>The experiment with Thumb went better than expected.
>The babies are healthy and taking to the conditioning well.
>They've weaned and started running around on their own, squeaking "Pway?"
>Super cute.
>But it's starting to bug you how often they ask for 'sketties' now that they're off milk.
>If someone programmed fluffies to love spaghetti to exclusion, he might have been an idiot.
>It's neither nutritionally balanced nor practical as a fixation for pets, or for herd populations.
>You think it must have been intended as a reward lever for training, which is why he set it as something only humans can make.
>It still bugs you, so you decide that word will be your next project.
>For nutrition science!
>You're curious how much inherited conditioning a fluffy brain can hold before burning out.
>You decide to use the trained foals themselves in the next stage, since Thumb already has a strong positive association built around 'sketties'.
>You get out the storage tub 'safe room' you used for the stud unicorn and transfer the foals to it as soon as they wean.
>The foals whine "Whewe mumma? Wan mumma!" for the first few nights.
>Thumb whines too.
>"Whewe behbies? Fum wan behbies, need wuv behbies!"
>You make sure to keep them mostly isolated from each other, for the integrity of the experiment.
>After a couple days they give up asking, seemingly satisfied at seeing each other during playtime.
 
>Trauma applied to one of the foals seemed to help impart the message to all the foals who saw it in the 'hug' experiment.
>You figure it's worth trying to train them all at once in the next stage.
>You feed and clean Thumb first, play with her a bit, and then put her away in the safe room again.
>After her complaining dies down, you crack the door and take a look at her.
>She's asleep... perfect.
>You close the door carry the foals into the living room, setting them down next to Thumb's toys.
>They chirp excitedly as they explore their new surroundings.
>Two are quite rambunctious, a pink unicorn filly and a green earth colt.
>You decide to call them Thing One and Thing Two to yourself, after the literary reference.
>The other brown earth colt is the slow learner that Thumb had to squeeze to keep him from asking for hugs.
>You privately name him Bonehead.
>Eventually, one foal's stomach starts to growl.
>It squeaks, "Fwuffy hung'y! Tummy owchie!"
>Ever the social creatures, the other foals start complaining sympathetically.
>"Fwuffy hung'y too!" "Wan foodies! Wan sketties!"
>Soon they're all loudly demanding 'sketties'.
>Here we go.
 
>Time to taste the first spaghetti of their little lives.
>You put some noodles on the boil and get out the sauce.
>Then you hunt around your kitchen for negative reinforcement.
>Something red and thick like marinara, but unpalatable.
>On top of the microwave, you notice the plastic takeout container packed with your neglected stockpile of fast food condiments.
>One kind stands out: Taco Bell Fire Sauce.
>Perfect.
>You carry the container over to the stove and empty the Fire Sauce packets into a pot sitting on a back burner, then lid it quickly.
>Pouring some marinara into another, you leave the lid off to mask the smell.
>The fluffies are bouncing around and pawing at your pant legs, chirping "When sketties?" and "Wan sketties! Hung'y!"
>You look down at them.
>"Soon."
 
>When the noodles are finished cooking you drain them through the colander.
>Then you mash them up so the foals won't choke and add them to the simmering marinara.
>You walk over and pick up the pony food bowls; the ponies are practically vibrating with excitement at this point.
>A portion of noodles and marinara goes into each bowl, then is joined by a healthy spoonful of hot Fire Sauce.
>Like, a REAL healthy spoonful.
>You stick your finger into one and taste the sauce you've concocted.
>It takes your entire composure not to retch in front of the ponies.
>They've crowded around your feet, so you gently nudge them aside and set the bowls down on the newspaper-covered feeding area.
>The ponies' little hooves crinkle the paper furiously as they try to push your hands out of the way to get at the food.
>You giggle as the fluff tickles you, then let go of the bowls and watch them carefully.
>They bury their little muzzles in the mess and take their first bites.
 
>"Yucky!" "No good!"
>The ponies are grimacing and spitting out the food.
>Thing One turns to you and squeaks, "Wan sketties! Dis yucky!"
>The others voice their agreement.
>You feign innocence.
>"But that IS spaghetti. It's what you wanted."
>She and Thing Two wear their doubt on their faces.
>Something must seem off, but... they have no frame of reference on what spaghetti actually is except for their vague programming and Thumb's word-of-mouth.
>Bonehead, meanwhile, has been encouraged by hearing the holy word.
>The stubborn little colt has made a valiant attempt and already forced almost half of his portion down by swallowing too fast to taste it.
 
>The other two are starting to work up their nerve to eat again based on his example.
>But he stops.
>"Fwuffy tummy... owies..."
>The others crowd around him sympathetically as he starts shaking and heaving.
>"Uuuuu..." he whimpers.
>Before she can get out of the way, Bonehead projectile vomits onto Thing One.
>Gobs of mashed noodle and sauce hit her right in the face.
>She squeaks and backs away from him as he continues to regurgitate chunky mess onto the newspaper.
>Then she starts screaming and rubbing her face against the floor, shitting herself in fear.
>God dammit, she must have opened her eyes and gotten sauce and stomach acid in them.
>You quickly scoop her up and pin her little hooves so she can't try to rub her face, transferring her to the sink.
>Pinching her nose and mouth closed, you put her under the faucet and turn on the water.
>She squeaks in indignation at the treatment and the cold water hitting her in the head.
>You turn the flow down and lift her up, still holding her mouth and nose closed, then rinse the corners of her eyes.
>You hold her nose down to her chest with your thumb and force her eyes open.
>She screams again as you drip water from your fingers into them and tries to struggle free.
>All the screaming has woken Thumb up.
>You can hear her pawing at the safe room door and crying, "Heaw behbie! Behbie huwt, need mumma! Stupid doow, wet Fum out!"
>You have no time to spare her and can only listen to her scratch the door and howl piteously.
 
>You set the now-cleaned fluffy filly down on a dry patch of newspaper, then pick up the sheet containing the vomit and shit.
>It slides out from under the bowls, folds up with the mess on the inside, and is pitched into the trash.
>Then you grab the other two fluffies, and wash them off under the faucet as well.
>By the time you've finished and set them back down, all three are crying softly with Thing One displaying a pair of very red eyes.
>Bonehead is still trying to eat the 'spaghetti', though his body keeps flinching in anticipated pain whenever he opens his mouth.
>Eventually he gets hold of some more, but can't wolf it down as enthusiastically as before.
>He gags and spits it back out.
>After a few more abortive attempts to eat, he waddles over to his siblings.
>A bit dumb, that one.
>"You guys don't want spaghetti anymore?" you ask.
>Thing One shivers, and Thing Two shakes his head violently.
>You pick up the bowls and empty them into the trash as well.
 
>Poor Thumb is still scratching the door and whimpering, probably terrified now that she can no longer hear the foals.
>You open the door of the safe room.
>Plane of Elemental Shit.
>Looks like she emptied herself in fear, then ran around once she was out of shit, tracking it everywhere.
>Thumb follows your gaze to the mess of poop she made and blenches.
>"Fum sowwy! Fum make bad poopies, Fum no mean! Sowwy!"
>Oh well.
>You give her a light swat on the nose and tell her you'll forgive her this time.
>Picking her up by her clean back fluff, you carry the squirming mare to the sink.
>You wash the crap off of her hooves and belly, then towel her dry as she strains to escape and jump down to the foals.
 
>Finally everyone's clean and you set Thumb down.
>"Why behbies cwyin?" she asks, as she turns them over with her nose to check for injuries.
>When no obvious injuries present themselves, she makes an obvious assumption.
>"Behbies hung'y? Need foodies?"
>She looks up at you and says, "Daddy, behbies need foodies! Sketties pwease?"
>The foals all cringe and whimper their dissent.
>"No... wan sketties. No wan!" opines Thing One.
>Thumb looks at her with disbelief.
>"Behbie no wan... sketties?"
>Bonehead breaks the silence that follows with a scream as his bowels choose that moment to pass what he hadn't vomited out earlier.
>"Poopie hot! Huwt bad! Huwt wike sketties! OWWW!"
>The other fluffies start crying again as Thumb looks on in panicked incomprehension.
>You press your fingertips together as you smile.