Loki

“I am Loki, named after the Norse god of mischief and mayhem. I am in need of a patron” was an extraordinary enough statement in its own right. I certainly had not seen that one coming. That it was made by a small, dishevelled, scruffy, nondescript dog made it more so. I am not sure whether I uttered a surprised “OK” or merely grunted. Whichever it was, it was taken as assent and the formation of a contract. He followed me home to my flat.

That I had not one but two comfortable armchairs, inherited from Aunt Jemima and Uncle Harry one their near simultaneous deaths, was fortunate – but for that there would have been contention. Feeding him was problematic. I had always cooked for myself and regularly over-catered, and it was a relief to be able to give him my left-overs, avoiding both conscience about the waste of food and concern about the waist of me. That however was not enough. It was fortunate that among the various tins of dog food I had bought at the Co-op was an inadvertently picked up tin of cat food. “Doggy Treats”, were sniffed at at rejected. The same was true of “Hound Hunks” and “Fido’s Favourite.” Lamenting the sudden return of my food-waste habit I binned them and, in final desperation, tried the “Pussy Pieces”. Relief! These were woofed down. I could never be sure if he thought he was a cat. Nothing could be deduced from the fact that he had promptly extirpated the two cats, one white one tortoiseshell that had habitually visited my small piece of garden and with whom I was beginning to be on more than nodding acquaintance.

Drink was more difficult, only a happy accident prevented the issue from becoming serious. Water he would not touch. In desperation one day, I poured the remains of a can of low alcohol beer that I had let go flat into the bright stainless bowl I had bought for him. Relief. Beer was his Lordship’s tipple. Initially this proved more of an expense than was comfortable. Then I mentioned the matter to my brewer neighbour, who offered me what he called “tailings”, the residue once the good beer had been run out of the vat. He agreed to bring me a weekly carboy of the stuff. It proved to smell strongly of beer, be very cloudy with what my neighbour told me was spent yeast. Loki lapped it up. Striking a balance between dehydration and intoxication was a task I mastered after no little experimentation.

I put the first few weird displacements of objects and strange events down to the absent mindedness about which I am teased. My recollection of Loki’s first self-introduction had thoroughly well faded, and my university studies of the Icelandic Edda had, at the best of it been peripheral and sketchy, and I only made that connection slowly. It was when I found all my socks in the bottom compartment of the fridge that certainty dawned. It was snowing, so an excuse that I would relish a nice cool pair of socks to put on would not have washed. That I am a habitual leaver of drawers at best half closed I deemed to have no exculpatory relevance.

He was, needless to say, settled in “his” armchair. Kneeling down and trapping him there, I read the riot act. If he was to remain a guest in what was after all my dwelling, all forms of naughtiness had to stop, henceforth. Or else. He did not say a word. Indeed, he had not spoken since our first encounter, in fact I had become to doubt that that had ever happened. However, he was a master of the doleful and reproachful expression, and there was no doubt that he understood, and reluctantly accepted the ultimatum.

It did not totally stop, but it did move beyond my boundary. My neighbour’s query, not the brewer but the one the other side, was most politely put. Did I think it remotely possible that it had been my dog who had been overturning dustbins. No evidence, of course, but it seemed strange that mine seemed to be the only bin in the street that escaped the attentions of whomsoever or whatsoever was the culprit. It was fortunate that, unlike my friends, my neighbours had no knowledge of the renowned quality of my poker face, for secretly my suspicions were close to certainty. Perhaps, I replied with simulated unconcern and puzzlement, it was because, despite my best efforts, my bin was significantly heavier than most. Or perhaps because the fox, it that was what it was, was not attracted to my bin as, since I had a dog, I had little need to put food waste in it. Nearly convinced, the neighbour dropped the subject. I did not know if it would have meant anything to him, but I had taken care not to name Loki least anyone be erudite enough to add a pair of twos.

I will never know if it was Loki who caused Mrs Burton to swerve and demolish that bollard. She was too shocked to remember any details, either when the police questioned her or later. When I raised it with Loki he just looked sublimely bland. Had me wondering if I could teach that dog poker.

Then, one day, he simply wasn’t there. I did the usual thing with posters on lamp posts although I did not have a photo of him. He had always seemed to run away at the mere sight of a camera. After nearly three weeks, the remains of the beer tailings, by now smelling stale and foul, went down the drain. Life resumed. The cats eventually returned, and finally consented to become friends.

It may have been pure coincidence, but I came to hear that a little girl called Sally, who lived two streets away, had unexplainedly acquired a small and rather unkempt pony. It seemed that she had decided to call him Loki for some reason. He was variously described as characterful naughty or downright wicked. It was said, although not everyone believed it, that Sally had got into trouble for giving it her father’s home-made cider, but had finally got his permission to continue doing so once papa had been convinced that the animal would drink nothing else.