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Da Gweat God Badpoopie, Part 1

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 1
>The fluffy pony thing is still fairly new.
>The first wave has passed, a few generations have been born, the prices are coming down, and they’re starting to show up at animal shelters.
>Your own brother, who lives one state over, adopts one from a shelter.
>He tells you how wonderful fluffies are, how cute and cuddly.
>You want to see for yourself, someday.
>All you’ve seen are some on TV, and a couple locally, at a distance.
>They sound pretty annoying, actually.
>One day your brother calls.
>He’s going overseas for three weeks to open a new plant for his company.
>Would you please please please watch Bruno for me?
>Bruno? The fluffy?
>Yup.
>Two days later he drives in.
>He told you about the concept of a “safe room”, and you’ve done your best, clearing out the spare bedroom and removing everything supposedly dangerous.
>Bruno is an earth pony, the color of brick, with an umber mane and green eyes.
>Very cute.
>Your brother brings in a big box with pony chow, his food and water bowls, some toys, a basket bed, and a litterbox.
>He puts Bruno on the floor.
>”Bruno, this is uncle Anon. He’ll be taking care of you until daddy comes back, ok?”
>”Otay.” Bruno looks up at you and blinks.
>For some reason, you don’t think he gets it.
>Bruno begins to wander around and explore.
>”Now, Anon.” Your brother says, in a whisper, “I need you to understand something. I got Bruno from a shelter. I don’t think they treated him too nice, and I think his former owner neglected him.”
>You nod. You’ve heard some of the stories.
>”I never punish Bruno. Just talk to him. No hitting. No sorry stick, no sorry box or sorry room. Just talk. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”
>”What the hell is a sorry stick?”
>You hear a little squeak, and turn to find Bruno, standing a few feet away, trembling and looking at you with huge eyes.
>”S…sowwy stick?” He squeaks. “No sowwy stick. Pwease. Am good fwuffy.”
>Your brother looks pissed.
>”Don’t even say it, okay? If you need to know, look online. Now, are you sure you understand?”
>”Yes.”
>He leaves you alone with Bruno and drives off.
>Bruno has apparently forgotten about the sorry stick already, because he’s running in circles by the dining room table.
>”You new daddy?” He asks.
>Good grief.
>”No. Daddy will be back in a few weeks.”
>Bruno looks at you blankly.
“Can have nummies now? Bwuno hungwy.”
>* * *
>The first few days go pretty smoothly.
>It’s actually fun to play with Bruno, for awhile.
>He knows how to fetch a ball.
>He can roll around on top of it and then fall over, leggies wiggling in the air as he tries to flip back over.
>He has legos and can put them together, kind of, but it’s hard without opposable thumbs.
>But…
>You figured he’d be like a normal pet.
>Play with it for awhile, then it gets bored or sleepy or just wants to be left alone.
>Not Bruno.
>Bruno is like a hyperactive, emotionally needy toddler with a short attention span and separation anxiety, 24/7.
>Always hungry.
>Always demands treats.
>Always wants to play, the same damn games, over and over.
>Always wants to watch his videos on TV (the same DVDs over and over and over).
>Always demanding hugs, and always running in front of you and between your legs.
>Always running around and knocking things over.
>Worst of all, he only seems to get to his litterbox about half the time.
>He’ll get so wound up he’ll forget to make poopies and then, when you hug him or pick him up, out they come.
>You never knew something so small could shit so much.
>You can’t just put him in the saferoom, either.
>If he’s not ready to sleep he whines and cries and bucks at the door.
>You have a small house, one floor, and there’s no place to get away from the noise.
>”Wan’ pway!” He’ll scream, or “Wan’ huggies! Wan’ sketties! Wan’ cawtoons!”
>Quite a set of lungs for such a little fluffball.
>He’ll yell it over and over and over, for hours if necessary, until you finally give up.
>And you always do.
>* * *
>After the first week, your nerves are badly frayed.
>Two more weeks to go!
>You e-mail your brother.
>You tell him what Bruno does and ask him for guidance.
>He’s too busy to reply at length, but just kind of blows it off and tells you some BS about how being a parent / uncle is tough.
>You can hear him laughing in the ether.
>Bruno can’t understand that you need down time.
>He thinks that since you’re home, that means work is over and you can play.
>You try to tell him you need peace and quiet.
>He doesn’t get it.
>Nor does he get the concept of alone time, or quiet time, or anything else except all-Bruno time, all the time.
>You look online.
>You try some of the games suggested on fluffy pony sites, like the “Quiet Game”, or playing “Hide and Seek” and then just not seeking the pony for an hour or two.
>None of this works with Bruno, though. He either gets bored after three minutes, or forgets what he’s doing and wanders back.
>You’re beginning to understand why his first owner didn’t treat him well.
>But you’re stronger, you think.
>As much as you want to whack the little shit, or stuff him in a box and stash him in your car trunk, you promised your brother.
>* * *
>A few more days pass.
>Your resolve is cracking.
>Bruno is dominating your life.
>”Pway now! Nummies now! Oopsie, sowwy Bwuno bwoke dat. Cawtoons now! Hugs now! Oopsie, make bad poopie! Sowwy!”
>He’s up ‘til midnight, most nights, and cries whenever you put him in the safe room.
>Gets frustrated and bucks the door.
>Every morning, no matter how early you’re up, and how quietly you move, he wakes up and starts demanding “Foodies, pwease!”
>You work a couple of part-time jobs outside the house, all you can get in the shitty economy.
>You figure out that when you’re gone, Bruno just sleeps then and waits for you to come home.
>That’s why he’s always awake and always bugging you.
>Your crappy jobs with your stupid co-workers are becoming a haven of sorts.
>”Pway! Nummies! Wegos unda sofa, get pwease! DVD, pwease! Oopsie, bad poopie!”
>Zero. Down. Time.
>You fantasize about backhanding the little shit off the table, watching him bounce on the hard floor and cry.
>You fantasize about holding his head under water at bath time.
>You even fantasize about ripping his stupid leggies off one by one and shoving them down his throat, then shoving his twitching corpse in the garbage.
>You think you could come up with a good story for your brother.
>But you’re not a sick bastard, so you’d never do that for real.
>But you’re coming to the end of your rope.
>One day, you finally do.
>It begins with your brother e-mailing to say he’s going to be away another two weeks.
>You thought you were close to the end, now suddenly you’re back to halfway…
>The one place you can find just a little peace and quiet is the front room.
>This is where you keep your collection.
>It started ten years ago when your cousin came back from a trip to Bali with a carved wooden mask.
>It’s colorful and freaky and cool.
>He got it as kind of a joke, thinking it was tacky, but you put it up on your wall.
>One of your friends gave you another.
>Then your mom, thinking you now collected this stuff, found some African masks at a thrift store.
>Your brother went to the Pacific Northwest and got you some examples from there.
>When you got out of college and traveled, you got more yourself, including some Noh masks from Japan.
>It’s become a good little hobby.
>Your front room is full of masks, totem poles, and other such objects from cultures around the world.
>Bruno doesn’t like them.
>”Dis woom scawy.” He always says. “No wike. Why haf scawy face on waww?”
>You try and tell him that you’re interested in them, how they’re art, how they represent cultures.
>He just stares blankly at you, not getting any of it.
>”No wike.” He whines. “Pway?”
>Today, you’re sitting in there with your laptop, trying desperately to work.
>Among the other things you do to make ends meet is write a column for the local monthly entertainment paper.
>Thanks to Bruno, you’re a week behind and have to get this in the can by tonight.
>You fed Bruno, but it only keeps the fat little bastard occupied for about five minutes.
>He comes waddling in, and the room buys you an extra two seconds of peace as the little terror looks around nervously at the masks.
>”Pway?”
>”Not now, Bruno.”
>”Pway!”
>”Bruno, I have to finish this. I’ll play with you later.”
>”Nuuuu! Pway now! Pway!”
>”No, Bruno!”
>He whines.
>You ignore him.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”
>You grit your teeth.
>Bruno marches to and fro, then starts to scamper.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”
>Your eyes bulge a bit.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!” He runs in circles, his voice increasing in volume and pitch.
>Your hands are shaking over the keyboard.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!” Bruno screams at the top of his little lungs.
>He starts to buck, wildly, spinning around like a little dervish and lashing out with his marshmallow hooves.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”
>You’ve reached your boiling point, but you refuse to give in.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!” He shrieks.
>Bruno spins and bucks faster yet, a little blur.
>Every “Pway!” cuts through your aching skull like a sliver of white-hot metal.
>You leap up.
>You’re one microsecond from doing something you’ll regret forever when Bruno kicks over a large Balinese mask on a stand on the floor.
>The noise scares him, and he immediately stops.
>At least he doesn’t shit.
>He stares at the mask, eyes wide.
>In that instant, a plan flashes into your head, fully-formed.
>Evil. Devious.
>BRILLIANT!
>You gasp loudly, clapping your hands to your face, eyes wide with shock.
>Bruno, already startled, knows that he did something REALLY bad this time.
>”Sowwy.” Bruno squeaks. He turns to the mask. “Sowwy, mista munsta.”
>”Oh MY GOD!” You scream.
>Bruno whirls back to you, gibbering.
>”Wat?”
>“Bruno…” You say softly, backing away. “Do you know who that is?”
>“Who dat? Munsta?” He turns in place, looking around worriedly.
>You dash over to the fallen mask and gently pick it up.
>One of the ears has broken off. Easy fix later, and perfect for now.
>You point to the damage.
>”You gave owwies to the Great God Badpoopie!”
>Bruno blinks. “Da… Gweat God Badpoopie? Who dat?”
>”Don’t you know? He gives curses to bad fluffies!”
>Bruno’s lip quivers, and tears form in his eyes.
>”B…but Bwuno not bad fwuffy. Bwuno good fwuffy…”
>”You’re not a good fluffy! Great God Badpoopie is angry at you!”
>Bruno starts to cry.
>Salve for your soul.
>”B…b…Bwuno not mean t’ gib owwies.” He blubbers. “Bwuno sowwy.”
>He quakes in fear and tries to wipe his tears with his little fluffy hooves.
>You grab Bruno by the scruff of the neck.
>He shrieks in terror.
>Plop him on the table.
>”Don’t move!” You say. “I’ll try to help, but I have to see if you have the curse, okay?”
>”O…otay.” Bruno blubbers.
>You go into the kitchen to get something.
>Come back, and Bruno is quivering, tears rolling off his cheeks.
>You get down at eye level, very close.
>”Look into my eyes.”
>Behind him, where he can’t see, your hands are doing something else.
>”Bwuno haf cuwse?” He blubbers, and you almost feel sorry for him.
>Almost.
>You suddenly blow, hard, into his nostrils.
>He squeaks in surprise and backs up, into your hands.
>Like a pickpocket, you’ve distracted him while one of your fingers finds its target.
>Bruno’s little fluffy asshole.
>Your fingers are coated with the tabasco sauce you got from the kitchen.
>You stand up, grab Bruno, put him on the floor.
>”I think you’re okay, little buddy.”
>”Weawy?”
>You smile.
>Bruno’s eyes go wide.
>His tail goes up.
>”P…poopie howe…”
>”What? What did you say?”
>Bruno begins to turn in circles.
>”Poopie pwace! Poopie pwace buwnin’! Owwies!”
>He spins faster and faster, trying to reach his own asshole.
>Nope.
>He rolls and bucks and thrashes on the floor, screaming and crying.
>Little bastard is too fat to reach his own bunghole.
>”Poopie pwace owwies! Buwnin’! Buwnin’! Pwease hewp!”
>You shake your head. “As I feared. It’s the curse of Badpoopie.”
>”No wike! No wike!” Bruno shrieks, bucking and spinning, tears flying off and spattering the floor. “No wan’ cuwse! Hewp!”
>”Sorry, Bruno. You were a bad fluffy. You just have to take your medicine.” You pick him up, carry him to the saferoom.
>”Bwuno not bad! Hewp, pwease!”
>“The curse will go away soon. Meanwhile, think about what you did!”
>You toss him, a little roughly, in the saferoom.
>”Nuuu! No weave fwuffy! Pwease!”
>Slam the door in his face and walk away, grinning.
>You sit and write your article, still distracted by Bruno’s cries of “Owwie!” and “Poopie pwace buwnin’!” and the muffled sound of fluffy bouncing off the walls.
>But it’s a good, satisfying kind of distraction.
>Next morning, you open the saferoom door.
>Bruno is sitting in his litterbox, looking miserable.
>Dried blood crusted on his nostrils; he must have conked himself.
>He looks up at you, eyes red.
>”Poopie pwace stiww huwt. Make poopies is owwie.” He sulks.
TO BE CONTINUED…

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Da Gweat God Badpoopie
Part 1

>The fluffy pony thing is still fairly new.
>The first wave has passed, a few generations have been born, the prices are coming down, and they’re starting to show up at animal shelters.
>Your own brother, who lives one state over, adopts one from a shelter.
>He tells you how wonderful fluffies are, how cute and cuddly.
>You want to see for yourself, someday.
>All you’ve seen are some on TV, and a couple locally, at a distance.  
>They sound pretty annoying, actually.
>One day your brother calls.
>He’s going overseas for three weeks to open a new plant for his company.
>Would you please please please watch Bruno for me?
>Bruno?  The fluffy?
>Yup.
>Two days later he drives in.
>He told you about the concept of a “safe room”, and you’ve done your best, clearing out the spare bedroom and removing everything supposedly dangerous.
>Bruno is an earth pony, the color of brick, with an umber mane and green eyes.
>Very cute.
>Your brother brings in a big box with pony chow, his food and water bowls, some toys, a basket bed, and a litterbox.
>He puts Bruno on the floor.
>”Bruno, this is uncle Anon.  He’ll be taking care of you until daddy comes back, ok?”
>”Otay.”  Bruno looks up at you and blinks.  
>For some reason, you don’t think he gets it.
>Bruno begins to wander around and explore.
>”Now, Anon.”  Your brother says, in a whisper, “I need you to understand something.  I got Bruno from a shelter.  I don’t think they treated him too nice, and I think his former owner neglected him.”
>You nod.  You’ve heard some of the stories.
>”I never punish Bruno.  Just talk to him.  No hitting.  No sorry stick, no sorry box or sorry room.  Just talk.  Can you promise me you’ll do that?”
>”What the hell is a sorry stick?”
>You hear a little squeak, and turn to find Bruno, standing a few feet away, trembling and looking at you with huge eyes.
>”S…sowwy stick?”  He squeaks.  “No sowwy stick.  Pwease.  Am good fwuffy.”
>Your brother looks pissed.
>”Don’t even say it, okay?  If you need to know, look online.  Now, are you sure you understand?”
>”Yes.”  
>He leaves you alone with Bruno and drives off.
>Bruno has apparently forgotten about the sorry stick already, because he’s running in circles by the dining room table.  
>”You new daddy?”  He asks.
>Good grief.
>”No.  Daddy will be back in a few weeks.”
>Bruno looks at you blankly.  
“Can have nummies now?  Bwuno hungwy.”
>* * *
>The first few days go pretty smoothly.
>It’s actually fun to play with Bruno, for awhile.
>He knows how to fetch a ball.
>He can roll around on top of it and then fall over, leggies wiggling in the air as he tries to flip back over.
>He has legos and can put them together, kind of, but it’s hard without opposable thumbs.
>But…
>You figured he’d be like a normal pet.
>Play with it for awhile, then it gets bored or sleepy or just wants to be left alone.
>Not Bruno.
>Bruno is like a hyperactive, emotionally needy toddler with a short attention span and separation anxiety, 24/7.
>Always hungry.
>Always demands treats.
>Always wants to play, the same damn games, over and over.
>Always wants to watch his videos on TV (the same DVDs over and over and over).
>Always demanding hugs, and always running in front of you and between your legs.
>Always running around and knocking things over.
>Worst of all, he only seems to get to his litterbox about half the time.
>He’ll get so wound up he’ll forget to make poopies and then, when you hug him or pick him up, out they come.
>You never knew something so small could shit so much.
>You can’t just put him in the saferoom, either.  
>If he’s not ready to sleep he whines and cries and bucks at the door.
>You have a small house, one floor, and there’s no place to get away from the noise.  
>”Wan’ pway!”  He’ll scream, or “Wan’ huggies!  Wan’ sketties!  Wan’ cawtoons!”
>Quite a set of lungs for such a little fluffball.
>He’ll yell it over and over and over, for hours if necessary, until you finally give up.
>And you always do.
>* * *
>After the first week, your nerves are badly frayed.
>Two more weeks to go!
>You e-mail your brother.
>You tell him what Bruno does and ask him for guidance.
>He’s too busy to reply at length, but just kind of blows it off and tells you some BS about how being a parent / uncle is tough.
>You can hear him laughing in the ether.
>Bruno can’t understand that you need down time.
>He thinks that since you’re home, that means work is over and you can play.
>You try to tell him you need peace and quiet.
>He doesn’t get it.
>Nor does he get the concept of alone time, or quiet time, or anything else except all-Bruno time, all the time.
>You look online.
>You try some of the games suggested on fluffy pony sites, like the “Quiet Game”, or playing “Hide and Seek” and then just not seeking the pony for an hour or two.
>None of this works with Bruno, though.  He either gets bored after three minutes, or forgets what he’s doing and wanders back.
>You’re beginning to understand why his first owner didn’t treat him well.
>But you’re stronger, you think.  
>As much as you want to whack the little shit, or stuff him in a box and stash him in your car trunk, you promised your brother.
>* * *
>A few more days pass.
>Your resolve is cracking.
>Bruno is dominating your life.
>”Pway now!  Nummies now!  Oopsie, sowwy Bwuno bwoke dat.  Cawtoons now!  Hugs now!  Oopsie, make bad poopie!  Sowwy!”
>He’s up ‘til midnight, most nights, and cries whenever you put him in the safe room.
>Gets frustrated and bucks the door.
>Every morning, no matter how early you’re up, and how quietly you move, he wakes up and starts demanding “Foodies, pwease!”
>You work a couple of part-time jobs outside the house, all you can get in the shitty economy.
>You figure out that when you’re gone, Bruno just sleeps then and waits for you to come home.
>That’s why he’s always awake and always bugging you.
>Your crappy jobs with your stupid co-workers are becoming a haven of sorts.
>”Pway!  Nummies!  Wegos unda sofa, get pwease!  DVD, pwease!  Oopsie, bad poopie!” 
>Zero. Down. Time.
>You fantasize about backhanding the little shit off the table, watching him bounce on the hard floor and cry.
>You fantasize about holding his head under water at bath time.
>You even fantasize about ripping his stupid leggies off one by one and shoving them down his throat, then shoving his twitching corpse in the garbage.
>You think you could come up with a good story for your brother.
>But you’re not a sick bastard, so you’d never do that for real.
>But you’re coming to the end of your rope.
>One day, you finally do.
>It begins with your brother e-mailing to say he’s going to be away another two weeks.
>You thought you were close to the end, now suddenly you’re back to halfway…
>The one place you can find just a little peace and quiet is the front room.
>This is where you keep your collection.
>It started ten years ago when your cousin came back from a trip to Bali with a carved wooden mask.
>It’s colorful and freaky and cool.
>He got it as kind of a joke, thinking it was tacky, but you put it up on your wall.
>One of your friends gave you another.
>Then your mom, thinking you now collected this stuff, found some African masks at a thrift store.
>Your brother went to the Pacific Northwest and got you some examples from there.
>When you got out of college and traveled, you got more yourself, including some Noh masks from Japan.
>It’s become a good little hobby.
>Your front room is full of masks, totem poles, and other such objects from cultures around the world.
>Bruno doesn’t like them.
>”Dis woom scawy.”  He always says.  “No wike.  Why haf scawy face on waww?”
>You try and tell him that you’re interested in them, how they’re art, how they represent cultures.
>He just stares blankly at you, not getting any of it.
>”No wike.”  He whines.  “Pway?”
>Today, you’re sitting in there with your laptop, trying desperately to work.
>Among the other things you do to make ends meet is write a column for the local monthly entertainment paper.  
>Thanks to Bruno, you’re a week behind and have to get this in the can by tonight.
>You fed Bruno, but it only keeps the fat little bastard occupied for about five minutes.
>He comes waddling in, and the room buys you an extra two seconds of peace as the little terror looks around nervously at the masks.
>”Pway?”
>”Not now, Bruno.”
>”Pway!”
>”Bruno, I have to finish this.  I’ll play with you later.”
>”Nuuuu!  Pway now!  Pway!”
>”No, Bruno!”
>He whines.  
>You ignore him.
>”Pway!  Pway!  Pway!”
>You grit your teeth.
>Bruno marches to and fro, then starts to scamper.  
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”
>Your eyes bulge a bit.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”  He runs in circles, his voice increasing in volume and pitch.
>Your hands are shaking over the keyboard.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”  Bruno screams at the top of his little lungs.
>He starts to buck, wildly, spinning around like a little dervish and lashing out with his marshmallow hooves.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”
>You’ve reached your boiling point, but you refuse to give in.
>”Pway! Pway! Pway!”  He shrieks.
>Bruno spins and bucks faster yet, a little blur.
>Every “Pway!” cuts through your aching skull like a sliver of white-hot metal.
>You leap up.  
>You’re one microsecond from doing something you’ll regret forever when Bruno kicks over a large Balinese mask on a stand on the floor.
>The noise scares him, and he immediately stops.
>At least he doesn’t shit.
>He stares at the mask, eyes wide.
>In that instant, a plan flashes into your head, fully-formed.
>Evil.  Devious.
>BRILLIANT!
>You gasp loudly, clapping your hands to your face, eyes wide with shock.
>Bruno, already startled, knows that he did something REALLY bad this time.
>”Sowwy.”  Bruno squeaks.  He turns to the mask.  “Sowwy, mista munsta.”
>”Oh MY GOD!”  You scream.
>Bruno whirls back to you, gibbering.
>”Wat?”
>“Bruno…”  You say softly, backing away.  “Do you know who that is?”
>“Who dat?  Munsta?”  He turns in place, looking around worriedly.
>You dash over to the fallen mask and gently pick it up.  
>One of the ears has broken off.  Easy fix later, and perfect for now.
>You point to the damage.
>”You gave owwies to the Great God Badpoopie!”
>Bruno blinks.  “Da… Gweat God Badpoopie?  Who dat?”
>”Don’t you know?  He gives curses to bad fluffies!”
>Bruno’s lip quivers, and tears form in his eyes.  
>”B…but Bwuno not bad fwuffy.  Bwuno good fwuffy…”
>”You’re not a good fluffy!  Great God Badpoopie is angry at you!” 
>Bruno starts to cry.
>Salve for your soul.
>”B…b…Bwuno not mean t’ gib owwies.”  He blubbers.  “Bwuno sowwy.” 
>He quakes in fear and tries to wipe his tears with his little fluffy hooves.
>You grab Bruno by the scruff of the neck.
>He shrieks in terror.
>Plop him on the table.
>”Don’t move!”  You say.  “I’ll try to help, but I have to see if you have the curse, okay?”
>”O…otay.” Bruno blubbers.
>You go into the kitchen to get something.
>Come back, and Bruno is quivering, tears rolling off his cheeks.
>You get down at eye level, very close.
>”Look into my eyes.”
>Behind him, where he can’t see, your hands are doing something else.
>”Bwuno haf cuwse?” He blubbers, and you almost feel sorry for him.
>Almost.
>You suddenly blow, hard, into his nostrils.
>He squeaks in surprise and backs up, into your hands.
>Like a pickpocket, you’ve distracted him while one of your fingers finds its target.
>Bruno’s little fluffy asshole.
>Your fingers are coated with the tabasco sauce you got from the kitchen.
>You stand up, grab Bruno, put him on the floor.
>”I think you’re okay, little buddy.”
>”Weawy?”
>You smile.
>Bruno’s eyes go wide.
>His tail goes up.
>”P…poopie howe…”
>”What?  What did you say?”
>Bruno begins to turn in circles.  
>”Poopie pwace!  Poopie pwace buwnin’!  Owwies!”
>He spins faster and faster, trying to reach his own asshole.  
>Nope.
>He rolls and bucks and thrashes on the floor, screaming and crying.
>Little bastard is too fat to reach his own bunghole.
>”Poopie pwace owwies!  Buwnin’!  Buwnin’!  Pwease hewp!”
>You shake your head.  “As I feared.  It’s the curse of Badpoopie.”
>”No wike!  No wike!”  Bruno shrieks, bucking and spinning, tears flying off and spattering the floor.  “No wan’ cuwse!  Hewp!”
>”Sorry, Bruno.  You were a bad fluffy.  You just have to take your medicine.”  You pick him up, carry him to the saferoom.  
>”Bwuno not bad!  Hewp, pwease!”    
>“The curse will go away soon.  Meanwhile, think about what you did!”
>You toss him, a little roughly, in the saferoom.
>”Nuuu!  No weave fwuffy!  Pwease!”
>Slam the door in his face and walk away, grinning.
>You sit and write your article, still distracted by Bruno’s cries of “Owwie!” and “Poopie pwace buwnin’!” and the muffled sound of fluffy bouncing off the walls.
>But it’s a good, satisfying kind of distraction.
>Next morning, you open the saferoom door.
>Bruno is sitting in his litterbox, looking miserable.
>Dried blood crusted on his nostrils; he must have conked himself.
>He looks up at you, eyes red.
>”Poopie pwace stiww huwt.  Make poopies is owwie.”  He sulks.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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