Tonka and Roach

When I was three years old I lived in a communal setting with my parents and a group of their friends, all college students, all crashing out in a small shack in what was then the Pomona Desert.  I was the only child among the group and thus spent a great deal of time with the “adults”.

I remember being impressed and awed by all that they knew and all that they could do.  They were big and strong, they always had answers and they never needed naps.  They could drive to Sams Big Boy and buy burgers and French fries, and they could take me to drive in movies where I got to see Fantasia and Pinocchio and Dumbo. Adults also had fireworks, and that Fourth of July they lit the desert in mystical phosphorescent glows.

That summer, along with the fireworks, they also got two junkyard dogs.  These were mongrel beasts, built like barrels, with torn ears, broken teeth and satanic milky eyes.  Their names were Tonka and Roach.

One hot sandy afternoon I noticed that Tonka was chewing on a bone, and that Roach had none.  So, in the spirit of fairness, I went over to the two dogs, took the bone out of Tonka’s mouth and gave it to Roach.

Tonka, of course, wasn’t too pleased with this, but otherwise just sat there and stared, first at me, then at the bone in Roaches mouth, then back at me.  After what I felt to be a suitable amount of time I took the bone away from Roach and gave it back to Tonka.  Back and forth went the bone, with me in the middle getting drooled on and occasionally growled at.

Finally I noticed that the adults were coming.  They were upset and afraid.  They were afraid to come to close.  They were afraid to startle the two massive beasts that could rip me apart in less than a second.  They were afraid and lost and unsure what to do…

I saw the adults in a new light that day.  They were no longer the mighty gods of my youth.  In that moment they became human, and mortal, and very very small…