bad-poopies foal hugbox huggies text


Lucky Fluffy

Chapter Three - Lucky

Lucky. I’ll call him Lucky, I mused, watching the tiny foal wriggling about and peeping. I’d properly set up the safe area with the plastic fence, and was spending a happy few minutes feeding the little guy warm formula milk with a dropper. As per some advice I’d seen on a forum, I’d made him a cosy little next in a Chinese takeaway box (Which to be honest, dwarfed him) filled with shredded paper. I handled him with utmost care, since ‘chirpies’ (Obviously named due to their incessant peeping and chirping) are very delicate. After he seemed satisfied, I put down the dropper, and kept watching him. Lucky wriggled and squirmed around in his bed. It didn’t seem the bed I’d made could replace his mother, as he let out distressed-sounding peeps constantly. I brushed him carefully with my finger, causing a long chirp as he snuggled against it. I stroked his miniature wings, and he even licked my finger when I touched his muzzle. His little tail wagged contentedly as he fell asleep. This interaction repeated about five times that day, as he slept most of it. As he slept, I read fluffy forums, studied, and relaxed, but I always kept being distracted by him. This was pretty much my routine for the next few days.
Lucky snuggled into his nest, peeping for his mother. A series of images and emotions flashed through his mind: Mummeh, miwkies, huggies. He crawled, chirping and crying for milk, bumping into the corners of his bed. Suddenly, he felt a warm presence, and pulled himself towards it, peeping and nuzzling it. He suckled, and warm milk filled his belly. He then rolled over, and settled amongst the shredded paper. After a while, he defecated and urinated, the smell making him wrinkled his nose, as he crawled into a corner that smelled of paper. Then, he slept, dreaming only of milk, and huggies. This simple lifestyle continued, although he of course had little concept of days passing. One day, he was able to pull himself over the rim of the bed, spending the night on the cold plastic mat, desperately peeping for his mother, making a mess. After that night, he would sometimes be whooshed out of his warm bed, which scared him, to be prodded and poked, which made him giggle and roll around. He explored his safe area, gleefully rubbing his nose against the new smells and textures. When he was put back to bed, it smelled good again, and was extra comfortable, and he’d fall asleep quickly.
The first few days of caring for Lucky for some of the happiest I’d had for a while. Watching him grow larger, eventually being able to explore his shelter, gave me a sense of achievement in raising him. As per the guide, I began to feed him more milk less regularly. One day, at the end of the week I woke up in the morning to see that Lucky had opened his eyes. They were a nutty brown, and he’d already crawled out of bed, trotting around his pen taking it all in. When he saw me for the first time he squealed and rubbed his nose on my leg, nuzzling it. I gently picked him up, stroking him and feeding him. From then on, he’d greet me with a series of excited peeps. I spent hours watching him sleep and playing with him, rolling a small ball around for him to chase. I also began something I’d been nervous about: training. I purchased a litter box and litter, and encourage him to defecate in it by placing him there mid-poop. This was my first time training a fluffy, and I was loathe to punish him when he failed to use the litter tray. However, that would change. In the next week, I had to attend classes. I knew that he didn’t like to be alone (I’d even leave the room to make dinner, and come back to him crying in his bed) but it wasn’t like I could do anything about it other than purchase a small stuffed toy, supposed to ease the separation anxiety. On the twelfth day of caring for him, I came back from university, exhausted and frustrated from the day’s work, only to find that Lucky had totally regressed in his litter training, and had shit all over his pen. Angry, I exclaimed ‘bad poopies’, andflicked him hard on the snout, knocking him backwards and making him shriek with pain. I immediately regretted it, cursing myself for losing my temper, but I waited a few minutes before comforting him to reinforce the training. I only had to do this a few more times before the training sank in, and by the twentieth day, he was consistently making ‘good poopies’, probably due to my unending praise and petting of him when he crapped in the litter box. By this time, I think he was about three inches long, and his chirps were almost forming words. He was turning into an affectionate little fluffy, and despite being a runt was developing well.
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Fluffnut: I like it so far. Minor suggestion: Break it up into paragraphs, so it's not just a big wall of text. Otherwise, it's interesting, and I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes.

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PeanutButterJellenheimer: AAA this is legitimately adorable and I love it.
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sadbag: Three inches long at three weeks?! Wow, that's quite a runt. Most mice are bigger than that. Of course you think of a full grown fluffy as being only a foot long, while I've always imagined them being the length of a cat but wider and a bit taller. Other than headcanon details, I really like this series so far. Keep up the good work!