The Fluffs of Autumn

MrBoo, July 2, 2017; 18:40 / FB 46993
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THE FLUFFS OF AUTUMN
By MrBoo

I sat on a log in front of the now-cold campfire, a half-forgotten cup of coffee in my hand and thought about what had happened the night before. While I wasn’t proud of what I had done, I didn’t regret it. It had to be done. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. It had to be done.

As far back as I could remember, I loved camping. My father took my brother and I out wilderness camping every year and for me, it was like Christmas, July 4th and the last day of school all rolled into one. As I grew older, I went with like-minded friends and then later, my wife and kids.

Now, I went four times a year, once each season. The spring and summer trips were a family affair, with more luxury and less roughing it. But the fall and winter trips were solo. Just me and my gear, sometimes on an ATV or snow machine, sometimes on shank’s mare, dragging a gear-laden toboggan. I didn’t do this to “find myself” or “recharge my batteries”. No, I just enjoyed the peace and quiet and being alone. No phones ringing, no questions about stupid shit, no one complaining about the government, just wind in the trees and the crackling of a warm fire.

This fall, I decided to revisit a place I hadn’t been to in a couple of years. It was fairly local, just a few hours away, and since the weather had been mild with no snow in the forecast, I thought that I would take the ATV. I planned on leaving early Friday morning and returning Sunday night. My wife had the GPS coordinates of where I planned to be, in case there were any problems.

I left my home in Gunbarrel at 7:00am and reached Nederland by 8:30am. I parked in the lot of a machine shop owned by an old friend. He was expecting me and helped me unload the ATV. I then packed all my gear on it and hit the trail. As I left town, the trail climbed steadily upward. Within two hours, I turned off the well-maintained trail and I followed my GPS down a narrow, rocky path through pines, spruce and birch. Since it was so late in the year, already into November, most of the fall colors were gone, leaving only the somber greens of the conifers.

When the trail began to descend, I knew I was almost there. Another 15 minutes and a left turn and there it was, one of my favorite campsites. It was a level spot in a clearing surrounded by birches and spruce. The level spot sloped down to a narrow, fast moving stream. There was snow in the shade of the trees, but the debris littered clearing was dry and clear. The rock-ringed fire pit that I had built many years ago was still there. I felt a sense of peace enter me as I glanced about. It was if I were home.

I didn’t waste any time setting up camp, as the sky was clouding up and a cold wind began to blow. I pitched my pyramid tent and set up the stove inside. The tent was designed for six people, but when I used it solo, I had enough room inside for all my gear.

Once the tent was pitched, I went out to gather firewood. There was plenty of deadfall nearby, so with my folding saw and hatchet, I went to work. The first thing that I wanted to do was to get a big fire going in the fire ring, so I would have some coals to cook dinner on. I cut several longer pieces and dragged them over to the ring. I also gathered some birch bark as tinder, and some branches to feed the fire until it was established.

It didn’t take long to kindle the campfire and soon it was burning brightly. I returned to the dead wood to process some down for the stove in the tent. I brought back several armloads and was returning with another when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Sitting by the fire was a small fluffy. His pale purple coat was filthy and matted and his black mane and tail were thin and tangled. He saw me and looked first at the tent and then back at me.

“Hewwo, nice mistuh. Fwuffeh am cowd an’ hab tummeh huwties.”

I could see that he was quite thin and one of his eyes had swollen shut and had a large scratch across it. But less troubling than his condition was how he got here. Nederland was miles away and I didn’t see how he could get here from there, especially at this time of year. There were all manner of animals looking to fatten up for the winter and fluffies were not known for their wit or cunning. We’ve had a pet fluffy at home for the past three years and, while Hammy was a great companion, I sincerely doubted that he would last more than 30 seconds in the wild.

“How in the hell did you get here?” I asked.

The fluffy looked at the tent before answering. “Wots o’ fwuffehs come in big vwoom-munstuh. Mean mistah put aww fwuffehs out in twees, nu housies, nu good nummehs an’ nu wawm beddehs. Fwuffehs so scawed.”

He quickly glanced at the tent, then back to me.

“Big haiwy munstuh come an’ nummed buncha fwuffehs, den big kitteh munstah nummed mo’. Den cowd wawa come down…”
Before he could finish, I discovered why he kept looking at the tent. Two more fluffies, a larger one with an olive coat and pink mane and tail and a smaller weanling emerged from my shelter, dragging the nylon bag containing my food for the weekend.

I dropped my load of firewood and yelled at them, while moving in to rescue my provisions. The larger fluffy ran away, while the weanling, who was a very dirty yellow and red went over to the first fluffy and hunkered against him. I grabbed my food bag and hung it up from a hook on the tent’s center pole. Except for a ribeye and some asparagus that would be that night’s dinner, I had brought mostly freeze-dried food for the remainder of the weekend. I supposed that if they were hungry enough, they could eat it, if they could get into the packaging. Luckily, my frozen steak was still unmolested at the bottom of the bag.

I went back out and picked up the firewood I had dropped and put it inside the tent. I could split it later. I zipped the entrance closed and turned back to the fluffies.

“Fwuffehs am so sowwy, mistah. Hab biggest tummeh owies. Dey nu gud nummehs hewe. Nu nummehs fo’ many bwite times,” he said, looking forlorn. It was telling that he didn’t even have the energy to run away, but instead, stayed to face his fate. The foal just shivered and cried.

“Well,” I said as I put more wood on the campfire against the freshening wind, “I can’t blame you, if you’re hungry.”

I reached into my jacket pocket and brought out a bag of trail mix. I dumped it out on a flat rock near the fire.
“Here, I can give you this, but I really don’t have any more to share,” I told them.

“Fank ‘ou, mistah. Dese gud nummehs!” the purple one said. He made sure that the weanling got his share and in no time the food was gone. The foal kept nosing around the rock.

“Fank ‘ou!” he said, “Can hab mo’?”

“Sorry, little guy, no more,” I told him. He gave a sigh and laid down against the older fluffy. “You can’t find any food at all?”

“Dey onwy nu taste gud nummehs on gwound,” he explained, “dey am gud nummehs, but too high fo’ fwuffehs.”

That made sense, with their short stature and inability to climb, the fluffies were only able to feed on whatever was on the ground, putting them in direct competition with rabbits, mice and deer. As I was thinking that, the little foal suddenly stood and with a huge spasm, released a load of runny, foul-smelling shit, then fell onto his side. The purple one nudged him with his hoof, then his nose, but the weanling didn’t respond.

“Babbeh gone fo’eba’ sweepies,” he said, without emotion. As I watched him, I couldn’t help but think that if I weren’t there, he would probably have eaten the foal’s body. I reached over and picked up the dead baby by the scruff and carried it a few steps into the woods and set it down. I then kicked some leaves over it and returned to the fireside. I noticed that the pile of shit was gone and the purple fluffy’s snout was stained brown.

I sat on a nearby log, facing the fluffy. As the sun fell, the temperature dropped and the wind rose. The fire’s warmth felt good and I could tell that the bio-toy was glad of it, too. There were things that I needed to do before dark and I also wanted to cook my dinner soon. Trail mix and jerky only went so far. But I wanted to hear the fluffy’s story first.

“Where did the other green fluffy go? Do you have a nest nearby?” I asked.

“Dat one wun ‘way. Fwuffeh nu hab nest,” he sighed. “Fwuffeh aww ‘wone nao. Nu mo’ woom fo’ heawt huwties ow saddies.”

I decided to change the subject. “Where did you live before?” I asked.

“Fwuffeh wive in bigges’ woom, wif a buncha’ uddeh fwuffehs. Mummehs, daddehs, eben babbehs,” he said. “Fwuffeh hab own fambwy; speciaw fwiend and babbehs. Dey pwetty babbehs. Miss Wena say dey am pwettiest babbehs eba’”

“Who was Miss Lena?” I asked.

“Miss Wena was bestest hoomin. Bwing fwuffehs nums and cwean wittabox. Gib huggies an’ gud upsies,” he sighed again and looked down. “Miss fambwy. Miss Miss Wena. Miss babbehs.”

“How did you end up in the truck?” I asked.

“One bwite time, mean mistahs come an’ put fwuffeh in sowwy box. Fwuffeh so scawed. Den heaw uddeh fwuffies. Can heaw, nu can see dem,” he said. “Den, wong time gu by. Nu nummies, nu wawas, nu wittabox, jus’ woud noises an’ bumpies.”

He got up and scooted closer to the fire. “Den, noises stop, bumpies stop. Aww sudden, bwite wight come, huwt fwuffehs see-pwaces. Mean mistah open sowwy box an’ fwow fwuffeh down. He say, ‘enjoy nu housie, nummehs oba dewe an’ den he go. Fwuffehs twy fin’ nummehs an’ housies, nu can fin’”

I had read a story on the internet awhile back about the proliferation of fluffy farms and how, when things got tough for the owner, they would cull unneeded males to cut costs. This led to something called Huntsman Syndrome, named for the character in Snow White. Sometimes, those contracted to dispose of the unwanted bio-toys would, instead, drive them to the middle of nowhere and release them.

The fluffy didn’t continue his story, and I wasn’t inclined to push him. But I thought that there was something I could do for him to make him feel a little better. From the tent, I brought out my first aid kit and a spare tarp.
I had some lengths of plastic straw filled with triple antibiotic lotion and sealed at either end. I snipped the end off one and sat next to the fluffy. Being that close to him, I couldn’t escape the fact that he stank. At home, Hammy kept himself as clean as possible, but still needed a monthly bath. This fluffy needed several baths to get clean again.

“Here,” I said to him, “I have something that should help your eye. I’ll be gentle, but it still might hurt.”

I smeared some ointment over the cut carefully. It was oozy but I don’t think it was infected yet. I gave him a quick once-over and he had several scratches on his flanks, two of which were fairly deep. I dressed them as well.

“Fank ‘ou, nice mistah,” he said, “Fwuffeh feww betteh a’weady.”

I took the tarp, which was one of the smaller ones that I usually used under my bedding, folded it in half and staked it down facing away from the wind, but towards the fire. Using a short stick, I made an opening so he could crawl in and have some protection from the weather. I showed him how to use it and he didn’t hesitate to get out of the wind.

With the fluffy taken care of for the time being, I started to cook dinner. I also had some diced potatoes and onions wrapped in foil so I set those in the coals while I prepped the rest of the meal. Using my folding shovel, I made a nice hot bed of coals and laid my grate over them. I also put more wood on the fire, towards the back of the fire ring, as it was getting quite cold now.

I put the steak on the grate and then the asparagus. The smell of the grilling meat soon brought the fluffy out of his shelter.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” I told him.

“Nummehs fo’ fwuffeh too?” he wondered.

“Sure,” I replied, “there’s enough for both of us.”

He walked over to the tree line and defecated by a tall birch. I was surprised to see him kick some leaves over his pile. He came back over and settled in close to the fire.

“Dat poopie twee nao,” was all he said.

Once the food was done, I cut up a small piece of meat and some fat, a stalk of asparagus and some potatoes on a paper plate and set it next to him.

“Fank ‘ou,” he said and started eating. To my surprise, he didn’t bolt his food as I expected, but instead, ate slowly, chewing each piece carefully.

I gave my attention to my own meal and although I had considerably more than him, we finished at about the same time.

“Dat was bestest nummehs,” he said as he licked his chops, “Fwuffeh wike dat gween nummeh!”

“Glad you liked it,” I told him, “and now it’s time for bed.”

He crawled back into his shelter, taking some leaves in with him for a nest, and after policing up my cooking area, I went into the tent. I had taken the time while the food cooked to split some wood for the stove so I lit a fire then got my bedding laid out. I stripped down to my long johns and got into my sleeping bag, laying there for a while by the glow of the battery powered lamp, listening to the wind sighing through the trees and the fire crackling in the stove. This was why I loved to solo camp.

But my thoughts turned to the purple fluffy. Leaving him here was a death warrant. In a week, this place could be under three feet of snow. And there were wild animals, looking for an easy meal. Worst case scenario for him would be a slow, lingering death by starvation. Better would be freezing to death, like falling asleep forever. The most terrifying would be being eaten alive by a mountain lion or bobcat.

Taking him back home with me wasn’t really an option either. I had no way to get him back to the trailhead on the ATV, and even if I could, then what? My wife wouldn’t allow him in our house and the closest fluffy shelter I knew of was in Denver. There was no easy answer and I fell asleep without coming to a conclusion.

The next morning was cold and damp. Looking outside, I could see that a thick fog had moved in. I rekindled the fire in the stove and got dressed while I heated water for coffee and made some oatmeal for breakfast. I ate in the warmth of the tent and once I had finished, I put some oatmeal and a few pecans on a paper plate and carried it out for the fluffy.

He was still in the shelter, so I set his meal down and rebuilt the campfire, using the rest of the wood I had gathered the previous night. After a bit, he emerged, yawning and stretching. He sniffed a few times and made a bee-line for his breakfast.

“Aww dis fo’ fwuffeh?” he wanted to know. I nodded and he tucked in, going for the nuts first.

I went into the tent for more coffee, when I heard a sudden SCREE!! from the fluffy. Coming out of the tent, I saw that the green fluffy was back and was holding the purple fluffy down with a hoof on his neck, while eating the oatmeal. I swiftly moved up behind him and grabbed him by the scruff, lifting him up and holding him at arm’s length over the fire-pit.

“NUUUU!!! Fwuffeh nummin’ dat!” he wailed, “Put fwuffeh down nao! Gib sowwy poopies an’ wostest hewties!”

I brought him in close and gave him a hard flick on his snout. “Try it and I might drop you in the fire.”

“NUUU!!! Nu wan’ buwnie owwies! Am gud fwuffeh!” he cried, bringing his tail up and hugging it, “Wet fwuffeh gu, nee’ nummehs!”

I looked at the purple fluffy. “Should I let him go?”

His remaining good eye narrowed. “Nu wike dat dummeh meanie. Always teww fwuffeh what to do. Gib po’ babbehs enfies. Am bigges’ meanie.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I took the green fluffy behind the tent, towards the trees. “You like huggies?” I asked it.

“Nice mistah gib fwuffeh huggies?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “tree huggies.”

“Wha’ twee huggies?” he asked, looking at me wonderingly.

“This,” I slung him side-armed at a large spruce about a yard in front of me. He hit the trunk with a bloody splat, his arms sticking out as if he were hugging the tree. He hung there for a moment before he fell, unmoving, into the snow.

Returning to the campsite, I saw that the purple fluffy had finished his breakfast and was busy at his “poopie twee”. I tossed the empty paper plate into the fire, grabbed my saw and hatchet, and went to gather more wood. I was surprised to see the fluffy follow me.

As I processed the wood, he clambered up on a rock and actually started to groom himself. He worked hard on his tail, using his teeth to pull out the knots and tangles. He seemed to have more energy, which I attributed to the food I was giving him. With the proper care and feeding, he would probably make someone a nice pet.

In a couple of hours, I had plenty of wood for both the campfire and the stove. It took a few trips to get it all back to camp, and I told the fluffy that once I was done, we would have lunch.

“Fwuffeh wuv nummehs, wiww hewp nice mistah,” he said, picking up a small stick in his teeth and trotting along behind me.

I relit the campfire and fixed lunch. Trail mix and more pecans for him and a granola bar and some jerky for me.

“Is that a good lunch?” I asked him. He looked up at me with a dopey grin on his face and nodded. Once we were done, I dressed his wounds again and we relaxed by the fire. As it had the previous day, a cold wind came up and the sky turned gray, but the fire kept us warm. I found an odd shaped piece of wood and with my belt knife, started whittling on it, to see if something was hiding inside of it.

“Fwuffeh miss fambwy,” he said after a bit, “speciawwy babbehs.”

“Yeah?” I kept whittling.

“One babbeh was dancie babbeh. Awways dancie fo’ daddeh, make fwuffeh happeh,” he said, wistfully. “Miss dem babbehs.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe someday you’ll have another family.”

“Fwuffeh hope so,” he got up and went towards his shelter. “Take nappie nao.”

I stayed by the fire and as the afternoon dragged on, I was able to find a decent looking bear in the piece of wood. As I carved I thought about the fluffy. I had to break camp and leave tomorrow, so I had to make a decision soon. Maybe Curt, who owned the machine shop, could use a pet fluffy. If I rolled him in a tarp and strapped him down to the gas tank in front of me, I should be able to get him back to town. And if Curt didn’t want him, he stood a better chance of survival in town than here in the mountains.

Eventually, dusk fell and I went into the tent to cook dinner. I had to relight the fire in the stove and once that was done, I put some water on to boil. I dug through my food sack and found the perfect meal for us. Rotini pasta in marinara sauce with meatballs. Maybe not spaghetti, but close enough. I rehydrated it and put some on a paper plate for him. I ate mine straight from the pouch.

He was excited when he smelled the food. “Skettis am bestest nummehs!”

We sat by the campfire as we ate. Again, he ate slowly and methodically, savoring each mouthful.

“Hey, buddy, I have to leave soon,” I told him.

He looked up and swallowed. “How time tiww mistah weave?”

“The next bright time,” I answered. He just nodded and went back to eating. “I was thinking, how would you like to come with me out of the mountains?”

“Be nyu daddeh?” he asked.

“No, not me, but maybe some other nice mister,” I said, “someone that would like a good, well behaved fluffy.”

He was quiet for a time, finishing his meal. “Fwuffeh don’ wan’ be awone. Wan’ nyu fambwy.”

“It’s settled, then,” I said, “tomorrow you start a new life.”

“Fwuffeh so happeh! Hab nyu fambwy!” he practically vibrated with joy. He ran up to me and hugged my leg.

I took a close look at the scratch over his eye. It appeared to be healing, but I wanted to keep the antibiotic ointment on it. I told him to wait for me there, while I got some from the tent. He nodded with that dopey grin on his face.

I came back and sat on the log next to him. He knew the drill, he put his face up and closed his good eye, waiting on the dressing. I drew my belt knife and opened the straw containing the ointment. Then I put my left hand on his head to steady it. But instead of the antibiotic in my right hand, I had my knife, which I quickly drew across his throat, opening a large gash. His hot blood flowed freely as he gasped.

I gently laid him down on his side as he bled out. “I’m sorry, buddy, but there was just no way I could get you down the mountain, and I didn’t want you to starve or freeze to death or have a wild animal eat you. I thought that it would be best if you went out with a belly full of skettis and hope for the future. I’m truly sorry.”

I stroked his mane, and saw that his good eye was glassy. He was already gone. I sat there next to him as darkness fell and the campfire cast flickering shadows around us. Eventually, I went to the tent and fetched my headlamp and folding shovel. I wrapped his body in the tarp I had made his shelter with and carried it to the edge of the clearing.

I dug a hole and laid him in it carefully. From my pocket, I took a bag of trail mix and put it in with him. I refilled the grave and found some rocks to protect it from scavengers. Once I was done, I stood and looked down at the cairn. “Good bye, little fluffy. I hope you find your family again.”

I went back to my tent, fed the stove and got ready for bed. Sleep was hard to find and I had to pull out my flask of bourbon for a couple of long drinks. I had to admit that while killing the green fluffy had left no mark on my conscience whatsoever, killing the purple one, no matter how just I felt it was, would stay with me for a very long time.

After breakfast the next morning, I broke camp and repacked the ATV. As I drove out of the clearing, I stopped and looked back. No, I thought, I won’t be coming back here again.