MOWE HUWTIES, MUMMAH, PWEASE!!!"
Finally, his filthy body slips free from the can. He falls onto the wee-wee pad with an audible slop. He lands on his back, and all of the wind is knocked out of him.
He is stuck on his back, unable to breathe. You prod his hind legs with a curious finger, and his mouth falls open in a silent scream. They are completely destroyed, every bone inside shattered to dust.
You’ll have to amputate, and sooner rather than later.
Not now, though. You let the broken fluffy suffer on its back a while longer before pushing him onto his side.
You let Ellie know that she can open her eyes. Then, before you can stop her, she yells, “Huggies wiww make evewyfing bettew!” and attaches herself to the once-purple fluffy.
The poor little colt is in shock. Tears stream steadily from his eyes, which are staring blankly in front of him. The shriveled flaps of skin that used to be his back legs are dangling limp beside him.
Ellie wraps her arms around the limp fluffy. Despite being younger than him, and female, she is much bigger. It’s no surprise—she is growing up healthy, generously fed and with lots of exercise, while he was unmoving in a tiny container during the most developmental time of his life.
She holds the other fluffy close, babbling about her “nyu fwend, wub fwen, gib huggies!”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you stare down at your now two shit covered fluffies, and realize that bath time is going to take a lot longer than you expected.
