The dog that was forever wild at heart
The wild pup who stayed
“Look out!” My sister screamed. I jumped on the breaks with both feet, praying the rusted out heap of a Ford laser that smelt of mangrove mud I called a car, would stop in time. We sat motionless for a moment before staring at each other wide eyed in shock “Was that.. can’t be a dog out here” I said, quickly swinging the door open to check for myself. the humidity and heat of the dense Daintree rainforest encompassed me as I scanned the road, checked under the car and listened intently for any sign that what I’d seen was real, not just me loosing my mind in the tropical heat.
After a moment weak whimpering from the road side caught my attention. I strode across the road with purpose but wasn’t prepared for what was going to meet my eyes. Less than two kilos, smothered in mud, mangy and terrified he stared up at us from under a thick wait-a-while. Spines from its tendrils jutting out dangerously close to the pups skin and eyes. I was in no position to take on a dog. I’d just lost my job, lived in a caravan marooned in the jungle that had no power, water or toilet for that matter. I had barely enough food for myself and had a deep depression that seeped into my bones. However, staring at the pup I knew I couldn’t leave him alone.
At just over eight weeks old he was in bad shape, it was weeks of vet visits and care before the fur came back and he put on weight, he ate better than me most days. We were thick as thieves where I went he came too. At night we fought my depression and his nightmares together and we hid beneath the covers when the local behamouth a boar the size of a small car happened by to use my decrepit excuse for a caravan as a scratching post.
We travelled after that each week a new town he guarded the car as I slept and never missed an opportunity to remind me he was once, and always will be wild. From his fear of the waters edge I assumed came from his time in the Daintree surrounded by croc infested waters to the way he’d skilfully catch wild birds plucking their feathers while simultaneously attempting to eat them alive as they desperately tried to flee. I tried to stop him once or twice only to be met with knashing teeth and a growl that would but fear into the most stoic soul.
Nine years down the line he’s mostly domesticated. Gentle and sweet, seeking out scuffles and cuddles at every opportunity, frolicking through the fields of the families ten acres and napping till his hearts content.
That said, Loki as we so affectionately call him, will never really be a pet and on the odd occasion he generously reminds us off this. Years of food sensitivity training, generous feedings and all the best things in life doesn’t stop him, he still guards his food with his life and forces it down so quickly he ends up gasping for air, unsuspecting birds are quickly dispatched and eaten and water will never be trusted nor will children straying within a meter of them means doom, instead watching them carefully as if death will spring forth from them at any moment.
Despite these faults I watch him now after all we’ve been through. At nine years old, settling down alone on the far end of the veranda as he often does, gazing over the bush land. The sight of it fills my heart with joy and love he’s come along way from the muddy, mangey pup I found, now he’s rotund, happy and he approaches his golden years in a loving home, accepted in the knowledge he will forever be wild at heart.
About the Creator
M.K Taylor
single mum, in a remote community making magic from nothing. Learning how to channel my creativity through writing, I’ve always had a passion for writing but I often write the way I think being adhd this can be problematic 😅
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