Rosie the Runaway

FractalFluff, February 8, 2014; 08:55 / FB 17580
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Rosie the Runaway

"Huuhuuhuuu... gotta wun way... pwease, weggies, take Wosie 'way mowe fastew..."

Huh. It's one of those fluffy ponies: a mare, as far as you can tell, with dusky-rose fluff and a dark burgundy mane. She's obviously someone's pet: clean, well-fed, sporting a collar. Four little foals, two dark brown, one cream and one beige, are clinging to her back. You can hear their muffled chirps as you watch her bumbling progress. In common with her kind, she keeps up a constant blunders down the quiet suburban street. You lean on your rake as you watch her progress.

"...gonna wun way... fine nyu Daddeh... nu mowe meanie Daddeh... take 'way nummies for make poopsies... nu wowwy, babbehs, Mummah fine nicey Daddeh hoo wet yu haf nummies... Mummah fine nicey Daddeh hoo wet yu wun an pway..."

So that's it. The babies must have crapped on the rug or something, and she's all pissy because they didn't get treats. God, fluffies were such brats! You set the rake aside and walk over to the pony. She gives a squeak when you block her path, skidding to a halt so suddenly that you're surprised her foals don't go flying. She drops into a meek crouch.

"Yeep! Puh-pwease, nice mistah, nu huwt Fwuffy... Fwuffy nu wan be inna way, jus wan wun downa woad? Fwuffy sowwy if a-stuwb nicey mistah..."

"I'm not going to hurt you, little one," you say. You tug her collar around so that you can see the tag. The address is just a few doors down. That new guy... some sort of artist, apparently.

"Pwease, Mistah Nicey Hoomin, wet Fwuffy gu? Fwuffy gotta get way fwom meany munstah Daddeh, gu safe pwace whewe babbehs nu get owwies!"

You scoop her up in your arms, making sure that you don't dislodge the foals — though they seem to be clinging on for dear life — and also that you angle her butt away from you. As you begin to march up the road, she starts to struggle and sob.

"Pwease, nicey Mistah, nu take Wosie an babbehs back! Nu wan wive wif meanie munstah daddeh nu mowe!"

You free one hand long enough to flick her nose, hard. "You're a bad fluffy to run away from your Daddy," you tell her sternly. "I'm sorry if your babies got a spanking for pooping where they shouldn't, or you missed out on treats, or whatever, but you'll just have to make them use the litterbox in future."

"But Mistah Hoomin, yu nu 'stand! Daddeh gonna —"

You flick her nose again. "I don't care if you're going to be in trouble," you tell her. "It's dangerous for a fluffy to run around the streets alone. You could get hit by a car, or bitten by a doggie, or a cat could get your foals..."

Her face is a picture of dismay; she stops struggling and sags limply in your arms. "Kitteh-munstah... get babbehs? Duggeh-munstah get? Vwoom-vwoom huwt Fwuffy?"

"Yes," you confirm. "If you run away, monsters can get you."

"Den... den nicey Mistah, pwease be nyu Daddeh?"

"You've already got a Daddy, and I don't need a fluffy."

"Den... nicey Mistah take mummah an babbehs back tu dah Shewtah? Pwease take Fwuffy tu da Shewtah, mummah an babbehs can wive dewe tiww a nicey Daddeh come..."

"You've already been adopted, Rosie. You're a very lucky fluffy to have a daddy, and you shouldn't be ungrateful. Here we are."

You ring your new neighbour's doorbell. After a brief pause, the door opens. "Rosie!" cries the man. "I didn't even know you were out."

"I found her making a run for it," you say, laughing. He's an odd duck, this new fella, with his shaved head and paint-stained overalls; but he obviously dotes on the fluffy. Pleasatries are exchanged, and you depart bathed in the warm glow of a job well done.

Fluffies, though. What brats. She has a good home with a loving owner; yet at the first taste of discipline, she made a break for it. You shake your head; why would anyone waste their time on something so clearly undeserving?

***

You are Rosie's owner. You squeezed her out good over the litter-box, ignoring her squeals of pain. No bad poopsies from that quarter. Then you disciplined her for running off, as a good owner should.

Now you're preparing a little lunch for you both: her favourite, spaghetti. You place a dish of the steaming noodles in front of the mare.

"Not hungry?" you ask, when she doesn't touch the food. "Really? I thought spaghetti was your favourite. Maybe I just shouldn't make it anymore."

Tears roll down Rosie's muzzle, pooling on the duct tape. She leans forward, lipping the spaghetti; she can't open her mouth enough to eat properly, so the experience is more tantalizing than anything else.

"You simply mut eat up, you know," you admonish the mare. "However will you make milk for your foals?" You reach over and pet the tiny head of one of the brown foals with your fingertip, then feel amid the fluff for the head of the long pin securing him to his mother's back. You're rewarded with a muffled squeal; the glue obtructing the infant's mouth makes it hard for him to squeak, but he definitely felt that. You try the same experiment with the other brown foal, but he doesn't respond. You flick him across the nose; still no response, and his body feels cooler than the surrounding fluff. Ah well.

The light-coloured babies respond gratifyingly to your flicks and tugs; being held on with cyanoacrylate, they should last longer. You note with distaste that one of them has peed a little; you remedy the issue with an extra squirt of glue to his tiny crotch. Must have missed a bit when you closed him up back there.

Through it all, Rosie sobs soundlessly. She's obviously not ready to stop giving you attitude quite yet, despite all you've done for her. Still, at least she won't be making any more bids for freedom. The vice clamping her back leg will prevent that.