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The Little Stuffed Gray Fox
What happens to our toys when we grow up?
The idea came to me while looking through an antique shop, and seeing on the shelves various stuffed animals that likely belonged to little children. Or were childhood mementoes.
I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a comment to tell me what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
My siblings and I came from a factory. A big factory without windows, full of bored, gray adults who didn’t smile as they played with us. My earliest memory was of a tired young woman inspecting our fur and sewing before placing us back on conveyer belts. From there, me, my brothers, and sisters were placed in boxes and taken to a great store.
It was a beautiful, splendid place as tall and as wide as a castle, with colorful decorations everywhere, impressive aisles, and a toy department filled with magical playthings any child would wish to live in. Among the toys could be found action figures, girl dolls, building blocks, bicycles, tricycles, electric pets, boardgames, puzzles, gadgets, gizmos and whatchamacallits.
One aisle could be found, its shelves filled to the brim with stuffed toys. Lions, tigers, wolves, bears, cats, dogs, and two types of foxes—red and gray. My siblings and I were the latter, sitting beside our magenta cousins.
The day we arrived was so exciting! None of us could move, but plenty of us spoke to each other. We could only speak to each other and with the other toys. Some of them could be mean, like the action figures and girl dolls, but the other stuffed animals that came from other factories were very friendly.
Every day, we watched little kids visit the toy department. Every day, we always cheered as little kids would take us off the shelves, sometimes begging their parents to let them have us to play. Sometimes, they would say ‘yes’, and place us in their shopping carts. Other times, they would say ‘no’, and tell the children to place us back on the shelf.
One day, a father grabbed me off the shelf. He bought me along with diapers, a new blanket, and bottles of baby formula. He took all three of us to a large house in a sea of houses, far away from the department store. Up on a tall staircase, in a corner bedroom, he placed me inside a beautiful crib, which held a happy baby boy. The father and mother named him Timmy.
From that first day forward, Timmy loved me. Whenever he didn’t hug me close as he slept to keep the nightmares away, he would play games. He would make me the hero and other stuffed toys the villain. We all embraced our roles with as much love as we felt for him. Timmy never strayed far, taking me outside, playing with us inside, bringing me to his preschool and later to show-and-tell during kindergarten.
Over time, he played with us less and less, but loved us, nevertheless. On his eighth birthday though, Timmy stopped playing. At least, with me. As a birthday present, his parents had gotten the young boy a new toy, a better toy, made of metal and glass the size of his head, and as flat as a picture book. It could do everything for Timmy. It loved him, entertained him, comforted him at night, and told him fantastical stories. In time, he was even allowed to bring it for show-and-tell.
One day, the father and mother decided to redecorate their son’s room. They stuffed me and the other toys into a small box, scrawling something onto the cardboard before carrying us downstairs into the dark basement. Inside the box, within the darkness and mold, we waited for Timmy to realize we were gone. He loved us, didn’t he? He loved me, right?
Years passed by. Christmases became birthdays. Winter drifted back from spring and back again. Footsteps and conversations from overhead would leak down the stairs, or through the floorboards. Either Timmy or his parents would come downstairs to switch out decorations for the holidays, but we stayed forgotten. I could do nothing but wait for my boy, my owner. In time, I wondered if Timmy even remembered me. Did he miss holding me in his tiny arms? Did he yearn to cuddle me to his chest underneath a warm blanket? Did he grow bored of me?
One day, a new set of eyes peeked into the box. They belonged to Timmy. Only he was older, much older. Almost as tall as his father. At first, joy filled my stuffing and electrified my fur at the thought of playing with him, but instead of seeing nostalgia behind his eyes, Timmy didn’t seem to recognize me. He didn’t recognize his other toys either. Nevertheless, he grabbed the box with both hands and carried us upstairs, past the greatly changed living room and into a car. The joy I felt soon transformed into dread as he brought the box into a wide building.
The words said ‘antique’ and ‘mall’. According to Timmy, he brought ‘vintage toys’, some of which were in ‘mint condition’. While the other toys had grown listless and uncaring over the years, I tried asking what was going on. Yet I could only watch as the antique mall’s owner, a frowning, uninterested old man, handed Timmy a small stack of money.
My owner then walked out the door, never turning back and never to be seen again. I didn’t think a little stuffed gray fox would have a heart to break, but I was wrong. Very wrong.
Years passed by over and over. No longer bound inside the cardboard box, I was placed randomly on an old shelf with other items. None of them were toys, however. Plenty of people visited, but none of them stayed entranced on me for long. They wanted furniture, knickknacks, signed tomes, outdated electronics, ancient VHS tapes, gadgets, gizmos, and whatchamacallits from another time, but not ‘vintage toys’ like me.
Sometimes, I came close to finding a new owner to love me. Such as one day, when I was picked up by tiny hands. They belonged to an excitable child, a little girl. She clutched me in her fingers and showed me to her mother, asking if she could buy me. As much as hope swelled in my stuffing, she ultimately said ‘no’ to the little girl, telling her I was old and dirty, and placed me on top of the shelf. In time, I rarely changed position on that shelf, and dust would sometimes cover my fur, turning the silvery gray ashen. In time, I worried the antique mall’s owner would discard me to the trash.
Luckily, that day never came. One sunny morning, a young man came down aisle. He wore a t-shirt with a pawprint on it, smiling with magnificent eyes that sparkled at the sight of me. Gently, he pulled me up from the shelf to examine me. He petted my fur free of dust, marveling at me like a lost treasure found.
The young man’s name was John. He took me to the owner, paid in full, and carried me to where he parked. Before driving down the road, he pulled me from the plastic bag and placed me on his lap. Then, he guided his car home.
During the ride, I wondered if he had a son or daughter. Would they love me too, like Timmy did? Would they abandon me too, like Timmy did? Much to my shock though, we didn’t venture to the sea of houses. Instead, the man carried me inside an apartment, and into a room filled with toys. Stuffed toys, all of them gray foxes like me! A decorated shelf of them held these stuffed foxes, some of them old and plenty new. Large gray foxes, small gray foxes, old and young, silver and gold. Artwork hung from the walls as well, and in the opposite corner beyond an adult bed, I spotted a costume too.
John playfully introduced me to my new friends. He then cleaned me up and placed me among them and promised me I would love it there. I believed him.
He would also take me to places where people like him could hold me, pet me, and adore me. He wasn’t a child like Timmy and yet loved me like one. While he did possess more of these glass toys displaying impossible pictures and lights, he still found time to spend with me, sometimes placing me on his lap or beside him as he played.
Occasionally, on darkest days, I would also comfort John. Whatever troubled him at work or beyond his home, he’d hug me close. Even after finding another human to love him, to cuddle with him, he would hug me close or find the time to brush my fur clean of gathering dust. So did his husband. Sometimes, they did the same to the other stuffed foxes, who became my lifelong friends, as did the young man who made me learn to love again.
The idea came to me while looking through an antique shop, and seeing on the shelves various stuffed animals that likely belonged to little children. Or were childhood mementoes.
I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a comment to tell me what you think!
~*~*~*~*~
My siblings and I came from a factory. A big factory without windows, full of bored, gray adults who didn’t smile as they played with us. My earliest memory was of a tired young woman inspecting our fur and sewing before placing us back on conveyer belts. From there, me, my brothers, and sisters were placed in boxes and taken to a great store.
It was a beautiful, splendid place as tall and as wide as a castle, with colorful decorations everywhere, impressive aisles, and a toy department filled with magical playthings any child would wish to live in. Among the toys could be found action figures, girl dolls, building blocks, bicycles, tricycles, electric pets, boardgames, puzzles, gadgets, gizmos and whatchamacallits.
One aisle could be found, its shelves filled to the brim with stuffed toys. Lions, tigers, wolves, bears, cats, dogs, and two types of foxes—red and gray. My siblings and I were the latter, sitting beside our magenta cousins.
The day we arrived was so exciting! None of us could move, but plenty of us spoke to each other. We could only speak to each other and with the other toys. Some of them could be mean, like the action figures and girl dolls, but the other stuffed animals that came from other factories were very friendly.
Every day, we watched little kids visit the toy department. Every day, we always cheered as little kids would take us off the shelves, sometimes begging their parents to let them have us to play. Sometimes, they would say ‘yes’, and place us in their shopping carts. Other times, they would say ‘no’, and tell the children to place us back on the shelf.
One day, a father grabbed me off the shelf. He bought me along with diapers, a new blanket, and bottles of baby formula. He took all three of us to a large house in a sea of houses, far away from the department store. Up on a tall staircase, in a corner bedroom, he placed me inside a beautiful crib, which held a happy baby boy. The father and mother named him Timmy.
From that first day forward, Timmy loved me. Whenever he didn’t hug me close as he slept to keep the nightmares away, he would play games. He would make me the hero and other stuffed toys the villain. We all embraced our roles with as much love as we felt for him. Timmy never strayed far, taking me outside, playing with us inside, bringing me to his preschool and later to show-and-tell during kindergarten.
Over time, he played with us less and less, but loved us, nevertheless. On his eighth birthday though, Timmy stopped playing. At least, with me. As a birthday present, his parents had gotten the young boy a new toy, a better toy, made of metal and glass the size of his head, and as flat as a picture book. It could do everything for Timmy. It loved him, entertained him, comforted him at night, and told him fantastical stories. In time, he was even allowed to bring it for show-and-tell.
One day, the father and mother decided to redecorate their son’s room. They stuffed me and the other toys into a small box, scrawling something onto the cardboard before carrying us downstairs into the dark basement. Inside the box, within the darkness and mold, we waited for Timmy to realize we were gone. He loved us, didn’t he? He loved me, right?
Years passed by. Christmases became birthdays. Winter drifted back from spring and back again. Footsteps and conversations from overhead would leak down the stairs, or through the floorboards. Either Timmy or his parents would come downstairs to switch out decorations for the holidays, but we stayed forgotten. I could do nothing but wait for my boy, my owner. In time, I wondered if Timmy even remembered me. Did he miss holding me in his tiny arms? Did he yearn to cuddle me to his chest underneath a warm blanket? Did he grow bored of me?
One day, a new set of eyes peeked into the box. They belonged to Timmy. Only he was older, much older. Almost as tall as his father. At first, joy filled my stuffing and electrified my fur at the thought of playing with him, but instead of seeing nostalgia behind his eyes, Timmy didn’t seem to recognize me. He didn’t recognize his other toys either. Nevertheless, he grabbed the box with both hands and carried us upstairs, past the greatly changed living room and into a car. The joy I felt soon transformed into dread as he brought the box into a wide building.
The words said ‘antique’ and ‘mall’. According to Timmy, he brought ‘vintage toys’, some of which were in ‘mint condition’. While the other toys had grown listless and uncaring over the years, I tried asking what was going on. Yet I could only watch as the antique mall’s owner, a frowning, uninterested old man, handed Timmy a small stack of money.
My owner then walked out the door, never turning back and never to be seen again. I didn’t think a little stuffed gray fox would have a heart to break, but I was wrong. Very wrong.
Years passed by over and over. No longer bound inside the cardboard box, I was placed randomly on an old shelf with other items. None of them were toys, however. Plenty of people visited, but none of them stayed entranced on me for long. They wanted furniture, knickknacks, signed tomes, outdated electronics, ancient VHS tapes, gadgets, gizmos, and whatchamacallits from another time, but not ‘vintage toys’ like me.
Sometimes, I came close to finding a new owner to love me. Such as one day, when I was picked up by tiny hands. They belonged to an excitable child, a little girl. She clutched me in her fingers and showed me to her mother, asking if she could buy me. As much as hope swelled in my stuffing, she ultimately said ‘no’ to the little girl, telling her I was old and dirty, and placed me on top of the shelf. In time, I rarely changed position on that shelf, and dust would sometimes cover my fur, turning the silvery gray ashen. In time, I worried the antique mall’s owner would discard me to the trash.
Luckily, that day never came. One sunny morning, a young man came down aisle. He wore a t-shirt with a pawprint on it, smiling with magnificent eyes that sparkled at the sight of me. Gently, he pulled me up from the shelf to examine me. He petted my fur free of dust, marveling at me like a lost treasure found.
The young man’s name was John. He took me to the owner, paid in full, and carried me to where he parked. Before driving down the road, he pulled me from the plastic bag and placed me on his lap. Then, he guided his car home.
During the ride, I wondered if he had a son or daughter. Would they love me too, like Timmy did? Would they abandon me too, like Timmy did? Much to my shock though, we didn’t venture to the sea of houses. Instead, the man carried me inside an apartment, and into a room filled with toys. Stuffed toys, all of them gray foxes like me! A decorated shelf of them held these stuffed foxes, some of them old and plenty new. Large gray foxes, small gray foxes, old and young, silver and gold. Artwork hung from the walls as well, and in the opposite corner beyond an adult bed, I spotted a costume too.
John playfully introduced me to my new friends. He then cleaned me up and placed me among them and promised me I would love it there. I believed him.
He would also take me to places where people like him could hold me, pet me, and adore me. He wasn’t a child like Timmy and yet loved me like one. While he did possess more of these glass toys displaying impossible pictures and lights, he still found time to spend with me, sometimes placing me on his lap or beside him as he played.
Occasionally, on darkest days, I would also comfort John. Whatever troubled him at work or beyond his home, he’d hug me close. Even after finding another human to love him, to cuddle with him, he would hug me close or find the time to brush my fur clean of gathering dust. So did his husband. Sometimes, they did the same to the other stuffed foxes, who became my lifelong friends, as did the young man who made me learn to love again.
Category Story / All
Species Fox (Other)
Gender Male
Size 120 x 90px
Listed in Folders
Wonderful magical
Inanimatism with heart. It has been done and done well.
Inanimatism with heart. It has been done and done well.
Thank you so much. :) I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing this kind of story.
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