My Little Scootaloo

     I told you I had a story to tell. Pretty fucked up, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s more or less how Scoot and I came to be. A lot of shit has happened since. I’m not some sappy emo twat who writes in a journal every day, nevertheless, here’s an update since the mood struck me.

     It’s been about three years since I found Scoot. I’ve never stopped abusing her, but I have accepted the fact that I need to perform some basic routines to care for her if I want her alive. Giving her food, that’s a big one, food and water. She’s so energetic that when I forget for a few days she starts to get pretty thin. Still, she never asks or reminds me. It’s one of her most pathetic qualities.

     I don’t know her exact birth date, and neither does she, so I’ve figured that she was roughly around eight years old when I found her on that cold February night. We consider that her birthday. I don’t give her much but usually on that day I refrain from any serious beatings or tirades and I buy her a cupcake or a donut or something. A simple proffered pastry can reduce her to tears of joy. I suppose because she knows no life other than constant rejection and derision at my hands these small gifts must seem like acts of adoration by comparison. I have to resist pounding her face in when she jumps up and hugs me tight just because I gave her a bloody muffin or something.

     She’s gotten big – she’s about a two feet in height and a good twenty pounds or so; not as easy to throw around anymore. Still, I manage.

     This morning I was laughing at her hysterically because she tripped over her own long, curly mane, faceplanting like a rockstar failing a stage dive. “Daddy I need a haircut,” she said.

     “Here’s ten bucks, run down to the barber shop,” I guffawed, tossing her a wadded-up bill. She lowered her head sadly. She does that a lot.

     “But I can’t…”

     “Damn right you can’t, unless you want to end up in some government lab on a dissection table.” She stared at me blankly. “Go cut your own damn mane,” I said finally.

     “You know I can’t,” she lamented again, her lip quivering. Goddamn I’m getting soft…something about that quivery lip thing jabs at my otherwise Scootaloo-proof heart.

     “Fine you little punk ass, go get me some scissors.” She trotted off happily to her room.

     Oh yeah, that’s another thing, we moved. I’m now the proud manager of my own liquor store and I make pretty damn decent money, not to mention what I save now that I get free booze. I moved from my old one bedroom apartment into a little condo with a nice living room slash kitchen area, and two bedrooms – one for me and one to house my ever growing collection of alcohol and junk – and a storage closet that functions as Scoot’s room when she wants some privacy and a place to keep her few treasured personal items. I’ve also got a garage, but no car. When Scootaloo pisses me off I make her sleep in there, that’s pretty much its only function.

     I’m no hair stylist but I’m enough of an artist that I would call Scootaloo’s haircut a success. I also clipped her tail, which had gotten so long it dragged on the ground even when she held it aloft. She regarded herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the corner of the living room, shaking her newly trimmed locks in delight and waggling her bum about, swishing her tail.

     “Thanks Daddy!” She galloped over to embrace me but I brushed her away. As usual she hung her head. “No hug?”

     “No hug. You’re covered in loose hair, go take a bath.” She could wash herself now, but it wasn’t always so. About three months after I’d found her I finally accepted that she was utterly filthy. I conceded that I had to teach her how to take a bath. It was an epic struggle – she thought I was trying to kill her, and frankly at certain times I was. Anyway now that she was roughly eleven years old she could do it herself, thank god. I wasn’t sure how many more times I could bathe her and resist the urge to drown her. She hobbled off to the bathroom. I passed out, cradling a handle of booze in my arms.

     When I awoke, Scoot, all fresh and clean, was lying next to me, a funny look on her face as she stared at the bottle.

     “Oooh no, this is my gin, punk,” I held my precious bottle like one might hold an infant, “none for you…not till you’re older. You’d just puke and piss yourself…again.” Her face turned red and she looked away. I’d never let her forget about her accidents, it’s another way to keep her in her place. Slowly, however, she turned back, looking at the bottle again.

     “Daddy”

     “Whaaaaat?”

     “Why don’t you ever hold me like that?”

     “Because you don’t get me drunk,” I laughed. She was jealous of a bottle! But hey, that’s the hierarchy of value in this house: Me, then the bottle, then pretty much everything else, then Scootaloo.

     “I could make you more happier than that dumb ol’ bottle!” she declared.

     “No, you make me angry, like when you use double comparatives! “More happier” is a grammatical mistake!” I bopped her on the head. As always she began to tear up. “You want to make me more happier? Stop crying, shut up, and make me a sandwich!”

     “I-I’m s-sorry…” she began to stutter, but I cut her off.

     “Ugh, at least stop your blubbering and watch the TV, Daddy needs his fucking sleepies!” Eager as ever to please, she practically sucked the tears back into her eyes and turned toward the TV with a stoic expression.

     “Make it go?” she glanced back at me after a moment. Spongebob – her favorite show - was still on pause from earlier. I took a swig of gin and handed her the remote, pointing out the ‘play’ button.

     “Do it yourself,” I told her, “I’m going to sleep, and if you wake me up, no dinner tonight.” She heard the finality of my tone and didn’t protest. I pretended to go to sleep, trying not to laugh as she struggled to operate the remote with her big clumsy hooves, poking it with her wings as well. Eventually, whether by practice or luck, she managed to hit the button. She was so concentrated on working the remote that when the TV finally came to life the sound startled her and she let out a little squeak. I chuckled quietly and finally passed out in earnest.

     I awoke in the afternoon to a loud crash and a pounding headache. Fortunately I had my gin; I took a massive gulp. The door to the porch was open and I knew exactly what had happened: she’d tried to fly again. She wasn’t trying to escape; lately she’d just wanted to learn to fly, but her busted up wings wouldn’t allow it. I waited. Sure enough about five minutes later there was a little hoof tap on the front door. I didn’t feel like getting up. I took another pull of gin and fell back asleep.

     I awoke all lit up. Apparently I’d had more to drink than I thought, either that or I’d been drinking in my sleep…it’s been known to happen. My stomach roiled and I ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out into the toilet. Too much gin.

     My head was foggy and pounding like a jackhammer. I stumbled over to the kitchen and opened the fridge, removing a bottle of barelywine. I smacked the cap off on the counter and downed the contents, the cool liquid quenching the fire in my stomach and soothing my headache. I looked at the clock…it was blurry but I could make out the time – 7:28. I had half an hour to get my head straight and go to work. As manager I had to supervise the night shift closely. Back when I just worked the register at the old liquor store I didn’t give a fuck if I sold to underage kids – I’d just get fired and the store would lose its liquor license. Now that I had a good job and a good income I didn’t want the graveyard guys fucking things up for me. I’d advised them under threat of firing their asses to card everyone, but they were lazy bastards just like I’d been, so unless I was around my store could be in danger. Hey, said the clearer half of my brain, where’s Scoot?

Oh, right.

     I opened the front door and there she lay, balled up and shivering in the cold, covered in twigs and sap, her muzzle and face all bloody, both eyes black and blue, one wing sticking out at an even more mawkward angle than usual. I prodded her with my foot and she moaned, her injured wing twitching. I bent down and grabbed her by her matted purple mane, dragging her inside. She left a trail of blood in her wake, far too much for just a bloody nose. Upon closer examination I found the source of the bleeding: it looked as though she’d landed on a sharp stick or rock and it had punched a hole in her flank. The wound wasn’t too deep - she’d be fine if I cleaned her up, but I had to get to work. I threw a towel on the couch and then laid her gently on it. She whined and buzzed her “good” wing. I hoped the blood wouldn’t soak through, but then again my futon is black so what did I really care. I found an old hoodie and covered her up so she wouldn’t freeze while I was gone. Her blackened right eye fluttered open; the pupil was dilated and the white was stained crimson from a burst capillary. She tried to open the other eye but it was swollen firmly shut. I just shook my head at her. “You can’t fly, why do you keep doing this?”

     Scoot began to cry, “But I want to fly!”

     “Well, too bad. If you hadn’t been a naughty pony and tried to fly away, your wings would still work. It’s your own fault. Now watch TV, Daddy has to go to work. I’ll patch your sorry ass up when I get back.” I turned to walk out the door but a little squeak stopped me.

     “Daddy?”

     “What?!”

     “I love you.”

     I felt funny.