Thor-Dog is the Rottweiler, and Loki-Dog is the Yorkie. They are, as you might imagine, adoptive brothers. They're almost the same age, nine months approximately. Loki is every bit as much of a mischief-maker as his namesake; if Mama leaves her purse sitting on the floor, he'll jump in it, wanting to go wherever she goes. Thor is earnest and sweet and his barks already shake the house.
Since before I was born, my mother was the Collector of Unwanted Animals. Whenever anyone found some kittens on the side of the road, or had a dog they wouldn't or couldn't keep, she'd take em home. The last dog we had, Sarah, had been abandoned at the dog groomer's, and one of Mama's friends called her in tears, saying that Sarah was so old that if they took her to the pound she was sure to be put down. "She cain't live but six months anyway," pleaded Mama's friend, and so home Sarah came, a geriatric mutt of unknown and awkward ancestry. Sarah, who was supposed to live only another six months, lived for two years!
We got the Siamese cats, Bam-Bam and Pebbles, from one of my brother's friends who couldn't keep them in his apartment. Whoever owned them first had them declawed, a practice I cannot condone, as the terror of Mama's life is that one of them should get loose and get torn to pieces by dogs, as neither can climb trees or fight. Thor is the most recent addition, given to my brother by one of his work buddies who'd moved to a place that didn't allow dogs. Poor Thor had spent two weeks tied to a tree in someone's yard before my brother insisted on going and getting him.
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