Fun Games to Play with your Dog

I grew up in Connecticut and loved wandering around the snowy forests with my dog, Ashley (yes, that's her in the picture). She was my biggest fan and would follow me anywhere. And she was also a complete sucker.

At the age of 9, I had already whet my appetite for the power that comes from manipulating others' emotions. One of my favorite wintertime games was to go deep into the woods with my dog, stagger, fall into a snow bank and play dead. Ashley would quietly sit by me for a few moments, then anxiously nuzzle me. No response. Her nuzzling would become more frantic and small whimpers eventually rise. But nothing could revive me. Ashley would proceed to get truly upset and frantically dash about moaning trying to think up some solution to the Dead Master dilemma. When I could no longer stand the bite of the enveloping snowbank, I'd leap up and surprise her with my unanticipated vivacity. At this point she was mostly confused but ecstatic, nonetheless, to see me on my feet.

I pulled this prank on her countless times. Eventually, poor Ashley developed a tolerance to it and the amount of time I had to lie still in the snow lengthened until the game was no longer worth playing. But it was vital proof to me at an early age that someone would mourn if I died. As manipulative and gratuitous as the game was, it shaped the way I thought about life and death and placated many of my early fears about my life's impact.

At 27, I constantly think about how the world would or wouldn't be affected if I died. How many people would honestly be shaken? Would some simply be quietly relieved? Who would be at the burial? Would they cry or had they just come for the funeral potatoes? But I also ask these same questions about the people around me. How will their death affect me? Impact is an important consideration in my life.

My religion takes care of the essential questions about the afterlife, so I'm not anxious about my fate, just my reverberations. It must be similar to how a composer feels when he debuts a symphony in a concert hall. The piece winds on and on, through various movements and tempos but the audience doesn't even dare cough until the final chord has stilled in the hall. Then in the silence the conductor turns to face the audience and is greeted by...raucous applause? Deafening silence? A standing ovation? A scattering of clapping that dies when he dismounts his pedestal? For most people, there is no way to gauge your lasting effect on the world until you've passed on. Everything you do builds up until that final moment and you've got to hope you didn't mess up some chord in the last phrase to sour everyone's appreciation of your work.

And yes, I wonder about these things because I'm narcissistic. But tell me you aren't. Tell me you could care less whether your death is greeted with silence or applause. I've been thinking about this a lot lately because of the news story I posted a few weeks ago about the man who died and nobody even noticed for 4 years. I really don't want to be that guy.

Which is why the game I played in the snow with Ashley was so totally satisfying. You can't in good faith feign death to your friends and family just to gauge their reaction. But I'm not above animal testing so Ashley gave me some hope that I would be clapped for. Or at least nuzzled.