Small, Broken Creatures

CaptainKranch Feb 12, 2022 / FC 31538
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B-7 opened her eyes as the sun’s first rays poured in through the windows high above her. The barn smelled of warm earth and other fluffies. She heard the busy shuffling of several humans making their way between the rows of open-air, dirt-floored, four-foot by four-foot plexiglass pens. In the back corner sat B-7’s usual bed, with it’s torn stitching, covered in the shed hair from her teal coat and amber mane. In the opposite corner, by the walkway the humans used, sat her litter box; a utilitarian metal pan with deep edges, filled with cheap, unscented clay litter. Her main food and water bowls hung from the edge of the plexiglass wall, empty. In the middle of the pen sat B-7 herself, upon her temporary soon-mummah bed, food and water within reach, with a tray for waste behind her.

Barn B at the Sunny Hugs Fluffy Farm was at-capacity with expectant mothers, including B-7. Displacing mills, fluffy “farms” such as Sunny Hugs had become the primary source of fluffies around the country. Simply put, the age of mass-producing fluffies had ended. The craze of adopting fluffies was long-past, and there were few resources to be gained from raising fluffies as agricultural livestock. Fluffy meat was tough and gamey, given their genetic mashup of pets and working animals, and their milk wasn’t particularly tasty or nutritious. Their hides were soft, but thin, and the hair easily damaged, making them unsuitable for tanning or fur-lining. Feral herds could be found in most rural areas, and street fluffies were common, so anyone inclined to abusing the little things could much more easily grab one from nearby than go through the hassle of buying one.

Plus, mills drew unwanted attention due to their cramped and often horrifying conditions. It was easier to give the fluffies livable conditions, keep them from expiring, and keep them producing at a rate that minimized waste.

But the farms were not a paradise for fluffies, either. B-7 understood this. She’d never lived outside Sunny Hugs, but something in her thinkie-place told her she was lacking the love of a human mummah or daddeh. She took a few sips from her water bowl and felt the familiar pain of impending birth. Her tummeh babbehs were coming. She managed a slight, pained smile.

How many times had she done this? How many times had she laid in a bed like this, immobile, knowing she could do nothing to escape? She couldn’t help but give a yelp as another contraction sent waves of hurties through her body. It caught the attention of a nearby worker.

The lady had her brown fluff tied into a tail behind her head. Her blue not-fluff covered her from shoulders to toes, with pockets where she kept all sorts of magic human things. She had shiny, clear things in front of her see-places, like a few of the other humans B-7 had seen. In her hands was a towel, which B-7 knew was for babbehs. B-7 winced, trying to hide her pain from the human. Maybe she’d be lucky this time, and make the human think she wasn’t having her babbehs just yet, and get just a few more minutes with her children.

But the final contraction came. B-7 knew it wasn’t “biggest poopies,” after having felt it so many times. She was almost jealous of the first-time mothers she heard make that cry, signaling to everyone in the barn the beginning of new life. Instead, she noiselessly felt her first foal slide out of her. She wept.

Three and one babbehs came out of her, chirping in a pile damp with birth fluids. B-7, already mobile, turned herself around to look at her foals. Two were her same shade of teal; one wingy babbeh and one earthie like her. Another was a pretty golden pointeh babbeh, like the stallion who’d given her special huggies. The fourth, surprisingly, was a deep chestnut earthie.

To B-7, they were beautiful. She smiled through her tears. Maybe she’d get just a little mor-

“Give them lickie-cleanies,” the lady ordered. It was a command devoid of the sweetness with which fluffies said those silly babbling words. B-7 obeyed. She would’ve done so without being told, but the humans always said the same things. She laid down next to the multicolored pile of fluff and licked the grossness from their tiny bodies. She took her time, savoring every moment she spent with the lives she’d grown inside her.

“Wuv 'oo, babbehs. Mummah wuv 'oo,” she whispered.

“Now give them milkies.” Again, the same curt demands. She took her teal babbehs and placed them on her tummeh, and moved the brown and gold foals to her teets. She gently sang them a mummah song, visibly shaking with grief from her impending separation.

“M-mummah w-wuvs babbehs… Babbehs wuv m- m- mummah…”

When all four were cooing with fat bellies full of milk, B-7 sat them in a pile by the plexiglass, and took a step back. The lady reached down, without a word, placing each foal into the soft towel in her hand. B-7 shivered. She’d tried to resist the first time. And never again.

***

 “No gwab babbehs! Dey too widdle!”

B-7 couldn’t believe what was happening. She’d just felt like she was having the biggest poopies ever, and then turned around to see she’d had her babbehs! There were three; a red one, a pretty blue one, and one teal like her. But when she was done giving them licky-cleanies and milkies, the mistah who’d watched her give birth to them reached for them! He should’ve known chirpeh babbehs were too small for upsies. She curled up tightly around the fluffpile, and glared at the mistah.

He reached again. This time, she craned her neck and bit down as hard as she could. Surely this would teach him not to try and take her babbehs.

But he left his hand in her mouth. B-7 bit harder. The mistah shook his head. B-7 pulled back, and saw she’d hardly left a mark on his hand. She defiantly pushed his hand back with her head, and turned around to give him sorry-hoofsies. With all her might, she bucked.

The mistah’s hand hardly moved. B-7 was stunned. She was trying so hard to keep him from taking her babbehs, but nothing was working. Her body was out of the way now, and he snatched the pile of babbehs from the ground, making them peep in distress as he laid them in the towel in his hand.

“Go ahead. Take your babies back.”

B-7’s mind raced. Her children’s panicked cries drove her into a frenzy. She charged the no-see wall, but bounced off, leaving a dull ache in her thinkie-place. She beat against the wall with her leathery hooves.

“Pwease mistah, gib Bee-Seben hew babbehs back! Dey need dewe mummah’s wub and hugs!”

The man again shook his head.

“Then take them from me.”

B-7 wracked her brain. She decided on a new tactic.

“G-gib sowwee poopies!” She aimed her rear at the man who’d stolen her children. A few dry turds tumbled from her backside. Fiber-heavy kibble was a godsend to workers dealing with first-time mothers.

B-7 began to panic. She was out of options. In a last-ditch effort, she began screaming. As loud as her tiny vocal chords would let her. As long as her breath held out for.

But the mistah reached into his pocket, pulled out two small orange plugs, and put one into each ear.

B-7’s throat started to hurt. She tasted booboo juice. Her thinkie-place started to feel silly. She collapsed, and stared in horror at the man standing over her. Her babies were screeching for her warmth.

And for the first time in her short life, B-7 realized how small she was. How weak she was. And how big humans were. How strong they were. How powerless she was to resist them. In her own limited intelligence, she understood why he let her try to stop him. To bring her to this realization.

She cried through the pain in her throat as he carried her foals away.

***

B-7 sniffled and pointed one hoof at her children, still in the lady’s towel.

“Nice w-wadey, cood Bee-Seben keep da bwown babbeh? D-dat am poopie babbeh, a-an hoomins dun wan poopeh babbehs.”

The lady did nothing at first. Her eyes changed, ever so subtly, but B-7 couldn’t understand what it meant. Then, she shook her head.

“O-otay. Be gud b-b-babbehs” B-7 turned and shuffled to her bed. She curled up in the corner, and silently cried. A new stallion would be in her pen tomorrow, to start the cycle over. But for now, she was alone. So dreadfully alone.

***

Savannah passed through the double doors to the chirpy foal room. She deposited B-7’s four foals into an incubator, complete with heating pad and artificial, silicone teats. The looped recording of a mummah song almost drowned out their cheeps, among the fifty or so other foals in the sparse room.

Savannah sighed. B-7’s request would have to be noted in her shift log. The concept of “poopy babies” wasn’t hard-wired into fluffies, and was the result of human preferences being passed onto escaped domestics. As a second-generation farm fluffy, B-7 should never have had the opportunity to learn about such a concept. Farm policies were very clear about speaking to or around the fluffies. Most likely, one of the new folks had slipped up, or thought they were out of earshot. Regardless, Savannah would report it to management. B-7 wouldn’t be punished, and it would be good to let the supervisor know that someone was talking around the fluffies, which had the potential to make her job more difficult.

She looked back through the glass porthole in the double doors. B-7 was still in her corner. Had she noticed? Barn workers were supposed to express as little emotion as possible, to keep the fluffies distant. But seeing the small, broken creature ask for just a bit of kindness in her life had snuck past Savannah’s defenses.

The look she’d given B-7 was pity.