We Know Not What We Do
Part 10
Prince was not feeling well. That was an understatement. He didn’t know what was wrong just that where his leg used to be was hot, swollen, red, and painful. It wasn’t just the stump, but his whole body felt hot. He could feel mocha against him, but he didn’t have the strength to push her away, instead he fell back into a feverish sleep.
It was dark when he woke up. His mouth was so dry. Everything ached, but he needed a drink so badly. Mocha stirred next to him and started acting frantic as he got up and stumbled to the water bowl.
Adult fluffies might have know about rationing food, at least the smart feral ones would have some semblance of that thought. However two foals, only five weeks old, such a complex idea, was beyond them. In the past bright times daddeh would bring food and water. Now, it’s been forever since they have even seen him.
Prince couldn’t even manage tears as he stared into the almost dry water dish, only a sludge of kibble at the bottom. Expending so much energy pushed the tiny foal past exhaustion. He laid down next to the bowl unable to even make it back to the bed.
“Pwince? Nu sweepies dewe. Pwince?” Her head tilted in confusion. Prince spasmed and started dry heaving. “Nu, nu bad sickie wawa!” Mocha cried out as she nervously tapped her hooves, hovering around Prince.
He curled up, holding his tail, chirping softly between raspy breaths.
Steve had a nasty hangover. No matter if he was hungover he still went to work, even if he was a bit late. He made up some of his missed hours by skipping lunch and working a little later, this got rid of the gap between school and work. He suffered through class, and while physically present, he certainly wasn’t there mentally. He skipped the study session and skipped the bar after as well, drinking was the last thing he wanted to do. Hair of the dog was not his favorite form of hangover cure.
On his way home he started feeling half alive, an improvement. Softly he closed the front door, his head not ready for the usual slamming of the door. Something in the living room smelled disgusting. He was sure he cleaned up after the incident with Prince. Fuck it, I’ll deal with it in the morning.. He tossed his keys and wallet onto the counter, next to the forgotten and untouched antibiotics and prescription strength Neosporin on the counter.
He woke up well before the sun. Early this time, even before his alarm. He was back to feeling like a person, and the returned clarity reminded him of his upcoming finals. His mind going over the chapters and class work he still needed to finish, the studying he was going to have to do. School engulfed his mind. Until he made his way to the living room and the blatant smell of shit wafted up. Cleaning was going to go on the list too, sooner rather than later.
Work and school done for the day, Steve made it home. The door closed with the usual slam, and he heard something that made his blood run cold. A faint high pitched voice calling for “daddeh.”. He completely forgot about the fluffies.
Mocha fell over with a chirp as the door opened, she had been standing on her hind legs pounding on the door. He could plainly see her bloody hooves and the matching red marks on the door. He knelt down and scooped up Mocha, “hey girl, I’m here. It’s okay.” He tried to pet her but she kept squirming about looking exasperated and upset .
“Daddeh, hewp Pwince!” Mocha managed to shout at Steve.
Prince was laying on his, his face half covered in vomit, breathing ragged, the stump from the amputation was red, raw, and angry. The second realization hit him, he forgot the antibiotics and cream. Both remained untouched on the counter.
With his other hand he scooped up Prince. Both fluffies quickly tossed into a cardboard box, he was out the door as fast as he could manage. Thankfully it was a short drive to the emergency vet.
Dr. Cheryl Clark stared at the two foals in the cardboard box with a horrified look. Moments before she had checked out the chart that was started for Prince just a few days ago. Male. Approximately 5 weeks old, purple with yellow. Shattered front left leg. Amputation.
Those facts were still accurate, but it didn’t prepare her for the sight of the infected amputation site. Almost on top of Prince was the brown filly pegasus that Steve said was Mocha. And Steve. He stood opposite Cheryl with a worried and slightly scared look.
“Okay. So…” Cheryl took a deep breath. " Please explain what happened and what you want me to do." She knew people abused fluffies, she wasn’t ignorant, nor was this her first week being a vet. She’s seen some terrible things. This, however, this was different.
“Okay, well, uh… So the other day I kicked him and he broke his leg. So I brought him here and-” Cheryl quickly interrupted him.
“You kicked this tiny foal and he ‘broke his leg’?” Maybe he was an abuser, she thought.
“He was smacking Mocha and calling her a poopy baby. And I was probably a bit drunk… It just kinda happened. And I ran him over here right away. But I couldn’t afford to have the leg fixed.” Steve looked down at the fluffies, genuine concern showing on his face. “And work has been really bad and school is kicking my ass… So I’ve been studying and drinking and… I kinda forgot about them…”. His voice trailed off.
“What about the antibiotics and the antibiotic cream?”
Ever so softly, as if it was a child admitting he did something bad to his mother, “I… uh… I forgot…”.
Cheryl rubbed her temples, he isn’t abusing them, he’s just a fucking moron. “Okay. Wow. So, we have a problem. Prince has an infection, he’s going to need an IV of antibiotics and he’s also dehydrated. What are you feeding them?”
Steve sheepishly answered, “just some FluffCo brand kibble.”
Inside every exam room there were plenty of tools and gizmos needed for most all exams. Including a scale, boxes of gloves, treats for all manner of pets, muzzles. And unfortunately for Steve, a sorry stick. While this stick was rarely ever used, the sight and threat was usually enough to keep even the most stubborn fluffy in line. This, however, was the first time Dr Cheryl had ever used it. And it wasn’t on the fluffy.
~smack~ she hit the back of his hand. “You moron!” ~smack~ across the bicep. His hands went up to defend himself as she got him again on the other arm.
“What the fuck!?” His hands up as he jumped back.
“These are foals, they should have milk or formula for at least another two weeks! And this one lost his leg because you thought the appropriate response to two foals fighting was to kick him into a wall?! As if that wasn’t bad enough you didn’t give him any of the medication we sent you home with… And then you left them locked in a room for two days with just dry kibble?!” Cheryl fought back the urge to jump over the table and smack him a few more times with the sorry stick.
Steve shamefully looked at the floor and mumbled, “I also got a bunch of jalapeno juice on Prince… I didn’t even think about it being on my hands when I picked him up…”
That was it. In all her years, never had she snapped like this. She went around the table and smacked him several more times with the sorry stick. It would only sting, it was flimsy and light, but it took more of an emotional hit than a physical one. “I’ve seen people abusing their fluffies take better care of them. Just… ~smack~ Fuck!” She took a deep breath and went back to the table. Mocha was laying over Prince trying to protect him from her.
“Hey little girl,” she tried to put on a smile for the little filly who was being so brave trying to protect her brother. “Your brother is sick. He needs more than hugs to feel better. I’m gonna help him, okay? Can I pick you up and give you huggies for being the best and bravest sister he could ever have?” Mocha timidly stood up on her hind legs, holding up her front legs. Cheryl couldn’t miss the dried blood and missing fluff on both front legs. “What happened to your legs?”
Mocha hesitated for a moment, “mocha kep caww’in fo daddeh and twyin’ tu make doow open.” She pantomimed pounding on the door. “Den booboo jooce aww ova…”
Cheryl glared at Steve. She didn’t care if it wasn’t professional, these were still living, breathing, talking, creatures. Mocha saw her glaring at her daddy and shoved her hoof into her mouth, suckling, a few strands of fluff ripping out in the process.
“You’re a good fluffy. I’m going to set you down, will you be a good girl and not move?”. Mocha nodded, hoof still in her mouth. Onto the scale she went. Cheryl wrote it down on the new chart for Mocha. “She’s under weight.”
Steve visibly winced at the accusation.
She returned Mocha back to the box with Prince. “So, here is what I am going to do. You seem like a nice guy, just incredibly stupid. You are the epitome of incompetence knowing no bounds. But, you brought them here because you have to at least care about them. Mocha is going to be fine. And I’m going to do what I can with Prince. I get that you’re in college and it’s not cheap. You are taking this this pamphlet on raising fluffies. Read this, it’s is the bare minimum on what you need to know. I am charging you for proper foal formula, which you will feed them three times daily. You will also supplement with soft foal kibble and they need more weight on them. These two are going to stay here the next two days.”
She picked up the box and left the exam room, giving direction to the receptionist. By the time Steve made it to the desk, there was a large pile of kibble, formula, even soft small toys. The look of shame on his face didn’t make up for what he did, but it was a start Cheryl surmised. “I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.” And she disappeared into the back not waiting for his response.