My Fluffies and Me - Chapter 3: The Happiest Days of...

CHAPTER 3 – THE HAPPIEST DAYS OF OUR LIVES

>“Yay! Dahdeh, wook, fwuffy baww! New baww fo’ Pink?”.
>You sigh and facepalm. Not again…
>“Pink, that’s Deep Purple. It’s not a ball, it’s your friend. Remember?”
>Why do you have to go through this every goddamned morning?
>The unicorn looks at the pegasus dam, still sleeping alongside her “special fwend” Echoes, then she seems to remember something.
>“Puwpwe gon’ haf’ bahbes! Dat why so wound an’ big!”
>This catches the attention of the pegasus mare, that instantly wake up and starts looking around feverishly, her useless – at least for now – legs waving desperately in the air and her equally useless – as always – wings buzzing. “Bahbes? Whev’ bahbes? Mumma hewe, bahbes!”.
>You pat her head gently. “Calm down, Purple. It’s still too early for babies. And you have to be happy and quiet, because…”.
>You point a finger at her and smile, and she continues, just like you taught her. “…b’cause bahbes nu wike if mumma angwy o’ wowwy”.
>“Exactly. I’m very proud of you”. You scratch her behind her ears, eliciting a delighted squeak.
>More than three months have passed since you adopted Purple… well, Deep Purple now, because you didn’t want to break the musical theme, but everyone – including herself – calls her Purple anyway. As you hoped, this diverted the incestuous attentions of Echoes towards Pink Floyd to her, and they quickly became “husban’” and “wifey”; Pink, on the other hand, was more than happy to have a new friend, and Echoes and Purple often cuddling each other in the safe room meant more time on your lap and belly rubs for her. A win-win situation, in other words.
>At first, you thought that Mrs. Hartman – the previous owner of Deep Purple – had had her spayed, because despite the frequent “special hugs” she didn’t become pregnant. That or Echoes was just shooting blanks, which was perfectly possible.
>You were pretty cool with the situation: no inbreeding, no foals to take care of and three happy fluffies. As you said, a win-win situation.
>During a cold evening of December, however, after a session of tender humping in the safe room, Purple trotted at you with a strange look on her face. “Puwpwe haf’ funny feew in tummy, dahdeh”.
>You had read online that fluffy mares instinctively know when they’ve conceived, probably as a way to warn other fluffies that they will require special attention for quite a bit.
>The question was: were you, Arnold Layne, ready for the task?
>Well, sure as hell you couldn’t abandon Purple or drop her at the fluffy shelter. An abortion was also out of question, too expensive and also too taxing for the fluffy.
>So you decided to do the only reasonable thing: let Deep Purple keep her litter; you could always bring the foals at the fluffy shelter after they’ve been weaned, after all.
>You were not going through this unprepared, though: you read everything you were able to find online about fluffy pregnancy, labour, the risk of fluffsplosion and the like. You were especially clear in explaining your three fluffies the situation (in words they could actually understand, obviously): no stressful situations, limited huggies to the fluffy mumma, and when Purple has a “big poopies” feeling, that’s the cue for the babies to arrive. You’ve been repeating these very things to your pets every morning, like a mantra, and they seemed to get it… well, at least Echoes and Deep Purple did.
>That morning, after you had breakfast, you go to the safe room and check Deep Purple again. Despite what you told her earlier, she seems ready to go into labour; considering that it’s Sunday, you’d gladly prefer for her to give birth today, so you can be here and assist her just in case.
>The round fluffy squirms in your hands, giggling joyfully. “Puwpwe wuv tickwes!”. She smiles at you. “Bahbes wuv tickwes too! Puwpwe can feew bahbes muv in bewwy!”.
>You gently pet her head, while Echoes and Pink Floyd are playing a game of tag around your feet. “So, how do you feel, girl? Are you excited?”.
She nods frantically, her stubby legs tracing small circles in the air. “Puwpwe wan’ see bahbes weaw soon! Mumma an’ daddy Echoes an’ aun’ Pink an’ dahdeh gif bahbes wuv an’ huggies, bahbeh weawwy wucky!”.
>For a moment, you think of all those dams and foals that are most surely freezing outside, courtesy of a particularly fierce and frosty winter. “Yeah, they are really lucky”. You gently squeeze Purple’s belly, hoping to induce labour. “Does this hurt you?”.
>She seems confused, her little brow scrunched. “N-nu… Bu’ tummy feew funny now…”. Her purple eyes go wide in surprise. “Dahdeh, haf’ make big poopies!”.
>Echoes suddenly stops running after his sister and looks up at you with an anxious expression on his muzzle. “Big poopies mean bahbes comin’!”.
>You nod at him and place Deep Purple on her nest of blankets. “Okay, girl, look at daddy and do what I do. Understood?”. You start taking very deep breaths, inhaling with your nose and exhaling with your mouth. “See? Do what daddy does”.
>Purple, the face strained in pain, does her best to nod. “Puwpwe d-du what d-dahdeh du…”. She takes some liquid, hiccupping breaths, immediately followed by Pink. “Pink du funny bweaties too!”.
>Echoes, meanwhile, is tenderly hugging the neck of Purple, his forehead on the side of her head. He keeps whispering: “Wifey Puwpwe gud fwuffy, wifey Puwpwe bwave fwuffy, wifey Puwpwe make gud bahbes…”.
>You gently squeeze the sides of the unicorn mare, and water starts dribbling from her vagina. “Hang on, girl, babies are almost there!”, you tell Purple; a couple of seconds later, the first foal slides out, covered in slimy afterbirth. You quickly pick it up and put it in front of Purple so that she can clean it.
>The mare squeals in pure, innocent joy. “Dahdeh, dat bahbeh! Wook, husban’, now fwuffies mumma an’ daddy!”. After she has licked the foal clean, you can see cyan fluff and a bright yellow mane. Echoes smiles at his special friend, while Pink carefully inspects the baby fluffy. “Dis bahbeh cowt!”, she exclaims.
>Two other foals follow suit, and a small mound of bloody placenta tells you the delivery is over: Deep Purple has in fact returned to her usual size, even if her four udders are now bright red and swollen with milk.
>The mare readily cleans her babies: an emerald green pegasus with a cyan mane – another male – and a light green earth filly with a reddish mane. “Mumma wuv bahbes…”, she murmurs, looking at them with adoring eyes. She then stares at you pleadingly. “Dahdeh, pwease, hewp bahbes haf miwkies…”.
>You oblige, carefully placing the three minuscule balls of fluff near their mother’s teats. After just a couple of seconds, they start sucking milk greedily. You pet Purple’s mane. “If it’s okay to you, I’ll go tell Audrey and Michelle that the babies are finally here. They said they wanted to see them”.
>Purple is too tired even to nod. She just whispers: “Otay, dahdeh…”, before falling asleep.
>You are going out the safe room, when you hear a gasp. You look at Pink, and she stares back, her eyes widened in shock and her mouth shaped in a small O. “Pink aun’ now!”, she exclaims.
>“Yeah, you are. Why so shocked?”.
>“B-bu’ aun’ must gif fwuffies chockwit! Pink no haf chockwit, what can du?”.
>You can’t help but laugh a little. “Don’t worry, girl, these babies are too small for chocolate anyway…”.

>“God, they are so adorable”. Audrey is staring at the three fuzzballs with the left hand on her mouth. “I mean, Chelle, look at them!”.
>“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Aud”. Michelle snarks back. The two of them couldn’t have been more different even if they tried: Audrey is pale, plump, doe-eyed, hopelessly romantic and with an artistic temperament; Michelle, on the other hand, has dark skin, a tall, athletic body, a practical character and plenty of sarcasm for everyone. They’re also one of the most loving couples you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Opposites attract, as people say.
>Pink stops hugging Audrey’s shin and looks up at them. “Pink now aun’ too! Wike aun’ Audwey an’ aun’ Mishew’!”
>Michelle picks her up and tickles her belly. “Damn, you’re so cute one of these days I swear I’ll eat you!”.
>The unicorn stares at her with horrified eyes. “Nuuuuuu! Pink gud fwuffy, no nummie! Pwease no eat!”.
>Audrey is still looking at the foals hugging their mother’s belly. If you were in a cartoon, there u would probably be little hearts floating around her head. “Arnie, do you think that I could, um… pick one up?”.
>You shrug. “You should ask Purple. It’s her children you’re talking about, after all”.
>“Oh. Right”. The pegasus mare has woken up and is looking at you, still too tired to speak; she manages to give Aud a little smile. “Purple, can I pick one of your babies up? I promise I’ll be really careful”.
>After some seconds, Deep Purple nods. “Aun’ Audwey nice hooman, Puwpwe twust aun’ Audwey”.
>The woman pets her head fluff. “Thank you”. She picks the earth filly up; the baby fluffy still has her eyes closed and is not old enough to speak, so she just chirps a little, yawns and then curls into a ball on Audrey’s palm, falling asleep.
>“This is so precious I bet even your mother would not be able to find anything bad to say about it”, Audrey tells her fiancée, grinning.
>“My mother can find something bad to say about virtually everything”, Michelle responds. “It’s just that sometimes she chooses not to translate her thought into words”.
>Echoes, who’s still cuddling his special friend, decides to intervene for the first time since your neighbours arrived. “Aun’ Audwey an Mishew’ wuv bahbes too?” He looks very worried, all of a sudden. “P-pwease, no take bahbes, bahbes stiww nee’ miwk an’ mumma…”.
>Audrey hurriedly puts the little filly back on the blanket and starts petting the daddy fluffy. “Oh, no, Echoes, we don’t want to take your babies away! Right, Arnie?”.
>You look at Echoes. “The babies are here to stay, don’t worry”.
>“Bu’ Echoes wemembew when dahdeh take Echoes an’ Pink an’ Mon’ fwom mumma…”.
>“That was because, well…”. Your mother was dead. But that’s not something I can tell you. “…your mother couldn’t take care of you, so she entrusted you to me. But I’m sure you and Purple will have no problem in taking care of your babies. And you’ll always have me, Pink, Audrey and Michelle to help you. Okay?”.
>The stallion gives you a little smile. “Otay dahdeh. Daddy Echoes take cawe of bahbes and wifey, pwomise”.
>And he does.

>A couple of weeks have passed since Deep Purple gave birth to her litter of three. The babies grew up fast, and started talking, walking around and playing in no time.
>The earth colt’s first word was “mumma”, the pegasus’ was – quite appropriately – “fwy” and the filly’s was “nappies”. After they spoke for the first time, Purple asked you to give them names. “Dahdeh bes’ at gif’ names!”, she told you, her tail slightly wagging.
>You couldn’t help to feel flattered.
>To keep the musical theme intact, you then decided to call the pegasus Green Day, the earth colt Oasis and the filly Sleepyhead.
>The parents seemed satisfied by those names, but Pink had some difficulties in remembering how her niece is called. The first time, she actually addressed her as “Poopiehead”, and Purple nearly bucked her on the face.
>“Pink meanie poni! Sweepihead gud fwuffy, no poopie!”
>Luckily, they had a session of “make-up huggies” soon later, and everything went back to normal.
>The three foals are terrific, by the way: playful, curious, completely trusting and smart… well, as smart as a fluffy pony can be, which isn’t much. But they’ve already learnt where “gud poopies” must be made, and this is a great life achievement for fluffies that young.
>Oasis is the momma’s boy, very clingy and protective. The fact that he’s very big and stout for his age certainly helps: he would probably have become what feral fluffies call “toughy fwend”, were he be born as a stray. He’s very obedient and always listen to what his daddy and his mumma have to say; he probably isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s loyal, sweet and loves to cuddle. Come to think of it, he’s basically the male version of Pink Floyd, and that’s probably why he’s her favourite nephew.
>Green Day is the explorer. You heard fluffy pegasi were the most troublesome fluffy subtype, with their being more fragile than earth fluffies and unicorns and their tendency to try and fly, even with their vestigial, totally useless wings. After having Deep Purple around for some months you came to think that those where total exaggerations: since you have had her, she didn’t even try to fly once. Green Day, unfortunately, is different: he’s like one of those kids that always asks “What’s that?”... The pegasus never asks, though: he darts towards whatever catches his attention, especially if it’s something in a very dangerous place for a fluffy, like on the top of a wardrobe, inside the washing machine or over the electric cooker. Echoes, from his part, is doing an egregious job at keeping him in line.
>Sleepyhead, well… she might as well be the first narcoleptic fluffy in the history of the species. She has the innate ability to fall asleep anywhere, in any given situation; she may be eating, hugging or playing tag with their brothers, when… Bam! Sudden nap time: she falls on her side and starts snoring peacefully. The first couple of times you got scared, thinking she might’ve been suffered a stroke, but when you brought her to the vet he assured you that – while those “sleep attacks” were totally unheard of – Sleepyhead was fine. When you asked her why she sometimes fell asleep, she just hugged you and answered: “Sweepihead wike nappies!”.
>Taking care of six fluffies – especially if three of them are still foals –  is quite a chore, sure; Echoes and Deep Purple, however, are behaving better than ever, and even Pink seems less clumsy than before. They’re like a little herd, with the pegasus mare as their self-appointed “smarty friend”.
>You’re playing with them on the living room floor right now: Echoes and Sleepyhead are trying to build a tower with their blocks, Pink Floyd, Oasis and Green Day are busy with a game of tag, and Deep Purple is sitting on her belly beside of you, observing her sons and daughter with obvious pride in her violet eyes. You suddenly clear your throat, and six pair of eyes dart towards you. “Guess what?”, you ask.
>“Wha’, dahdeh?”, Echoes replies.
>“Group hug!”
>For a second, nothing happens. Then…
>“YAY! WUV DAHDEH!”
>A sestet of colorful fuzzballs jumps on you, hugging you chest, you arms and your neck, making you fall flat on the floor. You lie there, laughing and petting your fluffies, that keep hugging you, giggling with you and saying how much they love you.
>“I love you too, buddies”, you tell them.
>Sleepyhead has already fallen asleep, soothed by your heartbeat; Green Day and Deep Purple are trying to hug you with their little wings; Pink Floyd and Oasis are simultaneously hugging you and each other with one of their hooves; and Echoes rests on your chest, his legs spread, his eyes closed and a little smile on his muzzle.
>These are the happiest days of your lives.

>There’s a trail of blood in the snow, under a lamppost: you can clearly see the crimson fluid smeared in the middle of the circle of dim yellow light.
>You scowl. “The hell happened…”, you mutter, clutching the handles of the plastic bag. You went to the nearest minimarket to buy some vegetables for the fluffy herd; it 7,30 PM, but cloudy January means quite a dark evening. You probably wouldn’t even have noticed the blood, weren’t it under a streetlight.
>You eyes follow the crimson pattern, trying to find its source. There’s a something under the next lamppost, something red and light blue and fuzzy, and…
>“Shit…”
>The fluffy pony lies in a small puddle of blood. Her hind legs and one of her front legs are twisted and broken, and where her eyes were only two red, jagged holes remain. Her azure fluff and lilac mane are stained and partially torn off.
>And yet, she’s still alive. You can see her side rise and hear her trying to take a raspy, broken breath.
>You crouch. “Who… who did this to you?”, you ask, even if you don’t know if she’ll be able to answer.
>“N-nuuu…”, she murmurs tremulously. “P-pwease, hooman, no mo’ huwties… F-fwuffy be gud…”.
>She was probably a stray, looking for a warm place… and someone hurt her and left her to die, alone in the cold.
>“I… I don’t want to hurt you”, you tell her, your voice trembling.
>“Why dawk? W-why weggies no wowk? Stop huwties, no wan’…”, she keeps whimpering, apparently oblivious of your words.
>You want to pet her and try to make her feel loved before she dies, but touching her would just cause her more pain. So you do the first thing that comes to your mind: you start singing a lullaby for her.
>“Twinkle twinkle little star…”.
>Your voice is horribly off-key, but you don’t care a bit. Not now.
>The fluffy tries to lift her head and coughs a little blood. “S-s-staw…?”, she repeats. “Dat f-fwuffy name?”.
>You feel a knot in your throat. “Yeah. It’s your name, girl. And I’ll be your daddy, okay?”.
>“S-staw wuv name… Staw *cough* neva haf n-name befo’… Staw wuv new d…”.
>She died while saying that she loved you.
>“I’m sorry, Star”, you tell the little body. “You were a good fluffy”. And as you look at her, you can’t help thinking how lucky you and your fluffies are to have each other.