Before my love of dinosaurs kicked in, I adored elephants. My four-year-old self spent hours on the couch watching elephant documentaries, pith helmet firmly affixed to my head and my faithful companion Koba at my side. (A black, plush elephant bigger than I was, Koba was filled with a cheap stuffing I was allergic to. I had chronic bronchitis for years before anyone figured out the connection and Koba abruptly disappeared from my bedroom.) And when I wasn’t watching them on the set, I imagined elephants roaming the sparsely-vegetated confines of my family’s suburban backyard. I was the shepherd of my fictitious elephantine charges, and, innocent to the fact that the elephants on television were running from the gunshots of