Mummah Race

FractalFluff, January 25, 2014; 19:24 / FB 16935
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(Undiluted hugbox. May cause nausea or headsplosion in susceptible individuals. Reader discretion advised. If symptoms persist, consult your emergency abuse provider.)

MUMMAH RACE

"NUUUU! NUUUUUU! NU WAN! NU WAN! YEEEEE!"

Anyone overhearing Cerise could be forgiven for assuming that PonyCare is a front for some kind of gratuitous fluffy-abuse ring. As far as the pregnant earthie is concerned, this is precisely true; she is in her own personal torture chamber, and you are the very worst of her tormentors.

And as far as you're concerned, she's in increasing danger of being right. You've always regarded abusers with righteous contempt and taken a dim view even of corporal punishment; but Cerise makes visions of sorry-sticks dance in your head.

"NU WAN KIBBEW! SEHWEEZ HATE DUMMEH KIBBEW! NUUUU!"

Not for the first time, you facepalm. It's like dealing with a toddler. A sociopathic demon toddler who can get you fired. You thank whatever providence watches over PonyCare grunts that you're not Cerise's owner, and that in a few days the screaming pink ball of malice will — hopefully — be going home. She's already been moved out of the medical wing and in with the healthy fluffy boarders, just to give the sicker ponies a break from her yelling.

If only you were so lucky.

"SEHWEEZ HATE KIBBEW! WAN SWEETIES! WAN SKETTIES! WAN BIKKIT! BIKKIT SKETTIES BIKKIT SKETTIES SKETTIES SKETTIES! YEEEEE!"

You have been driven to wonder aloud why the heck anyone would keep Cerise, let alone want a bunch of little Cerises running around, but apparently the pony is not normally this bratty. The vet thinks her current behaviour is largely down to all the pregnancy hormones sloshing around and addling her tiny fluffy brain. Add to that the frustration of being unable to vent her naturally high energy by running around, being trapped in unfamiliar surroundings, and her profound distaste for her medically-prescribed kibble, and you've got a recipe for a truly obnoxious fluffy.

It's sad, really. Seems her owners are pretty responsible, but like a lot of doting fluffy fanatics they're more than a little treat-happy. While she was probably always on the hefty side, she would normally burn off the extra calories rampaging around her playroom or the fluffy run at the local park. Pregnancy changed that, restricting her movement and pushing her blood pressure into the danger zone. Between the crash weight gain and the zooming BP, she was in real trouble when they brought her in.

Hence the special kibble: low sodium, high fibre, fat-free, sugar-free... and to judge from her reaction, taste-free. She hates it, but she can't go back to her regular garbage before the babies are out and her body reverts to what passes for normal. If she does, her little fluffy heart is apt to explode, probably while straining to eject the bloodstained pebbles that were all she could crap out when she arrived. (The kibble also helps to fix that, which is something of a mixed blessing.)

"Now then, Cerise," you say patiently, "we've been over this. Sweets and biscuits would make you a very sick fluffy. You don't want to be all poorly-sick. Your babies would be poorly-sick too. You want to be a fit healthy mummah, don't you?"

"Wan hewfy!"

"Then you have to have eat your kibble like a good girl."

"NuuuuUUU! SWEEEEETIIIIES!" The chalkboard screech drills through your brain. They medicate to prevent fluffsplosion these days; you briefly wonder if the vet would make an exception for Cerise.

Shaking your head, you go to take care of your other charges. Most of the fluffies are now griping about the "bad woud poni," and some are genuinely upset. You really have to do something. You just don't know what.

She can't play with her toys because she can't move her legs. Other fluffies would help her, but she can't go in the group pens because she tries to bite the other fluffies and screams insults until they cry. She screams at you if you try to pet her. Eating was the only fun activity she had left; and you just can't give her any of the treats she craves. For some reason, she rejects the soft fruit that the ponies normally go mad for. All she wants is junk food and "sketties". All you want is to hold her head in the sink until the bubbles stop coming up.

The PonyCare centre has a "garden", a fenced area seeded with fast-growing grass and made fluffy-safe. In summer you'd consider just setting her cage out there and closing the door, but it's too cold and wet at this time of year. The isolation rooms are strictly for quarantined or severely ill ponies, not bratty ones. Sedatives would be bad for the babies. You hate the idea of muzzling her (or at least of anyone seeing that you'd muzzled her) but it's starting to look like your only option.

"SEHWEEZ HATE KIBBEW! SEHWEEZ HATE HOOMIN! GIF SWEETIES AN BIKKITS OW SEHWEEZ GONNA WUN WAY!"

You turn back to the cage. "You'll what?"

"SEHWEEZ GONNA WUN WAY!"

This is probably a stock threat that she uses on her owners; she's got no way of grasping how ridiculous it is under the current circumstances. You shouldn't laugh.

"SEWEEZ GONNA GO WUNNY WEGGIES!"

"You're going to go 'runny leggies', are you?"

Laughing would be mean. You jam your tongue into your cheek.

"YEH, WUNNY WEGGIES! GONNA WUN MIWES AN MIWES AN MIWES WAY! DUMMEH HOOMIN NEFEW CATCH!" She blows a long, juicy raspberry.

Something snaps.

"Go on then," you say. You lift her from her cage and put her on the floor, positioning her so she's facing the door to the euphemistic garden. You know it's evil, but you can't stop yourself: you hold the door open and motion as if shooing her through it. "Go on, off you go, then. Let's see you run away!"

Cerise boggles at you briefly, then assumes a smug I'll-show-you expression. She begins to paddle her legs. Unfortunately, she's so big around from her babies (and her junk food addiction) that all four limbs are sticking out horizontally from her body, lost up to the hooves in bloat and fluff. All "running" achieves is making her rock in place. If anything, her body creeps a few millimetres backwards. She realizes this.

"Dummeh weggies," she snaps, "yu go wunny! Sehweez wunnin way!" Her brow furrows, she screws up her face in determination, puts her head down and begins to paddle her stumpy hooves again. She makes a loud "Hnngg! Hnngg! Hnnngggg!" noise, flailing her limbs even more violently than before. This, of course, does nothing.

PonyCare has rules about videoing or photographing the fluffies, but this is too freaking good. You whip out your phone and start recording.

"Come on," you say. "Runny leggies!"

There's a pause while she gasps for breath. Then: "HNNNNNNGGGG!"

This time, she's flailing so violently that she actually does move: somehow, the motion of her leg muscles is causing her to pivot round in a circle. Because she's got her eyes screwed tightly shut, she has no idea this is happening. She's HNNNGGed through two and a half complete revolutions before opening her eyes and looking around. She's in exactly the same spot, but now she's facing the wrong way. "Whewe doow go? Whewe weggies take doow?"

You stuff your sleeve into your mouth to stifle your giggles as she shouts: "GIF BACK DOOW! DUMMEH WEGGIES! DUMMEH WEGGIES PUT... DOOW... BACK!... PUT... DOOW... wan... put... wun... doow... sketties... weggies... huh... huh...huhh..."

She quiets down as her breath runs out, screams giving way to panting. Then she starts to weep silently, shoulders hitching with exhausted sobs.

Feeling a little guilty, you shut off your phone and pick her up. For once she doesn't struggle, shit, call you a dummy or try to bite you. Instead, she snuggles against your chest and whispers "Huggies?" You pet her for a while before putting her back in her cage, making sure she's within reach of her bottle. Between quiet sobs, she sucks down about a gallon of water; even if she didn't get anywhere, her "run" has evidently taken it out of her. Within a few seconds of finishing her drink, she's hiccuped herself to sleep.

Hmm.

You wait till one of the staff members with fluffy medical training arrives, and buttonhole her by the coffee machine. You describe the issue with Cerise, just about managing to keep a straight face as you describe her fruitless struggle to "go wunny weggies".

"...But after that, she seemed to calm down," you conclude. "I was actually able to put her in with a couple of the others so she could play ball and stuff." You leave out your sense of mild disappointment when she didn't antagonize the other fluffies into throwing her a labour-inducing hoof party.

Your colleague nods. "Interesting. You could be onto something. Let me talk to the vet — it could be dangerous to let her do that too much, but if it's safe..." she leaves the sentence hanging in the air.

If it's safe, no more screaming brat-bubble. No more time wasted calming (and cleaning) distressed room-mates. No more fighting the urge to drop-kick her into the Infectious Waste bin.

"Thanks, Nancy," you say gratefully.

Since you haven't specifically been told it's _not_ safe, you park the fluffy by the door a couple more times during the morning and "accidentally" leave it ajar. Sure enough, when Cerise thinks you aren't watching, she mutters "Sehweez wun way!" before flailing and grunting until her strength gives out. She's still unusually quiet and calm when the afternoon feed rolls around. She grouses about her food, but doesn't scream for forbidden treats or attempt to supplement her rations with your fingers. She wolfs down her kibble, then asks: "Sehweez finish aww dah kibbew. Pway wif dah othew fwuffies nao, pweeze?"

Please? You didn't know the word was in her vocabulary.

"All right, Cerise, but you have to be kind to the other fluffies. I don't want you making the cry. No biting and no saying mean things, okay? Promise to play nicely?"

"Otay. Sehweez pwomise."

You lift her into the group pen and put the ball in front of her so she can bop it with her muzzle. She rolls it to one of the other fluffies; he rolls the ball back, and she burbles happily as she nose-bops it to a third. Then she beams up at you. "Wuv pway! Fankoo, nice mistah! Wuv nicey hoomin!" she coos, before going back to her game of noseball.

You're still getting over the shock when Nancy walks in, smiling. "Doc says she should be fine. Her blood pressure is actually down from yesterday. There's a very slim chance 'running' like that could trigger an early labour, but she's far enough along that it wouldn't make much difference."

Perfect. You get to drain the screaming monster's batteries or have her pop her foals and check out early. She gets to not be hung up by her tail and used as a speedball. Win-win.

But when you set her in front of the door again, she doesn't move. "Not going to run away, Cerise?" you ask innocently.

"Dummeh weggies nu wowk," she says sullenly. "Nu can wun way."

Dammit. Maybe she's got a date with the medical disposal service after all. Unless you can find a way to get her "running" again...

The following morning, you bring in your laptop. You set everything up so Cerise is facing the screen.

"Nu wan dummeh teebee," she snaps reflexively.

"It's not TV," you respond. "It's much better. Do you like games, Cerise?"

She perks up and wriggles. "Sehweez WUV GAMES!" she bellows.

"Well, this is a special game just for fluffy mummahs. It's called, uh... "Mummah Race." See, you have to go runny-leggies as hard as you can, and if you're fast enough, you win the game. Ready?"

"WEADY!"

You hit play. The "game" is just a video of a country lane passing between pleasant scenery — the kind of thing treadmill joggers use to stave off boredom. The fluffy has absolutely no influence on the video, but she doesn't know that. Her stumpy legs begin to flail.

"Faster, Cerise," you urge her. "Runny leggies! Come on!" The hooves waggle faster and faster and she pants for breath.

At around the fifteen minute mark, you've spliced in a clip from a real game: a shot of animated fluffy ponies celebrating in front of a brightly-coloured banner. After a quarter-hour of ludicrous flailing, the flagging Cerise squeals with joy as the cheering fluffies pop up to shout "Yay! Yu win! Fwuffy is a winnah! Yayyy!"

"Seh... weez... win!" she gasps happily.

_Yep, you won our star prize!_ you think. _Not getting punted into a pile of medical waste and thrown in the incinerator!_

"You sure did," you say aloud, scratching her ears.

For the rest of the pink fluffy's confinement, you set up "Mummah Race" for her a few times a day. It's a calmer, happier Cerise who finally pops out a litter of three healthy foals. She's soon cleared to take her babies home. From your experience of infant fluffies, exercise won't be a problem for the next few months. She'll need all that energy and then some.

It was close, but Cerise and your job have both survived. You just hope your boss never finds out about that video.

***