I was very young, certainly less than ten years old, when I first discovered Big Ox. I have not heard of him since, yet I have never forgotten him.

Big Ox, if memory serves, was a cousin of Big Moose—even larger, even dumber (this was back in the non-PC times when it was acceptable for Moose and his ilk to simply be stupid, not dyslexic or misunderstood) and even bullier. Ox was posed as a larger threat than Moose, if such a thing were possible.

Something about the existence of a Big Ox captivated me. Perhaps it was the concept of a giant race of beings, all with “Big” in their names and named for large, hoofed animals. Perhaps it was the idea of a world outside Riverdale, a world populated by convenient cousins. There was Veronica’s cousin Leroy  for whenever a brat was required. There was Jughead’s cousin Souphead whenever a more youthful Jughead-type gag needed to be made. And there was Big Ox, for when Big Moose just was not big enough.

Big Ox. I wonder whatever became of him. Still standing on a suburban sidewalk somewhere, I expect, waiting for his shot at glory.