Blossom, Grass, and Jack

Ferrotter, September 5, 2012; 22:00 / FB 4496
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>Be the owner of a fluffy pony shelter.
>Not one of those notorious ones you often read about. You take the idea of shelter seriously.
>Shelter. Refuge. Sanctuary.
>Lord knows, even the little fluffies lucky enough to make it to you need a sanctuary in this sick world.
>You run the place along with Jane and Miguel.
>Jane is a good worker. Unusual for her young generation. But she's very dedicated to the fluffies, so it may not be all work ethic.
>Miguel, like Carlos Hathcock III, the famous Vietnam sniper, is as WASP as they come, the origin of his family's tradition of naming the oldest boy in each generation Miguel, long since lost to time. Miguel is no dummy, but he's never been outside his hometown. He even mispronounces the menu at Taco Bell.
>But you never correct him. It might hurt his feelings.
>Your concern right now isn't Miguel though. Nor Jane. Its Blossom, one of the fluffies.
>Blossom came to your shelter about a week ago, already obviously pregnant, along with her mate, a timid stallion named Grass.
>Blossom was clearly someone's unwanted, discarded foal at one point. She understands domesticity, but is rusty on it. She's distrustful of humans but hopeful. She trusts your staff at least, and recognizes they have always been kind to her.
>Grass though is either a born feral or maybe severely abused, and you haven't been able to find out. He's not at all talkative, except to Blossom. He's never been at all hostile to you our your staff, but he makes sure to keep out of the way and avoid eye contact.
>Or really contact of any sort. Hell answer direct questions, softly, briefly, and fearfully, but he never initiates any sort of contact. And strange for a fluffy pony, he doesn't want to hug anyone except other fluffies.
>You get the impression he'd rather be anywhere else, but loves and trusts Blossom enough to stay with her in your shelter.
>Grass is so high-strung you try your best to avoid letting your concern be contagious to him, but some of it is probably rubbing off anyway.
>Its hard not to be concerned. He and Blossom were malnourished when they came in, and Blossom seems to be carrying a large litter for any fluffy pony. And from the condition of her genitals and teats (the veterinarian looked, not you!), she's certainly a first-time mumma.
>And she's only gotten bigger, though her condition and muscle tone hasn't improved much.
>With the loss of the only fluffy chow actually made specifically to meet the needs of the fluffy pony when Hasbro BioToys was shuttered, its hard to get good nutrition in a fluffy pony normally. And with her pregnancy-induced nausea, foal-compressed stomach, and with so many babies sharing her nutrients, she's barely breaking even, if at all.
>You hope the outcome will be good. It would be devastating for Blossom for sure; you can't even imagine how Grass, who was never comfortable around humans, would react if anything went wrong.
>Until the blessed day arrives.
>"Gwass hewp Bwassum! Nee make poopies! Big poopies!" Blossom suddenly calls out.
>Shed just been rolled gently to the lifferbox and done her business not 10 minutes ago. Even a fluffy pony can't recharge that fast, so this is the real deal.
>"gwass hewp wuv bwassum" he weakly says as he tries rolling her back to the box.
>"It's okay Grass," you say to him softly, "Blossom doesn't need to make poopies. She's having her babies." You beam a big smile on your face.
>Its not as helpful as you would've thought or hoped. "gwass sowwy mistah..." is all you get out of him, his eyes fixed Jenga-like on the floor as he backs away from her and you.
>You're there by yourself. You'd been coming in early because you'd been expecting Blossom to pop any day now.
>You bring some soft baby blankets and arrange them under her rear end.
>"Bwassum haf baybehs! So happeh, wuv baybehs! Wuv gwass!" she cheerfully says when she realizes what's actually happening.
>"gwass wuv bwassum..." Grass says as he sits on his haunches a few feet away, watching her, eyes rotated up while he keeps his face still down, hoping you don't see he's looking.
>You wish he would help. Blossom could use the conspecific support. No time to soothe his feelings though, it's a hard labor.
>"Owwies! Peepee owwies! Why tummeh huwties!?!?" cries Blossom as she pushes hard!
>"gwass so sowwy..." is the only help Grass gives, but you can see he wants to do more. You wish you could move away and let him do it, but you're not even sure what you can do to help as she strains, fluids of various colors and descriptions leaking periodically from her straining vulva.
>Finally, amid an ear-piercing scream that brings tears to Grass's eyes, a little green foal pops out.
>It struggles to breathe, so you gently wipe the membrane off its mouth.
>"You're a mom, Blossom," you say, as you hand the foal over to her, and she begins to lick it clean as soon as it chirps at her, singing softly to her foal how much she loves it. Loves her, you realize, Blossom having an easier time telling, and singing about it, than you do with such a tiny thing.
>"And you're a dad, Grass," you say, not really hoping for anything.
>"gwass sowwy..." he says, and scoots a bit farther back on his haunches.
>About what you expected.
>Blossom begins to squeeze and cry again, and the second foal pops out, a little red unicorn with its horn bud already visible. Fortunately, already stretched out, that one is a bit easier on her.
>Again you present it to her, and she begins licking and singing to her colt as she puts the green filly to her teat, where it begins to suck.
>Three more times a foal pops out, Blossom delighted and Grass just fearful.
>It wasn't so bad, you think to yourself as she finishes up. The first one was hard but nothing catastrophic. Grass probably would've done fine with the babies if you'd just left them alone.
>But then Blossom screams! "Owwies! Peepee owwies! Tummeh huwties so bad!!!"
>She practically curls over double at the pain!
>"Pwease hewp Bwassum...." she stammers as she struggles to look up at you, pain so bad she can't even make tears.
>Then the door opens. It's Miguel!
>"Miguel! Call the vet! Something's wrong with Blossom!"
>"No! Please no!" Miguel yells out as he almost trips over himself lunging for the phone.
>"Come on, come on," Miguel says to the empty phone as it rings. Finally it picks up, and you hear him trying hard not to sob as he relays Blossom's symptoms over the phone. For someone who looks like a Marine Corps drill instructor, the guy is such a softie.
>"The vet is on his way but he doesn't think he'll get here in time," Miguel says through watery eyes. "He says it sounds like she has one more foal stuck sideways. The squeezing "
>He takes a moment to compose himself. "The squeezing is pressing the foal on her organs and cuffing off the blood...the blood supply. Her organs will die, and so will she. He said we can try to reposition the foal, but he doesn't think our chances are good... Her chances..."
>You kneel by Blossom, pressing in a finger, your other knuckles kneading at her belly, trying to twist the foal inside her. To the extent you can, you try to leave her existing foals by her teats, hoping at least she may hold on long enough to give them each some maternal antibodies in her colostrum, her first milk. Their chances are poor without her, but maybe that liffle bit if her can survive inside them.
>Blossom is beyond screaming, her pupils constricted to dots as her teeth just grit, emitting a low, agonized moan.
>Miguel just sobs, barely able to watch. "These little guys are so fragile...it's like the slightest thing can break them...." he cries into his palms.
>You feel something on your leg.
>Grass is hugging your ankle, eyes running with tears. "Pwease mistah, hewp Bwassum? Pwease?"
>You try to remember what you can of fluffy pony anatomy. It's a painful subject for you, with some of it that you've seen first-hand, cruelly exposed in abuse cases you couldn't save.
>You look into Grass's eyes, and for the first time you see him looking back. Acknowledging you as another being, not a threat.
>You can't give up on her, on her foals, and least of all now on him.
>You switch to your fingertips, pressing as much as you can under her udder, trying to feel.
>And you feel the foal's mouth gasping inside her. You know which end is which, and with the umbilical cord compressed it's suffocating too.
>With all the strength you have in your fingertips, you press the foal's head towards Blossom's tail, the foal's tail towards her head.
>And suddenly, it moves, and pops its head out almost like a Jack in the Box.
>"We're naming this one Jack, Grass," you say, without thinking.
>You cringe, thinking that was presumptuous of you. It's his baby, after all.
>"Gwass wuv Jack. An wuv Bwassum. An wuv baybehs."
>You feel his little hooves on your ankle tighten, as he puts his tear-soaked nose on your pants leg and sobs. "An wuv Mistah. Fank 'ou Mistah."
>You stroke his little mane and he doesn't cringe away, just crying into your jeans.
>Blossom perks up a little, and begins to clean her last foal, poking and prodding tiredly at the other five, adjusting them around her two teats so they all get a turn.
>Her eyes are still bloodshot and she doesn't look well, but she's not immediately about to die at least.
>You hear the vet pull up and come in with his bag.
>He inspects Blossom, and her foals, as you explain what you did, in case you did any damage while helping.
>"You did it right," the vet says, "I'm not sure I could've done as well myself. She's not out of the woods, she may have some lasting organ damage from the blood restriction, but I don't see anything immediately concerning. I would definitely make sure she's not going to have more babies, though."
>"Bwassum haf wots af baybehs," she cheerfully if sleepily says.
>"Gwass haf wots af baybehs," he, much more surprisingly, says, as he hugs your ankle again.
>"The foals look to all be in good shape too," the vet says, "even the last one. She'll have quite a large family even as it is."
>Blossom recovers for the most part, and her foals grow. It takes a lot of TLC from you and the staff.
>Grass barely leaves her side, except to hug your ankle to tell you she needs something. Poopies cleaned up when she couldn't leave the foals, or something to eat. He never asks for himself, always for her.
>She was pregnant when she came in so you never did see what she was normally like, but you think the vet was right, she's less energetic than even early pregnancy.
>Grass never does tell you what made him the way he is, but with some of the traumas you've seen with ferals, and even some "pets," you can understand if he can't talk about it. It's not about you. And frankly, given some of the things you've seen, you aren't sure you even want to imagine his past happening to him, a fluffy pony you've come to know so closely.
>Grass for his part continues to consider you a friend, and Miguel too, but he never warms up at all to any of the customers coming in to adopt. And nobody wants a dam with six foals and a sleepy demeanor, and a stallion they can't even touch.
>As much as you promised yourself when you opened the shelter that you'd never become involved with "the merchandise," you realize you have no choice.
>During a quiet period when adoptions are slow, you start filling out eight adoption forms with your own name.