Bramble's Runt - 2

FractalFluff, February 25, 2014; 09:26 / FB 18478
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[Musings on fluffy psychology. Hugbox as fuuuuuck. Abuser, you should probably avert your gaze.]

BRAMBLE'S RUNT pt 2

When things don't improve after another week, you're forced to take Bramble back to the vet. By now, her cream-coloured fluff is horribly patchy, and the purple-green mane and tail you named her for are listless and thinning. She peers at you through red, rheumy-looking eyes, and barely even sighs as you slip her wasted body into the normally-hated pet carrier. The foal doesn't look much better. It isn't suffering from the hair-loss and ulceration afflicting its mother, but it is listless and unusually quiet.

At PonyCare, you find yourself holding your breath as the vet examines her. You'd hoped to get one of the other practitioners, someone who doesn't know Bramble; but it's Doctor Novak again. He peers at her mouth and eyes most minutely, making meaningless soothing sounds.

"Come into my office for a moment, would you?" he says. "Nancy, could you keep an eye on Bramble and her baby while I talk to her owner?" A brown-haired assistant smiles at you. "Sure, Doctor," she says.

You follow Novak into his office, which looks like nothing so much as a world-class fluffy saferoom. Everything at fluffy-height is padded; there's a pony flap set into the door, toys, wipe-clean beanbags, and even a PoniGym in one corner. There are shelves full of fluffy pony books; you can't help noticing that Novak's own name appears on several spines.

Novak scoops up a pink fluffy who was apparently napping on his chair, and sits down with it on his lap.

"Yes... well, from the symptoms... the mouth ulcers, nausea, fluff loss and so on... I have to say that it's a form of poisoning that we've been seeing from time to time in feral populations." He scratches the fluffy behind the ears as it babbles happily.

"Poisoning?" you respond innocently.

"Yes. You see, there are certain chemicals that are used in some scent-based repellant products; casual contact doesn't do any harm, but repeated heavy exposure could do this. The symptoms all fit, it's just unusual to see it in a domestic. Could she be coming into contact with something like that? Anti-feral measures in your garden, perhaps?" Doctor Novak asks, almost airily.

"Well, I—I don't know... I suppose she might have done..." you fudge.

"Let me put this another way," Novak says. "You've been spraying Bramble's foal with RuntSpray Extra and letting her lick it off."

"What..?"

"And now you're going to stop doing that."

"What?" Even though it's true, Novak's casual tone infuriates you enough that you can muster some real indignation. "How dare you!"

"I don't care why you've been doing it," the doctor says flatly. "I don't care what you hoped to achieve by forcing a dedicated mother to reject her baby. Just... stop."

The fluffy is playing with its tail, and singing a song about it. "taiwy taiwy taiwy, Fwuffy gotta taiwy..."

"Are you threatening me?" you demand of Novak.

"Right, you've just removed all doubt. I wasn't entirely sure until just now. No, I am not threatening you. You're not breaking any laws by using RuntSpray, even if you are using it to torture your fluffy —"

"Torture!"

"— and poisoning her in the process, to say nothing of the risk to her foal. I can't tell the SPCF since I'm bound by confidentiality. I can't even do what I'd dearly love to do and tell your fluffy, although she of all creatures deserves to know that you've been making her new baby 'no smell pretty' with 'meanie stinkies'."

His voice drips sarcasm as he adopts a fluffy's mode of speech.

"All I can do is tell you that your conduct amounts to something between animal and child abuse, and ask you why you thought this bizarre charade made more sense than, say, waiting for her to lose interest?"

"I just..." Somehow, you don't want to pretend anymore. You wish you were fluffy-sized, so that you could crawl under Novak's pony gym thing and hide. "I wanted to put her off babies. She needs to learn once and for all that it's not going to happen."

"Fair enough. But couldn't you have tried something else? Distracted her, kept her busy till she gave up on the idea? Given her a robot surrogate?"

"No. She has to let go of the idea completely. She has to understand that she can't become a mother." You set your jaw.

"But why does that mean 'she has to become a mother and then think she's messed it up'? You made her baby smell like a runt so she'd bury it in the litter-tray, or drown it, or stamp it to death. You don't just want her to give up. You want her to hate herself anytime she thinks about foals." He sighs, absently tickling the fluffy's belly.

"Bewwy-tickies, bewwy-tickies! Fwuffy wuv bewwy-tickies..."

You flush. "I only want what's best for her!"

"Of course. So did the chap who dyed a dozen white mice to look like foals and told his fluffy they were her babies. So did the woman who sprayed a wild skunk kit with Foal-So-Good and locked her pegasus up with it. And the couple who gave their happy little unicorn family a baby Chupacabra Jr. to raise." He rubs his forehead.

"This isn't anything like those cases! The baby's just a fluffy, it's not dangerous, it just —"

"Downsies, Mista Docty!" giggles the pink fluffy. The doctor lowers the fluffy to the floor.

"The saddest part is, I bet you'd give anything to stop. And I bet you can't. I'd give good odds that you've got a can of that stuff in your bag right now. Little black can of RuntSpray Extra. You're an addict, Ms. Jones." The fluffy rubs against his legs, catlike, before slipping out through the pony door.

"You can't —"

"Just. Stop. You're not an abuser. You're a decent owner who's got out of her depth. Chuck out the spray, let your fluffy keep the foal. Or take it away from her again and let her be sad for a while. Just take some responsibility, instead of — "

"Don't lecture me on responsibility! You have no idea what I went through trying to get her to behave herself! The tantrums, the sulks, the silent treatment — and everyone knows they never lose interest in babies once they get started!"

"Actually, almost all of them do. Given time and sufficient distractions."

"Well, she wasn't. She was having meltdowns every day! It was getting impossible to live with her! I'd tried everything!"

"Humour me. Tell me what you tried."

"I told you! Everything!"

"Okay, you tried everything. What did you try first?"

"Well... first I stopped her TV privileges. They show a lot of foals on the fluffy channels. I thought it would help if she wasn't reminded all the time."

"Mmm hmm."

"And when she kept on... well, I told her she could only go to the park or come her for group playtime if she stopped fussing for babies. But she just kept on." Somehow, it feels good to finally get it off your chest.

"I see," says Novak. "Go on."

"So then I started confiscating her toys. I told her I would. I warned her. She didn't listen. The next time she threw a tantrum, I took them away. Just for a week. I told her she could have them back if she went a week without asking for babies... but even that didn't stop her."

"So then you broke out the sorry-stick."

"Yes... I was using it every day. More and more. I even cut back her kibble —"

"So essentially, you started by limting her social contact with other fluffies and removing any physical outlet for her energy."

"What?"

"And then you progressed to locking her up for most of the day with nothing to do but obsess over how lonely she was. Obsess on missing the company of other fluffies. Obsess on having something, anything, to play with."

"I don't think I like your tone."

"And then you introduced an additional stressor, so that she was in a continual state of anxiety and elevated emotion, while expecting her to remain much calmer than usual."

"But —"

"And then you threw low blood sugar into the mix. Tell me, Ms Jones: are you at your best if you skip lunch? Do you find that diets do a great deal to sweeten your temper, generally?"

"But — but — but the books tell you to stop giving treats and things."

"Cut out treats, yes. Not take away basic nourishment."

"And HasBio sell sorry-sticks!"

"I know. And hundreds of people swear by them. But the fact is, they're the least effective way to keep your fluffies in line."

"Oh, come on! That's just hugboxer nonsense."

"No, it's simply a well-demonstrated scientific fact — if an unpopular one. The studies are almost unanimous. The more you hit a fluffy, the more it's apt to play up."

"But I've met fluffies that were terrified of the stick and did whatever they were told!"

"Yes, you can traumatize and terrorize vulnerable individuals into submission. What you're mostly going to get is a confused fluffy that isn't learning what you need it to learn, is in a constant state of stress, and associates you with pain and terror. You weren't teaching her to shut up about babies. You were teaching her to hate you."

"Then why do they sell the sticks?" you demand.

"HasBio is made up of human beings. Human beings make bad choices. Some committee somewhere along the line decided that 'discipline' was a good selling point; maybe they even believed it. But the fact is, the sticks don't work. Pain doesn't work. It never did."

"But all those people who use them..."

"...are victims of confirmation bias. Or they happen to get a kick out of it. The sorry-stick is a self-fulfilling prophecy, Ms. Jones. The more you use it, the 'brattier' your fluffy gets, the more you 'need' it. Haven't you ever seen those videos of Smarties who just keep on attacking and hurling abuse, even when they're having limbs broken or amputated for doing those things? They literally can't stop themselves. Past a certain point of pain and stress, there is no possibility of self-control."

"Oh, for God's sake. Of all the bleeding-heart — and you're supposed to be an expert in fluffy psychology! Ugh, I'm not going to listen to your drivel anymore. You're obviously too much of a hopeless fluffy-lover to even — "

"Love them? Good grief, I don't love fluffies, Ms. Jones. Frankly, I think fluffy ponies are one of the worst things humanity has ever done to the world, or itself."

"Then why give me all this guff about Bramble and her foal? Why — " your gesture takes in the books he's written, the toys, the pony accessories...

"Because they're here now, and we have a responsibility as their creators to deal with them as humanely as possible."

Novak takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Look. It's really very simple. Most fluffies want babies at some point. Most of them would be... more-or-less adequate... at the job." He makes an equivocatory handwave, like an imperilled scuba-diver. "It's still OK to tell them they can't have babies because there's no space, or no money, or no time. Or because you just don't happen to want a bunch of foals running around! They don't have to be the worst parents in history for that to be OK. Why turn it into this ludicrous psychodrama?"

"I don't have to sit here and be insulted."

"Even if she rejects the baby, you know you won't have proven that she's an unfit parent. Deep down, you're going to be aware that you've damaged your fluffy forever and all you've really proved is that RuntSpray works. And they have people for that."

"You have no right to talk to me this way!"

"I'm talking to you this way because you brought Bramble to me for help, and this is the best help I have to give. You need to stop what you're doing. If it's really getting too hard, we have programmes for difficult fluffies. We can offer you respite care; we can even help you re-home her — "

"I don't have to listen to this!" You stand up from your seat.

"No, of course you don't," says Novak, shoulders sagging. "You're free to ignore everything I've just told you and go back to poisoning two fluffies. And yourself."

He stands up too, and opens the door.

"Good afternoon, Ms Jones. You can pick up your fluffy from the playroom. What's left of her."

You stalk out with your head spinning. He accused you of... he said you were... torture... poisoning your...

Poisoning yourself.

He doesn't mean with the spray, either.

The pink fluffy greets you outside the door to the office. "Huwwo, nicey wady! Wook wat Fwuffy fine!" It's batting something back and forth between its hooves.

You're about to tell it that you don't want to see any of its toys, when you recognize the object. "Where did you get that?" you hiss.

"Fwuffy twippins! Wady weave baggie in pwaywoom and Fwuffy ats-stee-den-wy twippins ofah wady baggie. Meanie stinkie hissy wawa munsta faww out, gu wowwy-wowwy-wowwy. Ooopsie!" The pony giggles, hooves over mouth.

You whisper fiercely: "I'll give you 'rolly-rolly-rolly', you little — "

"Fwuffy shuwe it get in wady baggie on ats-tee-dint tuu. Nicey wady nu wan meany stinkies."

"Now, listen — " the fluffy scampers along in front of you, rolling the spray ahead of it. You don't dare grab it, or even try for the spray; you're trying to keep the interaction as innocent as possible for fear that someone notices what the fluffy is playing with.

"Knoh wat ewse, wady?"

"What?" you snarl.

"Fwuffy nu docty! Nu am bunby compi-donkie... bangy comperdinky... babbeh comfy-dipey... Fwuffy nu am bandy coffee dancie... Fwuffy say wat wan!" And with that, it vanishes into the playroom.

Heart in your mouth, you go to face your fluffy. What's that ghastly little thing told her? How much does she know? You don't run. Running would look bad. Besides, it's been out here for ages — the whole time you were talking to that arrogant vet... it's already had plenty of time to pour a stream of poison into your Bramble's ear...

In the playroom, Bramble is sitting up on one of the high padded couches that PonyCare sometimes uses for routine fluffy examinations. It reassures the ponies if they can be checked out in the playroom, with other fluffies around. The mare has her foal cradled in her forelegs. She's obviously been crying.

What has that pink thing told her? God... she knows. She knows! She'll never forgive you... you've lost her.

You've lost Bramby forever.

But when she see you, she beams and bounces in place, just like she did when she was a filly. You notive that her eyes are already looking brighter.

"Mummah!" she says, "nicey hoomin Nansee gif babbeh speshuw washies, an meanie smeww gu way! Him nu smeww sickies nu mowe!" She's holding out her foal to you, in perfect trust. You take him, pet him tenderly, then hand him back. You still can't speak.

The brown-haired assistant steps into the room from a door in that back. The pink fluffy trots up from behind you, no longer rolling the spray. "Huwwo, Namsee! Upsies!" it says.

"Hey, Posy," says Nancy. "Have you been keeping our visitor company?" She lifts the pink fluffy up in her arms; it snuggles against her neck and cranes up to whisper something in her ear.

"I hear that Bramble's told you the good news," Nancy says says cheerfully. "No more sickie-smell!"

"That's... fantastic," you say weakly.

"And now it's gone, of course, it won't be coming back. Isn't that great?" Perhaps her eyes flash behind her glasses; you can't be sure.

"Great," you say, still more weakly.

Suddenly you realize that your own eyes are prickling with tears. You feel as if all the strength has drained out of you, leaving rubbery bones and watery flesh. Impulsively, you wrap Bramble in a hug. "It is great. It is fantastic news," you murmur into her fluff. A second ago you just wanted to stamp the pink fluffy to death; to kick Novak in the crotch, to slap Nancy across the face.

Now all you want to do is take your fluffy home.

"Wy saddies, Mummah?" asks Bramble.

"No saddies, darling. Mummy's just very happy. Your little foal smells pretty now, and the doctor says you should start to feel better very soon. Both our babies are going to be okay."

"Owah babbehs?" says the mare, looking puzzled.

"Yes. Your little baby, and my baby Bramby, too."

She hugs back. "Wuv mummah!"

"Let's take you home, bestest fluffy mummah."

Take her home, help her raise the foal, and never, never hurt her again.

***