Zaza’s Toy Story

There they lie! The finest sculpted objects. A mere tail-length away.

You can’t see the eyes agleam with desire, but you can feel a pair of eyes trained on the objects of desire. You can’t see the movement, but you can sense the imperceptible quiver of excitement snaking along the skin. All you can see is the back of a scruffy-haired head. Unkempt black hair curls scattily along the back turned towards you. Even if you could see the eyes, you wouldn’t know the back-to-front difference. Two dark-brown eyes are easily lost on a coal-black face.

You lose track of how long that black back sits there motionless, watching, weighing, waiting. But when you catch the next scene, after interminable suspense, a black floor rug is closer to the objects – ecstatic yet guarded – one paw flung across them claiming ownership.

This continues. Until, eventually, the statue unfreezes, noses around, and snouts the objects of desire out of the protecting, containing basket. The barest flick of the head is all that acknowledges an exasperated yell from the background. A yell from the overworked, overwrought Numero Uno Folk (Female) who goes down on her knees every day, collecting all the objects from under furniture and behind plants to wash them and place them tidily in a basket for civilised play.

The closing scene is one of triumph. Triumph of fixation. Triumph of fierce obsession with certain possessions. No ball is safe. No squeezie with the smell of ownership is safe. No toy to which this coal-black canine has taken a fancy is safe …

Acknowledgement: this outline, being submitted to a reputed production house seeking scripts for its new thriller, has been inspired by a late night viewing while sharing Dad’s pillow of a creepy movie about an obsessed ghost.

Signed : Zaza (author)

Disclaimer: it might be pertinent to add what the author has left out. Considering that the above obsessed canine took a rather undignified spill and landed up under the basket, the said reputed production house in all probability will redirect the said submission to its inane comedy department.

Signed (with a snigger): Snuggles (author’s intellectual superior)


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