Fergie
1989-2010
Today is both a sad and happy day. It’s sad, because our little family has lost
another true warrior, and happy because she is now in the spirit land, with her
ancestors, her first mom, and the best doggy daddy who ever lived.
I met Fergie for the first time the day that Michael
introduced me to his parents. He was a
little afraid, thinking that his dad might not like me – because I might be too
darn independent for his taste in women.
(We talked trucks that day, and we’ve been talking ever since.) He thought his mother might think it weird
that he would be dating a woman thirteen years his senior. Well, it turns out that age turns things on
its head in our family, and she became one of the closest friends I ever had. Inez died at 59 – it’s hard for me to believe
she’s been gone so long and that I am now the age at which she left us. Dad still feels the pain of her loss all
these years later, and I am no stranger to that feeling either, since I will
mourn my own warrior and soul mate, his son, until the day of my own death. Michael died awaiting a liver transplant at
the age of 45 after we had spent nearly 16 years together. As for dad, he now lives 5 miles down the
road from me and spends much of his time doing things for me that he feels his
son might have done were he here…
But, back to Fergie and our history – she met me that first
day, barking and spinning, and jumping.
Always the consummate watch dog, she never missed a trick, always the
first one to hear, the first one at the door, but also the first one to come
for a pat and a belly rub. No one had
ever docked her tail, so she took full advantage – wagging it until you would
think it would spin off. Inez told me
that she was the daughter of Rambo and Rambette, her other two Yorkies, and
that Fergie was the same age as my Dancer, who was born in 1989. Inez didn’t remember the exact date, so we
decided to assign Fergie Dancer’s birthday, which, because I didn’t know her
exact date either, we made April 1st, the day that is assigned to
Appaloosa horses in much the same tradition as January 1st is
assigned to all Thoroughbreds, regardless of the date they are actually born. So, using that calculation, Fergie slipped from
sleep into eternal rest on her own terms, in her own bed, on the day she turned
20 years, 11 months, and 5 days old. She
didn’t make 21, but she came darn close!
Yesterday was the only day in her life when she did not eat dinner on
her own (although she did lap from a dosing syringe), and she was walking around
under her own steam until yesterday when I put her to bed. I knew
that today would require a decision from me, but, as if she wanted to insure
not having to leave home for the last trip to the vet (she always got carsick),
she passed sometime in the early morning hours, saving me that horrible duty
and herself the trip she never liked.
The other dogs alerted me as soon as I came out of the
bedroom, and while the older dogs have seen death before, and acted as though
they had been expecting it, poor little Sequoyah kept running back and forth,
poking, trying to awaken the little friend she had played with and loved for
all of her 5 years. I took her outside
with the others, and as I type, I wonder how she will react when she comes back
in and finds everything gone.
Dad will come today and did Fergie a grave near Rambette,
Cochise, and Jammer (two cats), and we will lay her to rest, secure in the
knowledge that Inez and Mike have her now, and she can come to no harm. Her body has been blessed, covered in sage,
and wrapped in one of Sioux’s warm blankets.
She will be placed in Mother Earth to the sound of the Mi’kmaq honor
song, as best I can sing it, to honor both her first two owners who kept faith
with her as responsible guardians, and entrusted her to my care all these
years.
She was my fun dog, my watchdog (until she went deaf and
blind in her late teens), and the sturdiest toy dog I ever met. She played with Mike’s kids, befriended cats
and ferrets and birds, and a couple of horses, along the way. You would have to be sturdy to do all that
and to continue to play with an Aussie 15 years younger! She graduated from obedience class at the age
of 15, enduring six more of those hated car trips, just so I could make her a
role model for anyone who wants to know if older dogs can be trained. Her story is part of every adult dog class
that I teach.
I will miss my little “Yorkshire Terror” – run free sweet
girl in the meadows at the Rainbow
Bridge. Someday we will all meet again, and what a
happy family we will be.
Aho.