Daniel + Loki

I’m from Chicago, from a very large Latin family. As the youngest of seven—I have five brothers and a sister—there were a lot of expectations for who I would become. Coming out was difficult. I was outed by my brother when I was sixteen, and it wasn’t accepted. Because of that I never had a chance to be close to my siblings.

My relationship with my family has informed everything that I do. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled to find acceptance, belonging and home. I spent my twenties battling those impulses while trying to finish school and have a life. Though I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time, deep down I knew something was missing in my life. Unfortunately, I used substances to mask my feelings and fill that void. 

One of the pitfalls of growing up young and gay in an urban environment is easy access to drugs and alcohol.

I’m from Chicago, from a very large Latin family. As the youngest of seven—I have five brothers and a sister—there were a lot of expectations for who I would become. Coming out was difficult. I was outed by my brother when I was sixteen, and it wasn’t accepted. Because of that I never had a chance to be close to my siblings.

My relationship with my family has informed everything that I do. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled to find acceptance, belonging and home. I spent my twenties battling those impulses while trying to finish school and have a life. Though I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time, deep down I knew something was missing in my life. Unfortunately, I used substances to mask my feelings and fill that void. 

One of the pitfalls of growing up young and gay in an urban environment is easy access to drugs and alcohol.

There, in my subset of the gay community, I found a family I never felt I had with my own. During that time I was working at a nightclub and pulling late hours. I’d lost sight of my future and dropped out of school. I used everything from marijuana to methamphetamine for relief, for belonging, or sometimes just for escape.

In my late twenties I found out I had HIV. I was shell-shocked. When I got that diagnosis, I was flooded with loneliness and the feeling that no one was ever going to love me. It didn’t help that my family wasn’t a support system.They are aware of my diagnosis, but like most things, it’s not something we discuss. They’ve never asked me anything about it. Some Latin families are like that—expressive but not communicative. It bothers me, of course, but that is what it is. 

I buried my feelings about my diagnosis for a long time, locked them in some corner of my mind. Looking back on it now, though, I can see that all of this created the perfect storm that led me to Loki. 

It was around my thirtieth birthday and just after I’d decided to get clean. My road to recovery had been very lonely. I lost a lot of friends. It’s ironic that getting clean was my low. Loki was three months old and the last of the litter, like me. I had never really taken care of anything before. I had never really loved anything before. All of a sudden, coming home at six a.m. meant coming home to this adorable puppy crying his eyes out. At that moment, I thought, I need to change my life. 

Dogs demand more of you. Whether you’re taking care of yourself or not, their needs come first, and through that you end up putting yourself first. It’s almost a mystical relationship—especially when you get a dog during a major transition in your life. Loki gave me a sense of home, safety and comfort that I desperately needed. As corny as it sounds, I felt like I finally had a home because he was there, and that really did change my life. Within six months, I went back to finish my degree at DePaul University, and over the next two to three years I got a bachelor’s degree in advertising. 

Today, Loki and I are inseparable. People say he’s a lot like me. He’s in sync with my emotions. When he runs up to people, his energy is like, Love me, love me, love me! I like to think I’m not like that, but I probably am—dogs are extensions of us. I think I’m overly affectionate because my family never was. I know my family loves me, but with people sometimes what’s given isn’t always what’s received. It’s not that way with a dog. A dog gives and shows love unconditionally. That’s no small thing when a part of you fears you’re unlovable.

Even my family can see the change in me. They love Loki because they feel he righted me—he rescued me from a dark place. They’re almost nicer to the dog than they are to me. But that’s okay, because I think that’s the way that they show they care—they don’t necessarily show affection to me, but they do to the extension of me. In that way, Loki has brought us closer together—especially with my father. He and I used to have no relationship, but he loves that dog. When my parents dog sit, Loki sleeps in bed with my dad at night. I’ve noticed as my father’s gotten older, his tough exterior has fallen away a bit and it’s easier to have a connection. In turn, I’ve learned to forgive and have patience with him—a dog teaches you a lot of patience. Now I simply try to understand and accept my father for who he is. I haven’t gotten there with my brothers yet, but I’m hopeful. 

In the meantime, I’ve managed to make my own family with Loki. In caring for him, I’ve become more comfortable with who I am and what I can provide. A dog put me at ease a bit, helped me find my own self-worth. He’s shown me acceptance and love in a way I’ve never known before, and I’ve tried to mirror that in other parts of my life—whether in my commitment to work, in my relationships with family, and in the Ride for AIDS Chicago, through which I’ve made friends who taught me to be okay with my diagnosis. And Loki is central to all of that. 

The ten years I’ve had Loki have been years of constant growth and evolution. He’s made me aware of my tendencies and behaviors. I’ve stayed clean and barely even drink now, because I know it creates volatile emotions within me. I have learned to lead a different kind of life, and I know now that there are many other kinds of pleasures. Loki is really a symbol for me—a symbol of hope, of promise, of a future.