Fergie was not a good dog. Adopted from an ex-girlfriend because she didn’t get along with the woman’s other dogs, Fergie never had the impression my husband had rescued her, but indeed he had.
Fergie would only consent to doing her business outside when confined to our kitchen, so she was always a kitchen dog and used the dog door. If we weren’t up by 5:30 a.m., she would made that happen with a loud, high-pitched, incessant bark emanating from her seven-pound Yorkshire terrier body.
She’d growl in protest at being picked up and petted. She’d growl at being put down. She’d growl every time my husband hugged me. And she’d start barking in anticipating as we crossed the last bridge to our cabin on Lake Tawakoni, 50 miles east of Dallas.
Fergie’s terrible temperament was acknowledged by all except my husband, Mr. Tenderheart. He loved her, and I came to respect this bundle of fur for her sheer determination.

It was with significant trepidation, then, that we finally put the St. Francis medal on her collar. My friend, Patty, got it for Fergie during Patty’s trip to Italy, led by her Catholic priest. She purchased it at the Assisi Basilica, it was blessed by the priest in that magnificent church, and then reportedly blessed again by the then-Pope, now Saint John Paul II, in Rome.
We waited several days before we put St. Francis, Patron Saint of Animals, on Fergie’s collar, admittedly in fear that our devil dog would be struck by lightening, or melt. Finally, we braced ourselves and did it. Nothing happened.
Fergie loved being at the lake with our two other terriers, Jake and Elwood. They would frolic on the wide lawn and chase squirrels, while Fergie gamboled alongside, never deigning to participate in a chase.
She liked being on the boat, a small, used ski-boat we bought, and it was on that boat that tragedy struck.
We were around the peninsula in the next cove, the one we called “Millionaire’s Cove,” because one of the houses – probably the only one on the lake – was listed for sale for over $1 million. It didn’t sell in all the time we owned our cabin.
The boat was anchored in the middle of the cove and we were in the water paddling around it when we heard thunder in the distance. As usual on Lake Tawakoni, there were no other boats in sight. “Guess we better head back,” my husband said. We got back in the boat and it looked like the dogs thought we should head back as well.
The thunder grew nearer as we pulled the boat into the boat house, made sure the slings were in position, and turned on the motor to lift it out of the water.
I picked up each dog in turn and put them on the boathouse deck, saying, “Dog One, Dog Two.” I looked around for Fergie, who was always Dog Three and she wasn’t in the boat!

Fergie had the habit of jumping up on top of the back cushion, but I was sure she was on the floor of the boat as we headed back. Clearly that was not the case, and I blamed myself, as my husband had his hands full steering. We got back in the boat, lowered it, and buzzed back to the cove as the thunder got closer. We could see lightening strikes a few miles away.
We searched in the water and along the shore but there was no sign of The Ferg. We finally had to go back when it became clear the storm was heading straight for us. With no sign of her, we were sure Fergie had jumped up on the back, fallen off, and been pulled under in the boat’s wake.
We were both miserable, as were Jake and Elwood. I may not have loved Fergie as much as my husband (no one could), but I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for her death, and it was clear I was because I should have been watching out better.
Mont, my husband, didn’t blame me, though, and we tried to comfort each other through our tears. We asked our neighbors to be on the lookout, but the fact that we hadn’t seen or heard her in the water or on the shore made us pretty sure she was gone forever.
“Fergie’s alive!” Mont shouted over the phone four days later when I was on a business trip in Houston.
“What?”
“A woman heard Fergie barking on a dock in that cove and picked her up. I’m going to meet her tomorrow in Rockwall and bring her home.”
I was so relieved I broke down right there in my hotel room and sobbed. Thank God she was found. Thank God she had that miserable high-pitched, incessant bark that demanded attention.
Our Good Samaritan had bathed Fergie, and when I got home late the next day she seemed exactly like her old self: same bark, same growl, undiminished by her ordeal.
I heard a tinkle on the tile floor and looked down to see the St. Francis medal had just fallen from her collar. His work was done.