The Recent Paterfamilias wants to know: Do you believe in ghosts? In spirits? In hauntings? In certain indescribable paranormal activities?
Well…do you, dear friend? Do you?
More specifically, dear friend: Do you believe in haunted toys?
There have been no shortage of bad Hollywood movies about toys under the influence of the supernatural. But this, the following, is a related tale of alleged ghostliness and general creepiness (if you, dear friend, happen to believe in that sort of thing).
But please, allow me to explain.
Recently, there was a particular talking, light-em-up, singing, interactive child’s toy shaped like a dog. She was a girl dog. This toy girl dog was a hot item last year ‘round Xmas time (but we got ours before all the rush and the hullabaloo). This toy dog does and says things that one might expect such dogs to do and say: she sings “Itsy bitsy spider,” the alphabet, “This little piggy,” amongst others; she says “I love you!”, “Peek-a-boo. I see you,” “You got my toes!” and et cetera; her red heart lights up, she says you grabbed her ear when you grab her ear, she giggles when you press a finger into her labeled “Tummy,” and on she goes like that, for as long as you’d like to play.
Well…a film-crew-friend of the wife the R.P. got this same dog (before the rush) for his own daughter, the younger of his two kids.
This same toy did and said the same things, just as she was supposed to.
This same toy sat on her place on the shelf, just as she was supposed to.
And this same toy, when this same loyal father stuck his head in at night, to check on his younger daughter, would start spouting, without prompting, “Peek-a-boo. I see you.”
And, “You’re my friend!”
And, “Soooo big!”
And, “I love you!”
All when she should have been seated in her own stupid spot on her own stupid shelf with her own stupid mouth shut.
This same father’s other daughter has since made him get rid of the damn toy dog (the elder daughter had had similar “conversations” of her own).
So…all this begs the question: Should the Recent Paterfamilias keep his own chipper yet creepy dog around the apartment, all the while waiting for the aforesaid inanimate object to self-animate herself? Or should he, the R.P., run out and get a heavy burlap sack and some clothesline and a bag of quick drying cement and take my own creepily quiet toy dog and sink her in the Hudson River?
I am truly curious as to what I should…Wait…That’s strange…It’s almost as if—
“You got my toes!”
“Peek-a-boo. I see you.”