Foal's Gold

>you’re wandering the streets late at night
>you just left the bar and your designated driver left without you
>so you stumble home, grumbling about that asshole
>”Hewp me! Pwease! Hewp!”
>woah, what the hell?
>you may be tipsy, but you know that somebody needs your help
>it doesn’t sound like an urgent call, but a mournful one
>almost like it’s been shouted for hours
>you head down the nearest alleyway, following the voice
>eventually, you smack right into a dead-end
>so who’s calling?
>”Mistah? Awh you nice hooman?”
>you look down and see a fluffy pony with at least four or five foals all around her
>they’re lying there, crying, barely moving
>every single one of the ponies is malnourished, even the mother
>”Pwease hewp. Fwuffy have babehs an no nummies oh wawa. Babehs so cowd. Babehs gon die. No wan babehs die...”
>”Dohn’t whorry. I’ll h-help you.”
>man, you’re really drunk tonight
>you grab a nearby box and put the mother and foals inside
>”Babehs! Is gon be okay! We fine new daddeh who hewp us!”
>the foals stir slightly at this, but otherwise don’t move
>they look a couple days old, at the most
>”Pwease…hurreh.”
>you walk a bit faster, out of fear that if you start running you’ll drop the box and fall, maybe on it
>you manage to get home without killing any and unlock the door
>your house is largely unimpressive, but the mother and babies don’t seem to care
>you grab a couple blankets from the linen closet and pile them up in the corner of the living room
>seeing as how everybody is starving, you whip up a fresh pot of spaghetti, and this gets the mother drooling
>the foals aren’t nearly old enough to eat solids, so they’ll have to drink some of the mother’s milk
>the mother eats up every last bit of spaghetti, and you made an entire package's worth of the stuff
>you plop her down on the makeshift bed and hand her the foals
>slowly but surely, they begin to nurse
>the mother looks relieved
>”Babehs no die…miwk save babehs…daddeh hewp save babehs…”
>she drifts into a slumber, and the babies go with her
>that night, you sleep on the couch, to keep her company
>in the morning light, despite your hangover, you can see the fluffies are incredibly dirty
>you prepare a bath, but not before breakfast
>you're not sure what fluffies eat besides spaghetti and treats, so you just make more noodles
>the mother eats the same amount as before, and the foals drink the milk once again
>you take all of them upstairs and put them in the bathwater
>you’re extremely careful not to get any in their noses, mouths, or ears
>the foals babble softly as you wash the dirt off of their fur and place them on a towel
>the mother won’t stop thanking you
>”Tank oou, daddeh. Oou save babehs and mommeh. Mommeh and babehs no die cuz you. Tank oou.”
>you wash her off, and she’s placed on the towel with the foals
>you dry each one slowly, not too rough and not too soft
>as you lay them all back down on their bed you hear one of the foals say “wuv daddeh”
>the mother smiles and nods at you, expectantly
>you don’t need the signal
>”I love you too, fluffies. All of you.”