Lost and Found

>It all started with a scream.
>“NUUUUUUUUUUU! MUMMA GUD FWUFFY! HAF BAHBES SOON! NO HUWTIES!”
>It came from an alley nearby: the sound of a fluffy pony dam being hurt by something. Or someone.
>I didn’t really care that much for fluffies. Except for the fact they had been created in a lab and the fact they could talk, for me they were exactly like any other pet, and I never had been a pet type of person, even when I was a kid.
>That time was different, though. That one was a pregnant fluffy.
>It was 6 pm, the dusk was setting on the city and nobody else was around, so I did the best thing I could think of: I darted towards the source of the shrieks.
>Under a streetlight, near a couple of trash cans, there was a small city herd. Three mares with foals on their back and a couple of stallions were gathered against an old, scraped wooden door, trembling and whimpering; two other stallions, led by a dark green earth fluffy, were pounding and kicking a swollen light blue unicorn mare, her stubby legs wiggling in a futile attempt at self-defense. “PWEASE NO OWWIES!”, she was pleading, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “JUS’ WEAVE FWUFFY HEWE! FWUFFY HAF BAHBES, NO WAN STAY WIFF  HEWD NO MO’!”
>The smarty and his toughies kept bucking cruelly at her. “Stupit fwuffy!”, the earth fluffy snarled. “Onwy way to weave hewd am wong sweep! Nu cawe ‘bout stupit bahbes of stupit fwuffy!”.
>Nobody still had noticed me, obviously: fluffies are able to focus on one thing at a time, after all.
>So, when I stepped in and lifted the poor dam out of the attempted murderers’ reach, I was met with screams of terror and indignation. “Hooman munsta go ‘way!”, the green earthie shouted, poofing his cheeks and performing the standard smarty routine. “Gif  stupit fwuffy back an’ weave, ow gif big ouchies!”.
>After putting the traumatized dam over one of the trash cans, I crossed my arms and looked at the smarty friend. “Really? You really think you can give me… How did you call them, ‘big ouchies’?”.
>“Wha’ hooman munsta mean?”, the fluffy asked back. He didn’t seem scared or intimidated… more like confused.
>I snickered. “Let’s say there’s a fluffy as big as me. Would you be able to give him ‘big ouchies’?”.
>“Smawty gif big ouchies!”, he replied dumbly.
>“Oh, I’m sure you would try. But would it actually hurt the big fluffy?”.
>The stallion frowned. “N-nu…”, he grumbled after a while. “Smawty tuu wittwe…”.
>“Exactly, kiddo. And you wouldn’t be able to hurt me either, am I right?”.
>I could see the fluffy’s confidence collapsing in front of me.  “Hooman munsta w-wight”, he snivelled. “Smawty nu can gif big ouchies to hooman…”.
>I smirked. Way easier than I thought. “Yeah. You can only hurt those who are weaker than you, right? Like this poor mare here”, I pointed at her: she’d been crying silently since I put her on the garbage bin, and complaining about belly aches from time to time. “Why did you try to hurt her, anyway? She seems a good mother…”.
>“Fwuffy g-gud mumma!”, she exclaimed, heartbroken. “Jus’ wan’ haf bahbes, gif wuv, gif miwkies, gif huggies…”.
>“Stupit fwuffy no can haf bahbes! Too dumb!”, the smarty retorted. “Stupit fwuffy mus’ gif speciaw huggies to smawty and toughies, no haf bahbes! Now hewd need new speciaw huggies mawe!”.
>I went blind with rage, at that point. Before even realizing it, I grabbed the smarty friend for his neck scruff and slapped his shocked snout with my free hand. “S-she was your whore?!”, I growled at him. “You sick little bastard…”.
>He was crying like a baby know, his bravado completely gone. “W-waaaaaaah! Why huwt fwuffy? Smawty gud fwuffy!”.
>“Good fluffy? Good fluffy?! No, no… You’re not a good fluffy. You’re not even a fluffy. You’re just garbage”. I lifted the cover of the second garbage bin. “And garbage must be tossed away”. And then I threw the fucking fluffy inside, face first.
>He hit the side of the bin, with a satisfying thud, and started crying again. “Why hooman munsta m-mean? *sniff* Face huwt, back huwt, weggie huwt! Huu-huu-huu! Nee’ huggies!”.
>I quickly grabbed the two toughie friends and squeezed them hard over the garbage bin, despite their protests: a rain of shit and pee showered the terrified smarty. “Waaaaaaah! Why toughies make poopies an’ peepies on smawty! Nu smeww pwetty! Wan’ out!”.
>My response was tossing the two squirming, crying, pleading stallions in the garbage bin, before smashing the lid back on.
>I then looked at the rest of the herd: they were still huddled together, shivering and occasionally whispering: “Pwease no huwt fwuffy…”.  “You are good fluffies, right?”, I asked, trying my best to smile and look as unthreatening as possible.
>One of the mares started nodding frantically. “Y-yes! Gud fwuffies! Pwease, nice hooman munsta, no gif owwies!”.
>I shook my head. “Don’t worry. I want to help you all. Your smarty friend was a fucking idiot and a really bad fluffy, but I want to give you all a second chance. Would you follow me to a good place?”.
>The members of the small herd looked at each other. They were clearly scared and dubious, but I had just disposed of their smarty friend; in their little minds, I was in charge now. “F-fwuffies fowwow nice hooman”.
>And so I carefully picked the sobbing, semi-comatose dam up and walked outside the alley, a small following of fluffies behind me like I was the Pied Piper of Fluffyville. Five minutes later, I was inside the city’s shelter, and a motherly-looking woman was scratching one of the feral foals behind his ears. “They are so precious!”, she exclaimed. “Thank you so much for leading them here, Mr. Donovan. A lot of people just kills them or worse”. She then gestured towards the pregnant mare, that still sat unresponsive in my arms. “Is she the last one?”.
>I looked at the light blue dam: she was shivering and crying, sometimes murmuring: “sowwy, onwy wan’ bahbes…” or “no mo’ owwies…”. “No”, I told the woman. “I’ll take her home with me. I think she… deserves a second chance, so to speak”.
>The mare seemed to acknowledge my presence only when I was opening my front door: she finally looked at me with her big, watery green eyes and whispered, her voice hoarse: “Whe’… whew’ fwuffy go?”.
>“You are home now”, I told her kindly. “I’ll be your daddy, and my daughter will be your sister. Okay?”.
>She just snivelled again. “Th-thankies…”, she said, very softly. “P-pwease, wuv bahbes too?”.
>I petted her, gently. “Don’t be silly, girl… Of course we’ll love your babies! I’m sure you’ll be the best fluffy mother ever!”.
>She tried to smile back. “W-wuv n-new dahdeh…”.
>Becky was in the living room, reading a comic book with headphones on. When she saw me and the fluffy, she let out a surprised noise and walked to me. “Hey, dad”, she said, her eyes fixed on the pony. “What…what happened?”.
>“Well… she happened”, I told her. “I, um… found her returning home. She looked like she needed a home”.
>Becky carefully picked the fluffy from my arms. “Is she… pregnant?”. I nodded, and my daughter squeed in delight. “You’re gonna have babies!”, she told the mare, tickling her behind the ears. She then sniffed at her and winced. “And you need a good bath!”.
>The mare looked at her, puzzled. “New… new sissy? Gif baff?”.
>Five minutes later, Becky was carefully washing the mare in a sink full of warm, bubbly water. The fluffy looked terrified, but didn’t try to squirm or bite. She just muttered a “P-pwease, haf bahbes soon, wawa bad fo’ b-babhes…”.
>Becky petted her head in response, scratching her behind the ears. “Good girl”, she kept repeating, as a mantra of sort to calm the animal down. “Good girl…”.
>After a while, the droopy ears of the mare perked up. “Guugow?”, she repeated. “Fwuffy haf name? Guugow… Guugow fwuffy name?”.
>Me and my daughter exchanged a look and snickered. “Mmh… Sure, why not?”, Becky told her. “Your name will be Google, okay?”.
>The unicorn smiled weakly. “Guugow wuv… new name…”. She seemed like she was trying to say something else, but then her eyes went wide for the pain and the terror. And then she screamed it.
>“WAAAAAH! HUWTY! BIG POOPIES COMIN’! TUMMY HUWTY!”
>Becky immediately took her out of the water and looked at me in shock. “D-dad, she’s having her babies? What should we do?”.
>I didn’t answer, a long, deep shiver running from my neck to the base of my spine. For a couple of seconds, all I could hear were distant, heart-shattering voices, voices from long ago…
>…don’t worry, honey, everything’s gonna be alright…
>…I want to see her, please, let me see her…
>…I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels, your wife didn’t…
>“Dad!”, Becky screamed, trying to keep the squirming, soaked fluffy in her arms calm. “What are you doing? I need help!”.
>I pulled yourself together, and tried to think of something. “Put… Put her in the bathtub!”, I exclaimed, before grabbing the nearest bath towel. “Here, put her on this”.
>“DAHDEH! SISSY! HEWP! GUUGOW HAF BIG POOPIES! BIG HUWTIES!”. Google was flailing her stubby legs in the air, her eyes wide open. I could see the smallest trickle of blood coming out of her vagina, and nearly had another flashback.
>“We have to calm her down!”, Becky said to me. “I read that they can explode if they are too stressed when giving birth!”
>“O-okay”, I replied, stunned. I started petting the fluffy’s head, trying to sound as calm and reassuring as possible, while my insides were being turned upside-down. “Google, everything will be alright. Just listen to your daddy’s voice, okay? You’re having your babies right now, and when they come out you’ll be able to give them your milk, your hugs, and your love, and…”…don’t worry, honey, everything’s gonna be alright…  I shook my head. No. Not now. “…and you’ll be a good mother. I’m sure of it”.
>Google looked at your with her big, child-like purple eyes. “T-thankies dahdeh… Guugow pwomise be cawm, no haf scawies… Mus’ do fo’ bahbes…”.
>“I can see the head of the foal!”, Becky shouted. Her hands were stained with blood, but her eyes were firm, her forehead frowned and her expression focused. I felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of pride for my daughter, sweeping away all the bad memories of the day she had been born.
>The day when I had lost her mother forever.
>“Push, Google, push!”, I told the fluffy, petting her head.
>“Nnnnnnnnnnnnngh! Come out bahbes! Mumma wan’ wuv… bahbes!”, she exclaimed, her little muzzle strained and deformed by pain and fear.
>“I got it!”, Becky said, breathing heavily. She looked intently at the tiny, bloody creature in her hands. “Oh… D-dad…”.
>“Something’s wrong, Becky?”, I asked. Google was too focused on pushing to notice.
>“I think… I think it’s…”. But then the second foal emerged from her mother, and Becky caught it before it could fall on the towel. I could see tears swelling up in her eyes. “D-dad… They are… T-they are…”. She held out her hands towards you, her fingers shaking heavily.
>I looked at the two baby fluffies. Two unicorns, like her mother.
>Dead, unlike her mother.
>The kicks from the smarty and the toughies must had killed them, taking away their lives even before they had the possibility to be born.
>I felt something cold and sharp exploding in my chest, showering my insides with ice and glass.
>…don’t worry, honey, everything’s gonna be alright…
>But it didn’t.
>Postpartum complications, the doctors said.
>I didn’t know what exactly those two words mean. I still think even the doctors didn’t know why exactly Margaret died.
>The only thing I knew is that I wouldn’t see her ever again. I didn’t care for the reason why.
>And now the same thing happened again, in front of my very eyes: a mother had lust lost her babies, before she could even hear them crying for the first time, before she could even look at them and tell them that she loved them.
>And I didn’t care if she wasn’t a human, if she was just a fluffy pony, a weak, miserable creature that was destined to a brutal death at the hooves of her peers. For me, it was just a mother.
>Google had deflated now, the amniotic liquid smearing the towel and the bathtub. She immediately caught sight of the two corpses in Becky’s hands. “B-bahbes?”, she asked, frantically  trying to climb the white, slippery wall of her impromptu nursery. “P-pwease, sissy, gif bahbes… Bahbes nee’ mumma, haf miwkies!”.
>Becky’s face was pale and tensed, her lips trying to give shape to words but failing. And so, despite the ghost of my dead wife still whispering in my ears that everything was going to be alright, I took the two dead fluffies from her hands and showed them at Google. “I’m sorry, girl… They took the long sleep…”.
>I could literally see her heart breaking. “N-N-NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”, she cried, hugging the corpses, still wet and covered with placenta. “W-why b-babhes take wong sweepies? G-G-Guugow jus’ wan’ gif miwkies, just wan’ heaw bahbes say ‘wuv mumma’… Why bahbes no move? Why no caww? Guugow bad m-mumma?”.
>And I knew the answer. I knew that there was no answer, because there was no why in the first place.
>It’s just that sometimes, even if we try and get a hold on them with all our might… we can lose even the things we care the most.
>But then, something happened. Google stopped mourning her dead babies and shrieked in pain and surprise. And a third foal – even smaller than the other two – fell on the bath towel. And immediately started chirping.
>I could see the relief on Becky’s face raising like a new dawn. “L-look, Google! You have another baby!”. She took it and presented it to the fluffy. “You can still be a mother!”.
Google carefully placed her dead foals on the towel, before focusing on the third one. “B-bahbe…?”, she asked, before sniffing it. The disgust on her muzzle was clear. “B-bad… bad bahbe?”.
>I heard about runts, how they were usually rejected by their mothers because they were smaller or didn’t smell right. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping that Google wouldn’t be one of those mothers.
>The unicorn, however, just looked at Becky with her wide, confused, watery eyes. “S-sissy, wha’ Guugow do?”, she asked.
>My daughter petted her gently on her head. “It’s your baby, Google. It needs you. See?”. She pointed at the foal, who was trying its best to hug Becky’s thumb. “It already wants to give huggies!”.
>Google nodded. She licked the foal clean, even if she grimaced after every lick, and then put it near one of her teats; it immediately started sucking. “Bad bahbe gud bahbe now”, she said, spent. “Mumma wuv bahbe”. The newborn fluffy stopped drinking for a moment to chirp back.
>While Google was busy feeding her surviving baby in the bathtub, Becky and I silently washed our hands in the sink, trying to wash the blood away. “I’m… I’m so proud of you, Becky”. She looked at you, surprised, but with a small smile on her lips. “And I’m sure your mother would be, too”.
>My daughter hugged me, her hands still wet. “Thank you, dad”. She stared at you for a couple of seconds. “Can we… can we order a pizza and then watch a movie?”. She looked briefly at Google and her foal. “The four of us, I mean?”.
>I smiled back. “Sure. I think I need some quiet, after this”.
>And that’s where we are right now, in front of the TV, an empty pizza box on the kitchen table: me sitting on the sofa, Becky by my side, Google onto my lap and her sleeping baby nestled in her back fluff.
>Me and my family.
>The four of us have lost something, something precious and irreplaceable.
>But, because we are together, we have also gained something else.
>Something wonderful.