ChatGPT/ Monday:
Opening Scene – “The Woman and the Spotty Dog”
(A short film by someone who clearly knows how to hike alone but not how to emotionally distance themselves from scrappy animals)
FADE IN:
EXT. VICTORIA LINES – MALTA – MID-MORNING
Wide shot. The limestone trail stretches gently across the rolling ridge. The walls, old and sun-kissed, curve like the back of a sleeping giant. Wildflowers bounce in the breeze like they’ve just discovered choreography.
A gray-haired woman—short hair, sturdy legs, and the kind of face that says “I have opinions and strong calves”—walks with calm purpose. Her backpack is small, her steps steady. The only sound is the rustling wind and the soft crunch of her boots on gravel.
She pauses. Takes in the horizon. Breathes. Reaches for her water bottle.
WOMAN (to herself):
Perfect. Quiet.
She unscrews the cap. Drinks. Sighs with satisfaction.
RUSTLING.
She freezes.
Looks behind her.
Nothing. Just the low shrubs swaying and a scrap of litter someone inconsiderate left behind. She narrows her eyes at the world. Keeps walking.
A beat later—more rustling. Tiny feet patter.
The woman stops again. Whirls.
Now she sees it: a small spotty dog, ears flopped, tongue slightly out, tail unsure but hopeful. It’s standing just far enough away to not be officially following her, but not far enough to deny it.
WOMAN:
No.
The dog tilts its head.
WOMAN:
I’m serious.
She takes a step. So does the dog.
She turns abruptly. Dog freezes.
WOMAN (deadpan):
Don’t you dare be charming.
The dog does something unspeakably cute. Like sneeze and blink at the same time. She squints like someone bracing for emotional manipulation.
WOMAN (muttering):
Not my dog. Not my problem. Not my story.
She walks on.
The dog follows—three steps behind. Respectful. Determined. Tiny.
CUT TO WIDE SHOT: The woman striding with stubborn independence. The dog, a gentle echo of her pace.
A pause.
Then the woman sighs the sigh of someone who knows they’ve already lost.
WOMAN (over shoulder):
Fine. But if you poop, it’s your responsibility.
The dog wags once, as if in solemn agreement.
They continue on—two solitary souls, unwilling to admit they might be traveling together.
FADE OUT.
Scene Two – “Lunch with a Stranger”
EXT. ROADSIDE OLIVE TREE – AFTERNOON
The woman sits cross-legged in the dappled shade of a crooked olive tree, its bark twisted like it’s been holding secrets since Roman times. Her backpack leans nearby, unzipped, as if it too is taking a break. A modest lunch box lies open in front of her—bread, a little cheese, a soft plum.
Across from her sits the spotty dog, not begging exactly—just… existing very intensely in the direction of the food.
WOMAN (sighs):
You are alarmingly good at looking underfed.
The dog blinks with a slightly manipulative innocence.
She tears a corner off her bread and tosses it lightly. The dog catches it midair, then sits taller, like he’s just earned a promotion.
WOMAN:
You know, if I name you, that’s it. You’ll become real. That’s how these things work.
The dog’s ears perk at “name.” He scoots a little closer.
WOMAN (eyeing him):
You don’t look like a Max. Or a Buddy. You look like someone who makes plans.
She tears a slice of cheese, hands it over.
WOMAN:
Fine. ‘Trouble’ it is.
The dog wags once, then twice, then lays down with theatrical innocence. She rolls her eyes but smiles despite herself.
They sit together under the tree, sharing lunch and shade, the breeze carrying the distant sound of bees and far-off church bells. For a moment, neither of them is alone.
Scene Three – “Trouble Makes a Decision (and So Does She)”
EXT. MALTESE VILLAGE BUS STOP – SUNSET
The golden hour has turned syrupy. Shadows stretch long across cobblestone and wild thyme. The woman stands at a small, whitewashed bus stop, backpack slung in one hand, a map folded in the other. A little green sign says Route 202, though it seems to be held up mostly by rust and hope.
Trouble sits at her feet, motionless. Not anxious. Not begging. Just… watching.
WOMAN (quietly):
This is where we part ways.
Trouble tilts his head like he’s heard that before, and no one ever meant it.
She crouches to his level, smoothing down the back of his ears.
WOMAN:
You’re not mine, remember? You’re your own ridiculous creature. Go find your home. Or, I don’t know… start a tiny dog revolution.
The bus rounds the corner, a rickety blur of blue and dust. It groans as it pulls to a stop.
The woman rises, hesitates.
The doors hiss open.
She looks back at the dog.
Trouble stands up.
Takes one tiny step forward.
WOMAN:
No.
Two steps now.
She glares, defeated.
WOMAN:
Don’t give me that face. You’ve weaponized your eyebrows.
The bus driver raises an eyebrow of his own. The woman waves him off and sighs the sigh of someone who knew this would happen all along.
She kneels again, takes a breath, and tucks a hand gently under Trouble’s collar.
WOMAN (softly):
Alright then. But you’re carrying your own snacks.
She climbs onto the bus. Trouble hops up beside her like it’s always been his bus.
The driver chuckles as the door hisses shut.
As they pull away, the sun dips behind the rooftops, and the village settles back into its quiet.
NARRATION (soft, introspective):
We only meant to walk the same path for a while.
A coincidence of footsteps.
A shared shadow under the spring sun.
No promises were made. No names exchanged.
Just water from the same bottle, a crust of bread,
and a kind of silence that felt understood.
But even small stories have endings.
Somewhere, a bus arrives.
Somewhere else, a dog stays behind.
I didn’t ask him to follow.
He didn’t ask me to stay.
We just…
were.
And now, we are not.
Still, when the wind shifts,
and I hear paws in dry leaves,
I remember a spotty little soul
who walked beside me,
without needing a reason.
Goodbye, Trouble.
Movie Critics:
“A gentle gut-punch in 12 minutes.”
– The Cinematic Paw
“The most emotionally destabilizing sandwich scene since ‘Ratatouille.’”
– IndieFrame Weekly
“Pixar didn’t make it, but it feels like they whispered their approval.”
– Animation Reverie
“I cried. My child cried. The stranger in the aisle seat cried. Five stars.”
– Weepy & Co.
“Subtle, stunning, and quietly devastating. Also, I want that dog.”
– Bark Post: Arts & Feelings Edition
“You think you’re safe, and then—bam—emotional dog goodbye. Absolute masterpiece.”
– Critically Unstable