>Rainstorm
>There's thunder and lightning everywhere.
>Damn near tropical storm status.
>Some days when it's lightly raining you like to sit by a window and read a book, maybe have some tea.
>Like a gentleman.
>But it's already dark out, and it's not really a pleasant downpour.
>More like the clouds exploding.
>So instead you're in your bed, snuggling with your beloved little fluffy buddy, Boomer.
>His yellow-orange fluff stands out against your light blue sheets.
>He's laying there, shaking a little bit.
>He doesn't like lightning.
>Strangely, the thunder, no matter how loud it is, or how badly it shakes the house, doesn't bother him a bit.
>But a flash of lightning always gets a reaction out of him.
>He lies there, shaking and occasionally moaning and trying to hug his tummy.
>He ate a less than fresh bell pepper today, and his stomach has been aching since dinner.
>Freaking Mexican grocery store produce. It's the farmer's market from now on.
>Not much that can be done now but comfort him until the pain passes.
>Fluffies are so small and have such low tolerance, that most pain medicine is too strong for them, even if you use only a small piece.
>He once drank some of your tea you had left out, and the tiny caffiene buzz was enough to send the little guy up a wall (almost literally) for the rest of the day.
>This isn't his first tummyache, so he knows from experience to tell you immediately if he feels like he's about to throw up or poop.
>You've moved his poopy box next to the bed for such emergencies.
>Until that happens, you hold him close and gently rub his side fluff. He purrs softly.
>Lightning flash.
>”Eeeee! Scawwy wight!”
>Boomer startes shaking more and puts his tiny hooves over his eyes as best he can.
>Ka-BOOM goes the thunder.
>Not a single fluffy fuck given, but he's still upset over the lightning.
>You pull him to your face and nuzzle his fur to calm him down.
>He had a bath earlier, so his fluff smells pillowy fresh.
>Thank God someone took the effort to make fluffy-safe cleaning products.
>Boomer calms down a little and looks up at you.
>”Daddy, tummy feew funny. Make mouf yukky!”
>You immediately pick him up and roll over to drop him in his poopy box.
>Timing is perfect, as Boomer vomits into the box.
>A aesthetic mix of fluffy bile and the half-digested rice and pepper meal he ate for dinner that has made its displeasure known is now decorating his box.
>Better the box than your bed.
>”You feel a little better, buddy?”
>Boomer doesn't respond, but instead squints his eyes and squats down.
>Another flash of lightning, and Boomer yelps. The sudden scare opens the rectal floodgates.
>He spews diarrhea all over the box, a veritable torrent of brown lava mixed with flecks of half-digested rice and pepper. Again. His digestive system clearly hated the meal as much as the meal hated it.
>”Feew betta, Daddy. Tummy no huwt as much.”
>You get up out of bed and carry Boomer to the bathroom.
>You put him in the sink and wash the vomit off his face.
>You then turn him around and rinse the shit still stuck to his back fluff.
>If he's gonna be on your bed, he's not going to funk it up.
>”Boomer cowd! Wawa not wawm.”
>”I know, it's just a quick rinse. No need to use hot water for that.”
>You dry him off with his little fluffy towel and carry him back to the bedroom.
>You drop him on the bed and take the poopy box out to empty it.
>Still raining like a motherfucker out there.
>Fuck that noise. You shovel the shit and puke-stained litter into the kitchen garbage and spray some Febreeze.
>You put the box back where it was next to the bed and get back on, your back to the mattress.
>Boomer jumps on top of you and climbs up to your stomache.
>”Boomer cwimb mowntan! Am best fwuffy cwimbew eva!”
>You guys watched a show about mountain climbing earlier. He thought it was the coolest damn thing.
>He has one hoof pushing into your belly button, which kinda feels funny. You'd normally make him get off, but he looks so triumphant up there.
>Boomer jumps down anyway. I guess the triumphant don't like to rest on their laurels for too long.
>”You sure your tummy feels better, Boomer?”
>”Tummy stiww huwt a wittwe, but no mo big owies.”
>More lightning. Boomer squeaks, and runs to hug you.
>”Scawwy wight! Why scawwy wight? No wan!”
>You put him on your chest and pet him as he lies down and listens to your heartbeat.
>He's right. It's a pretty bad storm. You haven't seen a storm this bad since.....
>Well, since the night Boomer was born....
 
(TO BE CONTINUED)