Last year my daughters were fascinated by Native Americans, in particular Inuits and whatever the p.c. term for Eskimo is. They played Native Americans-usually by our fireplace and usually with every basket they could lay their hands on. For some reason, their play evolved into having a sled dog, and one of them, usually Lydia would be the dog.
One winter evening, Lydia was cruising around the main floor of our house on all fours, panting, not too much barking, because sled dogs don't bark a lot- duh!. Claire kept giving her all sorts of commands. Well, you can't call a sled dog "Lydia", so Claire came up with "the only Native American sounding name she could think of" for her faux canine companion. She called her "Roy".
"Roy, go get that fish jumping out of the river!"
"Roy, good boy!"
"Roy! Come back here!"
They were really into it and hardly broke character when Mr. T came home from work. Lydia sprang up and ran into his arms, yelling "Daddy!" Claire barely spoke to him, except for the obligatory "Hi! Yes, I had a good day at school..." Respecting their need to play without interference of grownups, Mr. T left them to their game and went into the kitchen. As he walked out of the room, he heard Claire say, very seriously, "Roy, don't talk to the White People."
Could you die?! Sometimes I think they are here on earth just to entertain me.