Victorious

Arms folded and with a light scowl on your face, you stand on the back stoop and look out into your little backyard.  A sight greets you – one you've never seen before, at least not here.  At your feet stands a dusty yellow unicorn with red eyes and a blue mane and tail, cheeks puffed and tail swishing about unhappily.

“Dis fwuffy pwace!” he bellows cutely, shuffling over and biting at your baggy jeans.  “Go 'way o' gif owwies!”

Okay, so that image isn't new to you, but what's behind him is: a genuine fluffy herd, twenty-one strong, including the unicorn currently attacking you.  It's winter in the desert, and the weather is good enough for strays and ferals to survive and eventually form little roving groups of annoyance.  One such group has found its way here, but how did they get in?  While the smarty friend continues to bite your jeans, you look off to your left.

You left the gate open.  Oops.

“Gif owwies to hooman!” the unicorn growls again, unable to realize his attacks are impotent.  You nudge him off your sneaker and walk back inside.  As soon as you shut the door, you hear the muffled cheer of his herd.

“Yay!  Smawty make hooman go 'way!”

You enter your bedroom and look at the available means you have to combat this intrusion.  There's the taser on the nightstand, the shovel leaned against the closet door, and of course, your trusty aluminum bat on the floor beside your bed.  You pick it up and start walking toward the back door, passing the empty safe room on your way.  Just before you open it, however, an idea stops you.  It makes you smile, and you put the bat down.  You open the door and walk out, and almost instantly the smarty waddles over to harass you.

“Dis fwuffy pwace!  Go 'way!  Gif bigges' owwies!” he threatens, cheeks puffed so large you wonder how he can even speak.

You raise your hands in mock defeat.  “Okay.  Ya got me.  This is your grass now.”

At first, his herd is stunned, as is he, but then a celebration breaks out.  Fluffies dance and hug and waddle around, grazing on your lawn and bleating happily.  The smarty continues to watch you as you back into your house, cheeks puffed.  His nose is in the air, and his tail is raised with pride.

It is night before you go back outside.  You have two tasks to complete while the herd is asleep.  When you get out there, you see that they've already taken it upon themselves to establish a place to shit in one corner of your yard, and they've chosen the corner opposite to sleep.  They are gathered in a colorful pile of fluff, and you take a moment to examine their number more closely.  Of the twenty-one fluffies, only two appear to be pregnant, and they are ensconced safely in the center of their herd.  The smarty friend snoozes on the outer edge of the fluffpile, on his back.  He mumbles on occasion, and his legs wave slowly in the air as he dreams.  You creep away from the herd and go about your work.  The first thing you do is turn on the outside faucet, allowing a trickle of water to puddle on the ground underneath.  The next thing you do is close and lock the open gate.  You creep back past the fluffy clump and into your house, grinning all the way.

-----

The next time you check on your fluffy herd is three days later.  They've established a stable structure, and you spend the Saturday morning watching their doings from a window.  Two fluffies drink at the puddle you so generously provided, while ten more graze happily at the grass, including the smarty.  Fluffies waddle over to the 'poopie pwace' to do their business, while two attendant fluffies bite off and carry grass back to the swelling dams.  Those that aren't eating are playing, chasing each other in lazy circles around your yard.  By the time you get tired of watching, the smarty is nuzzling a blue unicorn with a bright red mane and tail, bleating about the special huggies he wants to make with her.  You don't even bother going outside over the next week or so, but you do keep an eye on the herd.

By next Sunday, things are a little more interesting.  You hear shouts of  “Hewp mumma!  Mumma haf owwies!” and look outside to see that the two dams are in labor.  Other females help them birth their litters while the smarty watches and most of the other males are playing roughly with each other a distance away.  Thanks to your grass, they've popped out healthy foals.  Not one runt.  You decide to make an appearance, and the smarty's reaction is like clockwork.

“Go 'way!  Dis fwuffy pwace!” he snorts, bucking you angrily.  “Dis pwace fo' mummas an' babehs!  Hooman go way!  Smawty gif owwies!”

You ignore him, gazing with cold eyes at the mothers.  They squeak in fear and hug their suckling babies while some of the other fluffies waddle over, placing themselves between you and them.  The smarty bucks you furiously, babbling something that you ignore.  You glance around and smile.  Your plan is trying your patience, but it is also working flawlessly.

There is not enough grass in your little yard to support even a herd this small.  They've grazed most of it bare.  The rest is covered with shit and unreachable, and even though it will soon emerge from the wretched pile, that process will take days these fluffies don't have.  You walk back in and smirk wickedly at the happy cheer that erupts.

That night, you turn off the trickle of water.

Even in winter, the desert sun is still powerful.  Over the next three days, fluffies drink from the increasingly small supply, bleating worriedly about how the 'wawa too smaww' and 'why wawa go 'way?'  Soon, the water is gone.  So too is the majority of the grass, and the smarty gathers his herd together and makes a proclamation, just in time for you to look out the kitchen window for your daily check.

“Gwassies go 'way,” he explains, but then he stands up and turns toward the place where, faintly, he remembers them entering.  “Hewd fin' new gwassies!  Gwassies an' wawa fo' fwuffies!”  Another collective cheer is emitted, and the herd begins walking toward the gate.

They cannot get out.  You emerge into the backyard and watch them as they scratch and kick at the faded wood.  After ten minutes, the smarty sees you and waddles over, cheeks puffed and snarling.

“Go 'way hooman!  No huwt fwuffy mummas an' babehs!”  He hasn't yet connected the dots, and knowing the average smarty, he probably never will.  You again cede the field with a smile, and his herd cheers his success.

They stop cheering two days hence, parched and starving.  They've all piled against the sealed gate, crying and begging for 'yummy wawa' and 'gwass nummies'.  The mothers, especially, are vocal.  You walk outside and over to the herd, where the weary smarty again challenges you.

“Go 'w-way,” he pants, unable to even puff his cheeks.  “Fwuffies...gif gif owwies...”

You ignore him and look at the two dams.  Their foals screech for milk that is no longer being provided, and the mothers beg the smarty for a solution.

“Smawty fwiend hewp mumma!  Mumma no haf miwk, babehs hung'y!  Pwease gwassies!”

The smarty is coherent enough to interrupt his duel with you to reply.  “Hewd go fin' new gwassies, babehs haf miwk!”

It is then that you strike.

“Ya can't leave, this is your land.”

“N-no wan',” the smarty replies, trembling.  Your yard is totally devoid of grass; the desperate fluffies consumed all of it.  They even left little dents in the soil, a sign they scooped up mouthfuls of dirt with whatever precious blades they found.  The herd pants almost as one, making a wispy sound as their parched tongues loll.  “Dis pwace b-bad fo' fwuffy mummas.”

“It's still yours.  Ya won it from me, so it you're stuck with it.”

He stares up at you, struggling to compute what your words are saying.  “Hooman...hooman wan' no gwassies pwace?  Fwuffy gif!” he finally croaks out.

“Why would I want it?  It's awful.”  You're not lying; it's going to take a while to regrow your lawn, but that fat pile of free compost in the corner should help quite a bit.  The smarty latches onto your leg, not in anger, but in a hug.

“Smwaty gif no gwassies pwace, hewd fin' new gwassies pwace!  Hooman can haf!”  The herd cheers weakly, expecting you to be awed by his grand bargain.

“Nope.  This is yours, and it'll be yours forever.  Ya gave me the biggest owwies,” you say mockingly, waving your hands in a dramatic fashion.  “I can't ever beat you.”

“Nuuuuuu!  Hooman gif smawty owwies!  Hooman take no gwassies pwace!” he begs loudly as you walk away.  He still has the strength to chase you, but you simply slam the door in his face, leaving the victorious smarty friend and his crying herd to die on the land for which he defeated you.