Daddy Gives Owies

FractalFluff, March 28, 2014; 17:02 / FB 19776
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(WARNING: perilously low abuse levels. Contains hugbox. Literally.)

DADDY GIVES OWWIES

You're the not-so-proud owner of a small, leaf-green mare named Springtime. Springtime is a good fluffy, as fluffies go... well, mostly. She's just not exactly Mensa material. This is a creature, after all, who once adopted a wad of gum that got stuck in her fluff and tried to raise it as her baby.

You're currently playing one of her all-time favourite games: the Nosie-Boop Game. This involves waving your finger around in a circle in front of her face, getting closer and closer until you gently poke her muzzle and say "Boop!" She giggles infectiously every time.

"Here it comes... here it comes... here it comes... Boop!"

"Heeheehee! 'Gain, Daddah! Pway 'gain!"

"Again? Okay. Here it comes... here it comes... here it comes... Boop!"

"HAHAHAHAHA!" The little mare is rolling around in an ecstasy of amusement at the thrill of having her nose lightly booped.

The next morning, you're making breakfast. She's sitting in her fluffy-adapted high chair, playing with her tail and burbling a stream of happy fluffy gibberish. "Ready for some porrige, girl?"

"Nu wan powwij. Spwintime wan sketties."

"Spaghetti is not for breakfast. Eat your porrige like a good girl."

"Nu wan! Wan sketties!" She's raising her voice and starting to puff her cheeks out.

You lean over, frowning. "Don't you shout at me. You eat what you're given and like it." To drive the message home, you poke her nose lightly and say "BAD FLUFFY!" in a stern voice.

She doubles up in her seat, clutching her muzzle and howling in pain. "Owwies! Owwies! Wowstest nosie owwies! Huuhuuhuu! Spwintime sowwy, Daddah! Spwintime nefah yeww at Daddah 'gain! Huuhuuhuuuu!"

"I'll give you something to huuhuu about in a minute," you mutter irritably. But when you take a look at her muzzle it genuinely seems to be reddened and inflamed. To your consternation, a small trickle of blood begins to leak from one nostril. It looks as if she's repeatedly run nose-first into a brick wall (something you've seen her do on occasion.) She doesn't stop bleeding, huuhuu-ing or apologizing until you pick her up and give her a cuddle.

***

"Wahhhh! Meanie sowwy-box! Nu wan! Nu wan! Spwintime gud fwuffy, nu wan in sowwy-box!"

You roll your eyes. Currently you're trying to box Springtime up for a trip to the vet; she's due for a booster shot, and you want to ask about that nosebleed. She's fighting you all the way because she's suddenly decided that her pet carrier — which she normally loves to ride around in — is a sorry-box.

To the best of your knowledge, she's never even been in a sorry box. You give her time-outs in the Naughty Chair, which is the same high chair she sits in for most of her meals. Placed in a corner and turned to the wall, it goes from being a familiar and even beloved item of furniture (high chair means nummies time!) to being a terrible instrument of torture, to be feared and avoided at all costs.

At first you thought she might be putting it on, as some smarter fluffies do. After a while, though, it became clear that the tears and wails as she's strapped into the Naughty Chair are wholly genuine. Her idea of a convincing scam is to tell you that her blocks made the puddle on the floor, or that she was out of her saferoom without permission because her legs were stealing her. You foiled the Great Chocolate Biscuit Heist thanks to the running commentary of "Daddah nu see fwuffy get chokkit bikkit, hee hee hee," and the squeals of "Owwie!" as she tried to jump up onto the coffee table and cover her eyes with her hooves at the same time.

She's just not bright enough to fake you out. (Heck, she's not bright enough to fake a day-old foal out.) More to the point, sitting in the Naughty Chair seems to leave her physically sore and uncomfortable; you've felt her back legs afterwards and they've been noticeably inflamed, warmer than usual and swollen.

Eventually you manage to manhandle the wriggling bundle of legs and hooves inside the pet carrier. She's a little fluffy and it's a large-ish dog crate, with plenty of room for a nest of old newspapers puppy pads, some folded blankets to stop her sliding around too much, and a couple of favourite toys, but she's still sobbing as if you've thrown her in an oubliette to starve.

"Huuuuhuuhuuu... sowwy-box bad fow fwuffy... sowwy-box giffin weggie owwies an hoofsie hewties... sowwy-box dawk... sowwy-box cowdie an scawiiieee... buuhuuhuuu..."

Ordinarily you'd stop and reassure her, but you're in a hurry and your keys have done a disappearing act. She carries on in a similar vein as you run around trying to find them.

"...huuhuuhuu... hoofsie hewties... wowstest weggie owwies... Spwintime wan wie down... meanie sowwy-boxie nu wet Fwuffy wie downsies... huuhuuhuu... "

Aha! You left them in your other coat.

"You're not in a sorry-box, Springtime," you tell her, bending down so she can see your face and poking your finger through the bars. She sniffles.

"Spwintime... Spwintime... Spwintime nu in sowwy-box?"

"No."

"Den whewe Spwintime gu?" she says confusedly, walking around in a small circle, as if trying to find herself.

"You're in your pet carrier, with your nestie and blankies and your stuffy friends."

"Den dis nu a sowwy-box?"

"No," you say. Evidently all knowledge of her pet carrier has been erased. You'll need to think of something else. "It's... uhh... it's a huggy-box."

"Huggy-box make weggie owwies better?"

"Springtime, you can't possibly have weggie — uh, leggie owwies. You haven't even been in a sorry-box. You've been in a pet carrier for about two minutes. You're just making a fuss about nothing."

"Nuu! It twoo! Weggies haf sowwy-box owwies!"

"But..." You realize the futility of the argument, and decide to just go along with her for now. "Okay, why not. Yeah, the huggy-box will make your legs better."

"Wub huggy-box!" She curls up happily in her nest and promptly falls asleep.

You shake your head and carry her out to the car.

***

You're sitting in the vet's waiting room with Springtime on your knee. The mare is overwhelmed and nervous, even though the room is fluffy-friendly and well stocked with toys, so you're petting her and playing the "Boop!" game with her to keep her calm.

A little later, you're both in the vet's consulting room. The vet approaches with a syringe. She puffs her cheeks at him. "Meanie munstah docty! Nu wan pointy-owwies!"

"Oi!" you say, scowling. "We do not call the nice doctor a monster. That's a very bad fluffy." Using even less force than you did when playing her a moment before, you tap her nose a couple of times to emphasise your words.

"YEEEEP!" she squeals, putting her hooves over her nose. "Owwies! Daddah gif nosie owwies! Huuhuuhuu!"

The vet shrugs and gives her the shot while she's pre-occupied. She doesn't even register the sensation of the needle. "Come on, stop fussing," you say. "That didn't hurt."

"Owwwiiies!" she insists.

"Come on. Say sorry to the doctor." You pry her hooves away from her nose. To your astonishment, a drop of blood falls from her sore-looking nose. "What? But I hardly touched her!"

"Hmm. Has this happened before?"

"Yes, the other morning. I tapped her nose then, too. But this never happens when I'm playing with her."

"But when you're playing with her, you're petting her and smiling. Just now, you were scowling and raised your voice a little."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"The difference is that she thinks she's being punished. It's a psychosomatic disorder," the vet explains. "Developing real symptoms because you think you're sick or injured. The same thing happens in humans, it's just less dramatic. Fluffies who are highly imaginative and a little... er... backward, shall we say? — are especially prone to this sort of thing. Fortunately it works both ways."

"How do you mean?" you say, trying to blot the pony's bleeding nose with a wad of tissues.

"Allow me to demonstrate," says the vet. "Here, Springtime, let me fix your nose for you." He taps her nose in exactly the same way you just did. The trickle of blood ceases, and the fluffy perks up.

"Yaaaay!" she says. "Nicey docty make sniffy-pwace boo-boo aww bettah!" She hugs his arm and coos. You stare at her muzzle in disbelief as the swelling subsides before your eyes.

"Wait... is this why they're obsessed with that 'huggies fix everything' nonsense?" you ask.

"Well, that's partly a sales thing," says the vet, gently detaching the fluffy. "But yeah, pretty much."

"Fucking fluffies," you say.

"Fucking fluffies," he agrees.

***