LOKI

It was the end of August, when we were more than five months into our self-isolation, that we decided another dog would be a perfect new addition to our house, for a realistic look forward had made us realize we would probably continue like this well past Christmas. 

“We’ll forget about the pandemic,” we said to each other. “A puppy will cheer everyone up and keep us busy.”

Although we considered adopting, we were reluctant to risk additional stress by acquiring a grown rescue dog – we had tried it before, and it had not worked out - so we decided to get a baby dog, a two-months-old male German Shepherd puppy from a kennel in the mountains. Brought to our house he turned out to be an adorable velvet-black soft-furred bundle with innocent dark eyes and very sharp little teeth.

Victor named him “Loki,” in Norse mythology the brother of Thor, thus honoring the memory of our beloved Malinois, who died exactly four years ago. We all fell for Loki, except for Zaffy who looked like she’d been slapped in the face. How could we do this to her? said her burning eyes, as she either ran away from the little dog or snarled at him. 

In the course of the first hours, while we were all watching him, Loki managed to slip on the side of the pool and fall in. Victor fished him out immediately, and after being toweled off he was good to go again. His focus on any toy, rope, ankle, or cloth seemed to be 10-20 seconds and then on to the next thing. He turned out to have a thing about water, and emptied bowl after bowl, sticking his surprisingly big paws into them and splashing merrily. When the bowl was empty, he would tug it around and make a lot of noise. Then he’d sleep – and we’d all relax a bit – Zaffy sleeping with a pained expression on her face.

The kennel had sold us a big sack of kibble with the advice that he should continue eating “what he was used to.” When we served it to him, he declined – showed neither interest nor indeed recognition. When we added cooked chicken and broth, he ate those and left the kibble.  Feeding him would turn out to be a challenge. Another one was what came out the other end. It became clear he had some form of intestinal issue. We called a vet, a young couple who arrived on a motorcycle, who examined him and took a blood sample from his front leg. He screamed to the high heavens while they steadied him to insert the needle, and Victor and I stood by covering our mouths in mute commiseration with his fear and pain.  

After we had struggled to make him eat for several days Oswaldo had the bright idea of putting his food, kibble, chicken, rice, and broth into the food processor. I sat on the floor and offered it to him, but he wasn’t into it. It was when I got up and got a spoon that he visibly paid attention. Eureka! He had been spoon-fed before. Someone had been sitting like me, with him in the crook of her arm, feeding him mashed food with a a little spoon. I imagined a woman perhaps doing this in secret, while the kennel guys thought he was chomping on kibble like a big dog.

The nights have been another chapter altogether, and there’s the constant wiping up of the little puddles all over the place. But as Zaffy mellows a little bit every day, we fall even more in love, hoping that he will grow healthy and strong, happy to be living with us. 

As for the pandemic and the political situation, well, everything is still out there, but we’re too busy to focus on anything other than Loki right now.