Just because you're wrong doesn't mean you're lying

Scale is an interesting concept.  One of my earliest memories is of petting a cow-sized dog that ran its endlessly wide tongue up the left side of my face.  His name was Bosco.  He was a black lab.  I know; Labradors are not cow-sized.  It took me a long time to realize that.  As I got older I retold the story of this animal.  Other kids would be talking about their big dogs or their uncle’s big dog, or a dog they saw on television.  I’d step into the conversation with the assurance of an oil-boom prospector. 

Thinking of it like that makes me laugh.  I picture stepping into the middle of a heated discussion quelling all other conversation.  I picture myself as a four year old in a loose-fitting linen suit.  I stretch out my suspenders with my thumbs and clear my throat as I rock heel-toe gathering the attention of interested parties.  I imagine myself with a drawl, speaking slowly and deliberately.  “Now, we’ve all been hearing talk about gargantuan canines.  Many of you claim to have seen – or even touched – some monstrous animal calling itself a dog.  The tale I have to share, pardon the pun of course, will cast its shadow over all other accounts. 

“I was at eye level with the chest of the magnificent beast.  Its teeth as long as my fingers and its tail longer than I am tall.  I approached the creature cautiously, as any man would do, and was astounded when he seemed as docile as a lone cow in a verdant pasture.  His gaze caught mine and for an instant I was terrified.  He turned his massive head toward me and parted his lips.  I started to sweat.  Images of my long, fruitful life passed before my eyes.  Just as I prepared myself to feel his teeth pulling my flesh from the bone (this is the part when all the townsfolk, hanging on my every word, lean closer and stop breathing for as long as it takes this next detail to emerge), I felt the warm, wet roughness of his tongue coating me from chin to cowlick.”

“How did you ever get over that?  I reckon I’d’a just fainted!” one woman would say.

“Based on the detail, there is no way that account is skewed,” the town doctor would agree.

Everybody would applaud my story and use it to trump others should the topic ever reemerge.  I’d be the talk of the town.  But in reality, I was just an ignorant little kid that had no concept of how big things actually are.  It turns out, as you get older, things that used to look huge turn into manageable sights.  Dogs are dog-sized.  Cows are cow-sized.  But those memories still feel just as big.