Yoo Mai Babbeh?

YOO MAI BABBEH?
by AnonymousFluffery

>You like your fluffy pony, but let's face it, you're a negligent dick.
>If you get a hair up your ass to replay Zelda 64 one afternoon, you're going to do that instead of playing with him.
>Fortunately there are a few doodads you own to alleviate the problem.
>One is one of those automatic balls with the motorized weight inside that rolls itself around.
>Plop fluffy in his safe room with it and he's good for hours.
>Another is the VHS tapes of old cartoons from your childhood.
>He does best with ones that don't have too much confrontation in them, as "Scawy tings!" can make him scream for you to come save him, but mostly he's fine.
>Last is the bouncer.
>Fluffy-proofing your house would be kind of a pain, so you modified one of those baby-bouncy-rolly things to have four leg-holes.
>What this means is that he can toddle around the house on wheels, with his body suspended so that his legs barely touch the ground, and a rubber circle around him to keep him from running into stuff.
>He loves the bouncer, and so do you, because it stops him from damaging things or himself.
>Little guy scoots in a circuit around your home, saying hello to everything you own and feeling very mature at being allowed the liberty.
>Except one day you, like a dumbass, leave the basement door slightly open.
>"Daddy! Fwuffy fin' new woom!" you hear from across the house, and before you can decode his retarded speech your fluffy pony is tumbling down the stairs. "WAAAH! BOUNCA FAWWIN'!"
>You bound off your ass and down the stairs, trying to find the lightswitch you almost never use.
>Fluffy pony is at the bottom, still in his bouncer, whose wheels are spinning in the air.
>Unbelievably, he's survived thanks to it - but there's a problem.
>He busted his mouth on the railing while going down, and every one of his front teeth has cracked into jagged points.
>There's blood on them, and he's whimpering in pain. "Neeh huggeshh," he begins, but talking hurts.
>He'll cut up his own mouth if he tries...
>Tooth chips come out of his mouth in his drool, then he coughs out more.
>Tears are streaming out of your little buddy's eyes.
>Fluffy ponies may not have strong mouths or big teeth, but he's gotta be in terrible pain.
>Maybe you should call the vet, but Dr. Nate's answer to every fluffy pony problem seems to be putting the creature down...
>No, NO.
>You're not gonna let him die, he wouldn't give up on you!
>Well, maybe he would, but he's a fluffy pony, he doesn't know shit and doesn't understand death.
>You're a human, and what do YOU say to the god of death?
>"Not today," you whisper in an accent not your own.
>Fluffy pony gets put on the workbench next to that alarm clock you kept telling yourself you'd fix, even though you don't know how.
>Your pliers come out of the toolbox.
>From the first aid kit on the wall you pull a sealed alcohol swab, then open it.
>Fluffy pony's still crying, and you pat him on the back, trying to be reassuring.
>"Don't talk, man, I'm going to help you."
>He's hugging your hand fearfully, trembling.
>"Hey, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?" you quip, unable to resist the opportunity.
>Holding the pad over his muzzle, you can see his eyes unfocus.
>A snootful of concentrated alcohol's enough to at least render him dizzy.
>Hopefully that'll help...
>You hold his mouth open with your fingers.
>Every pull makes him whine tremulously, and you're displeased to see that whenever you take out a broken tooth and throw it aside, blood leaks copiously from the hole left behind.
>Ah, shit.
>If only you hadn't transferred out of that dental school... ironically, when they tried to make you practice dentistry on a bad-toothed fluffy pony.
>Once every destroyed tooth is gone, your little guy is basically down to his molars.
>He's trying to scream but he keeps choking on blood and drool, so you take your fingers out of his mouth and let him swallow.
>He vomits in pain, and you wince.
>Good thing his stomach was almost empty.
>His fearful eyes meet yours. "Why huwt fwuffy, daddy? Fwuffy sowwy go in bad woom! Fwuffy pwomise be gud! Nuu huwt fwuffy nuu mowe!"
>"It's okay, bro. I'm gonna fix your owchies."
>There are enough cotton swabs and peroxide to let you at least try to swab the grossness out of the holes you've made, and then with what little surgical tape you have, you put shredded-up cotton balls in his mouth.
>Once you're done, he wonders, unable to quite shut his brusied lips, "Wyy daddih pu' fwuff im moufh?"
>If you can just keep him steady long enough for the bleeding to stop, he can make it through this.
>"Because the fluff is hugging your mouth owwies, to make them better."
>Luckily, your fluffy-logic skills convince him.
>"Dan' oou', fwuff!" he tries to say.
>"Don't talk too much, or the fluff will get bitten," you advise.
>He's never been good at the quiet game, but seems distracted by trying to see the fluff in his mouth.
>You sit down on the couch with him, heart racing, and put on a kids' channel to give him something to think about.
>When you think he's ready, you start to drip water on his tongue using a straw you hold shut with your finger.
>He doesn't get much sleep, being fitful from the pain, and you get none.
>By early next morning, fluffy pony's mouth cotton is red, but crusty.
>You remove the tape delicately, trying not to wake him up until the very end of the process.
>Looks like his gums aren't bleeding anymore.
>The inside of the mouth is some of the fastest-healing tissue in mammals, looks like you got lucky that's where he was hurt.
>Doesn't look like he'll be chewing properly again, but that's to be expected.
>And in the short term, as long as he doesn't have any solid food that'll reopen the wounds, he can make a recovery.
>Wait.
>Shit.
>You're out of soft food, and he hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.
>All you have to give him is fluffy kibble, and you polished off the oatmeal yourself.
>Can he have cream of mushroom soup, like a normal sick person?
>No, you idiot, he'll drown!
>Think, think, think...
>"Hey, buddy, your mouth feels a little better, right?"
>"Widdle bettah!" he says, smiling toothlessly.
>It's pretty cute, actually, like a baby's smile.
>"Okay, well, daddy's going to get you some special nummies you can eat while your mouth gets fixed. While I'm out, do you want to stay in the bouncer?"
>Wrong question to ask.
>Fluffy pony shivers.
>"Nuu wike bouncah... take fwuffy bad pwace..."
>"Okay, man, okay. I'll put you in the safe room with your ball. But don't eat anything."
>"Otay, daddy! Nuu nummies!"
>When he's safely tucked away there, you head outside.
>You might be in the ass-end of boring suburbia, but at least there's a mini-mart you can jog to a few blocks over.
>They'll have oatmeal or Cream of Wheat or some other soft stuff to give--
>There's a handwritten sign on the door of the store.
>As you draw closer, you can read it.
>CLOSED FOR FAMILY EMERGENCY
>Shit, you've got a family emergency too!
>You consider kicking the glass door in and just stealing what you need, but don't.
>The neighbors will lend you what you need, or you can drive a little ways to get it, it'll be fine, you just need to be resourceful.
>"pwease dwink babbeh"
>The hell is that?
>It's only 6AM, no one should be out here, let alone around the side of the mini mart.
>"babbeh nee miwky, pwease dwink"
>Hang on, you know that retarded voice...
>Looking around the corner by the trash bins, you see it.
>A momma fluffy pony.
>It's lying on some filthy newspaper it tried to make a nest out of, in the shadow of a trash can it can't knock over to get food from.
>One foal is lying in its fluff, sniffing around due to still-shut eyes, its body only just dry of its afterbirth.
>The other...
>"Mumma wuv babbeh... pwease dwink..."
>She's practically sobbing her words.
>The baby she's holding at her teat is limp, clearly dead.
>It's not a runt, it probably just came out feet-first and got stuck for a while, or didn't make it in utero, or any number of things.
>Her teat drips milk onto it while she tries to hug it into suckling.
>At least she's got plenty for the other...
>Lightbulb.
>"Hello," you say.
>The fluffy mother gives a start, then hugs her dead baby closer.
>The other one tries to bury itself in her fluff at the unfamiliar sound of your voice.
>"Mumma! Mumma!" it chirps, the only word it knows.
>"Hey, I'm not here to hurt you," you whisper. "I want to be friends."
>"Hoomin fwiend?" she asks, shivering.
>If she only gave birth a few hours ago, she's probably not up for running if you try to take her, but you might as well be gentle.
>"Yes. I want to give a home to you and... and your babies."
>Most days, you'd just take 'em to a fluffy pony shelter, or more likely call it in.
>Today isn't most days - besides, the sight is moving.
>She needs you, and you can use her.
>"Dis mumma home. Mumma haf babbies heah."
>"Mumma!" her baby squeaks, sniffing around her body.
>"I know. But I can give you a home that's warm, with food and a soft bed for you and your babies."
>You don't like lying, knowing that the other baby is quite dead, but you've gotta do the trick right.
>She seems interested, but also worried.
>"Sweepy babbeh sweep too wong. Hoomin hewp wake up?"
>"Yeah, both of your babies will be okay."
>She stands, and places - the live one and the cold one - on her back.
>Then you pick her up, careful not to let the living baby fall- nor the dead one.
>Its sibling nuzzles it and tries to cuddle with it.
>Dude, that's sad.
>You take her home, and the fluffy mother babbles about how she couldn't move as fast as her herd, and the 'smarty friend' said her babies would come soon, so she wanted to ask him what to do, but obviously he was WITH the herd who was moving too fast, and then she had to take big poopies, but surprise, the big poopies were really babies, and by the time she had cleaned them the herd had moved on from the alley when they couldn't get food from the can, so she couldn't have their help waking her sleepy baby up, so...
>Blah blah blah, whatever.
>You open the door of your house with them in your arms, and rest them on the living room carpet, wrapped up in a blanket.
>Then you take the dead foal in hand and start to walk away.
>"Hoomin fwiend! Nuu take babbeh! Babbeh need huggies an' miwkies an' wuv!"
>"I'm just going to go wake up the baby, honey. I'll be right back!"
>"Nuuu! Gif babbeh--"
>You shut the safe room door and kneel down to your fluffy pony, who is smiling his toothless smile.
>"Hai, daddy! Wat dat?"
>You don't let him see what's in your hand. "Here, buddy, let me rub you."
>"Yay! Fwuffy wuv bewwy-wub!"
>Instead of his belly, you rub his back, his legs, tail, everywhere he can't possibly see.
>You rub him with the dead foal.
>Disgusting, but it's covered with saliva and the remains of the afterbirth.
>Fluffy pony blinks.
>"Wat funny smeww?"
>"That's a new smell you should have on you today. Here, I have a new friend to show you."
>"Yay! New fwiend, new fwiend, new fwiend, new fwiend!"
>He's like that as you carry him into the living room, deceased foal left behind.
>"Hai, new fwiend!" he says to your visitor. "Hai, babbeh!"
>"New fwiend?" she asks. "Hoomin, whewe babbeh? Babbeh nee' mumma!"
>Moment of truth.
>Or deception, rather.
>"This is your baby."
>'Perplexed' doesn't cover her expression.
>"Dat nuu babbeh! Dat fwuffy!"
>"Am fwuffy!" he confirms.
>Dude, shut up.
>"This is your mo- um, mumma."
>He looks at you in confusion too.
>"Mumma fwuffy fo fwuffy?"
>"Nuu!" she protests. "Dat fwuffy nuu babbeh! Dat big fwuffy!"
>Maybe this won't work - but you'll be damned if you're about to stop trying to outsmart two fluffy ponies.
>"Of course he's big. Babies are supposed to get big, if you're a good mumma. And you ARE a good mumma, right?"
>She pauses, the change of subject throwing her. "Fwuffy... fwuffy good mumma..."
>"Can't you even recognize your own baby, if you're a good mumma?"
>She looks confusedly at him, trying to figure this out. "Yoo mai babbeh?"
>"Dunno!" he says.
>"Well, your baby here is hungry. Don't you want to feed him?"
>With this, you put your pet fluffy pony right under her muzzle, giving her a whiff.
>The smell of her birthing is on him, her drool is on him, and she is more willing to try.
>"... big babbeh... nee' nummies?"
>"Otay!" your fluffy pony says. "Tank 'oo mumma!"
>Hearing those words is apparently enough.
>She opens her belly to him, and you guide his mouth to the right place.
>He tries to chew rather than suck, at first.
>Even with no teeth, that hurts her.
>"Owwies! Big babbeh, nuu huwt mumma!"
>"Sowwy, fwuffy mumma!"
>After another try, he seems to recall dimly how this works, and then he relaxes into suckling away at her.
>She gets a calmed look on her face, especially after you assist her in getting her other baby on a teat.
>"Ohh... tank 'oo fow wake up babbeh, hoomin fwiend... babbeh big 'an happy babbeh... mumma wuv babbehs."
>"Call me daddy," you urge her, petting her behind the neck.
>"Mumma wuv new daddy an babbeh an' big babbeh," she coos blissfully.
>Later, once she's fallen asleep hugging her foal and your fluffy pony, you throw her dead offspring away.
>You've read that fluffy pony milk is pretty much the most nutritious thing for the creatures at any age, so hopefully this will help your guy's recovery go quicker.
>And even if this whole night was hell, well, at least you helped the momma fluffy.
>Happy endings all around, you think to yourself.
>Then you have to tie up the trash bag and leave it on the curb, where its mother will never know about it or think about the dead foal she never even got to feed.
>Eh.
>Mostly happy.
>Really the best you can hope for with fluffy ponies.