If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to
man as it is: infinite.
Posts
and a big Aussie smile framed by soft, silky ears, bright eyes, and a shiny black nose. She was healthy, happy, and cute as the dickens. That first day, I fed her, petted her, and groomed her. Then I went about my business, doing classwork, making art, sending resumes, doing interviews, puttering about the house.,
Time passed - days, actually. My daughter emailed me that she'd dropped by to give Daisy a cuddle, and thought I should probably check on her. Yikes! Consumed by guilt, I raced to see her. She was in terrible shape by then - her status report said she was malnourished, in failing health, and - worst of all - heartbroken. Aghast, I petted her, then tried to get food, water, and health care. Tragically, I only had 10 puppy points, so could only buy water for her. There was only one option left - euthanasia. A few mouse clicks later, Daisy was a fading, furry memory.
I hope you've figured out by now that Daisy wasn't a real, physical Canine-American. She was an avatar puppy created in Pet Pupz, a FaceBook application. FB's applications include quite a few that are similar to this, but none that I've seen so far have been quite so guilt-inducing.
Since this blog is about perceptions and misperceptions (mine, since I know them better than anyone), I'm going to extrapolate from my own perception of this application and propose that the guilt built into Pet Pupz is deliberate, cynically playing on the Awwww factor conjured up by a sweet little puppy, aimed at keeping puppy parents coming back day after day to the site, generating for-profit traffic for the application owners.
To foster the initial misperception that the user is in control. Pet Pupz engineered my buy-in by having me select from an assortment of popular breeds, choose the puppy's gender, and name her. Psychologically, naming the pup establishes ownership and responsibility. Then, to fulfill my responsibility to feed and water Daisy, see to her health, and romp with her, multiple options in each of these three areas are made available.
But wait - there's a hitch! Just as in real life, food, dog toys, and veterinary care have costs. Unlike real life, only limited amounts of stroking, petting, tickling, and cuddling are available - one dose a day for free. And every day that I visit my puppy, I get 10 puppy points, which I can spend on the aforementioned food, toys, and care. But oops - 10 puppy points will buy a bowl of water, and nothing else. What's a parent to do?
PayPal to the rescue! I could buy additional puppy points, all for the joy of perceiving little Daisy in the pink of health, playful and happy as a puppy could be. And just to keep my guilt strings tuned, there was that helpful status report on her nutrition, health, and emotional well-being. Hmmm. Although I shamelessly spoil my real dog, Tucker, I draw the line at paying to care for an illusion.
There's also an insidious bit of misdirection associated with each of these FB applications. Below the top tab bar of the application, so that it appears to be part of the application, is a slug headlined (as of this writing) "You Have (5) Hate Letters. (2) people have a crush on you in Newport. (3) people hate you." To the right of this is a green button marked "Continue". How does it know I live in Newport? Because when I opted into Pet Pupz, I had to agree to allow the application to have access to my FaceBook information. Nice. Personalized insults!
But here's where that particular misperception got cleared up. Darn right I wanted to know who hates me! So I clicked on the green button, which opened a new Firefox tab. Yikes! The page was blacked out with a dire warning from my faithful browser guard, Web of Trust (WOT). "This site is dangerous!" said WOT sternly. Well, fools rush in - I had to check out the bear trap. I need to know who hates me! So I clicked "Go to site."
The entry page uses the same sort of user buy-in technique as the FaceBook app - it asks that you choose your gender, then enter your first name. The lure is that you will get to know who loves/hates you, if you just provide this necessary info. The final request - the key to that roster of lovers/haters - my cell phone number! I'm allergic to providing my phone numbers to strangers. So I cut and ran - or tried to - by closing the tab. An obnoxious popup did its best to keep me from leaving, endlessly recycling itself and refusing to close. I finally managed to get out, feeling like I needed a shower. When I checked out the comments posted on WOT, it turned out that entering a cell phone number on the site leads to monthly $9.99 billings to the phone account for "flirting tips." Evidently, it's harder to get rid of the billings than it is to get out of the website.
Aussie Shepherds don't have tails, but Daisy's tale has a couple of morals:
1. Watch what you click, or you could be stepping into a world of virtual poop.
2. Euthanizing an electronic pet is painless, unlike the real thing. All you have to lose is the guilt.
