A Shakey Start

Even with a courageous name the first few days were tenuous. Mom, as Sylvia refers to herself in my regard, was not as experienced with canines as I had hoped. The first night she decided I needed a big space to roam around in at night. She and Dad (Ralph to the world) put down some tattered rugs on the floor of his basement workshop, turned the light out and shut the door.

Now like most dogs, I think of small dens as safer and more comfortable. This was a huge dark, DARK, (did I say DARK ?) cavern of a room with all kinds of widgets and piles of junk laying around. I sniffed. It all smelled like a mixture of pipe tobacco ( Dad must be puffing down here where Mom can’t see him.) and machine oil – human smells. But the machines were the most disturbing.

When I moved about, things seemed to jump out and poke me in the ribs. I tried to settle down on the rugs, but there were all kinds of strange noises coming from huge box-like machines. The biggest would go off and on with a rumble and roar – like a sleeping bear. It seemed to have a will of its own. I was SCARED.

In the morning Mom found me at he door shivering. I tried to look brave, but I had left two tell-tale “signs” that it had been a rough night. Now, dog poop (as humans call it) is a no-no inside the house. But there it was. Would I be kicked out? No. Mom reached down to pat me comfortingly. “We’ll find a better place for you tonight,” she said. It was good that she could read the “signs,” and didn’t get angry. I felt relived that we were now communicating. That’s how I ended up in a partially finished spare room with a window and my very own padded crate for a bed. This would be my nighttime refuge for many months to come.

It took a while for Mom to get the hang of taking me out for “potty breaks,”too. She would get involved with a project and forget that canines have needs that don’t wait forever. I would come up and sit in front of her and stare. This is as assertive a stance as a Scottie can muster without losing our dignity. It works very well with other canines, but Mom took a long time to get the message. I knew if I went to the door and barked, I’d never get out. Mom has the ability ignore a bomb going off if she’s concentrating on her artwork. So I would stare into her face until she would finally look up notice me. I found over time that it really helped if I lifted a back leg ever so slightly.

At first it seemed a mindless chore for Mom to go out with me. Her attention was still on her work. Then, one night during a snowstorm, she suddenly awakened to the magic of the wild world that is always a part of me. I’m only a few generations removed from my ancestor the wolf. At night, I feel this connection the strongly. That night I raced through the snow ahead of Mom. I was churning up clouds of the white stuff making a trail with my muzzle. Mom had to concentrate to keep up. She started laughing as her coat became covered in snow. She was aware of the ancestors of her species who had to survive in the cold and found shelter in caves. I was her wolf friend, showing her the path. She got it!

After that the time we spent outdoors was a time of almost complete togetherness. We walked farther and farther. She still took her sketch pad, but often just breathed the air and absorbed her surroundings. I introduced her to the methods of sniffing for creatures, and smelling the earth to find my way. Her nose wasn’t very good, but she got the idea. It was our times in the snow that I will remember best, though. All bundled up, she looked more like the indigenous people imbedded in my memory genes. In fact she seemed to have some she-wolf in her. Once in a while we would both howl at the moon in an attempt scare Dad as he worked at his desk inside.


The wild world is full of scary creatures, but none match those lurking in our house. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t like machines. These monsters challenge me as much as any badger would. I don’t have to sleep with the big ones in the basement any more, but there are machines all over the house at Lone Pine. Dad is a gadget nut. He has something mechanical running all the time. Mostly it’s a quiet sounding thing that he is forever fingering and starring into as it hums. He calls it a computer and Mom hates it. I think she’s jealous of its attraction for Dad. I don’t mind it too much, because it keeps him in his den a lot and out of trouble most of the day. It’s when he goes outside that the noise and commotion really begins. I will tell you more about this later, but suffice it to say he is the original Mr. Gadget.

Mom is more likely to use paint brushes and needles to do her work, but she sits at a sewing machine a lot. It whirs, but doesn’t seem too threatening. It stays in one place and has never moved in my direction. It’s when a machine whips around and tries to attack me that I get defensive. My biggest enemy is the vacuum cleaner. I hate these loud, sucking monsters.

Mom is usually the one who gets the vacuum out of the closet and starts it up. It makes a terrible sound and sucks up everything in its path. I bite the monster, but it is so hard I can’t even make a dent. Mom has tried to explain that it won’t hurt me, if I just stay out of it’s way. That would be admitting defeat, though. I’ve tried everything to get a hold of the thing. So Mom decided that the vacuum and I need a truce. She lets me go outside on the deck and chase squirrels while she pushes the vacuum around in the house.

Over time I have come to tolerate most of the machines in the house, but I can’t imagine why humans live with these monsters. They make so much noise, and often keep the humans from enjoying each other’s company.

How I came to Live on Lone Pine Road

It all started innocently enough. We simply went for a walk. Then, before you could say "Jack Rabbit", she was putting a claim on me. Of course, I had it all planned. I knew she would be going by on her way to the mail box. I looked up from where I was tied by the tree and caught her gaze. She walked past me, then turned around and seemed to study me for a few seconds. "Would you like to take a walk?" she said. I played it cool, trying not to look too anxious. The rest as they say is history.

When she took the leash and led me out to the road, I pranced like a prince. My tail went up in a graceful curve. I held my head high. I was prepared to turn on all the charm I could muster. It seemed to be working. She walked a little tentatively at first. (I wondered if she had walked a dog before.) She settled down when she realized I wouldn’t bolt. As we hit a comfortable stride, I avoided tugging on the leash. There was plenty of time to train to her to keep my pace later, I figured.

"He’s mine," she proclaimed when we got back to the house. My other set of humans seemed surprised. They had tried to pawn me off on her several times before. They were fine as humans go, but their other canines (two at the time) were slightly spoiled, and we did not get along well. That’s why I had spent a lot of time tied up outside, while they took over the sofa.

" Mom," Scott said, "are you sure? You haven’t taken care of a dog in a long time."

"Sure I’m sure. Now that we live in the country, we have space and time for a dog. This dog will keep me company on my walks in the woods. He seems hearty and healthy, so why not?"

"Why not indeed!" was Scott and Dot’s response .

So I had a new home. I kind of got cold feet when they were ready to leave me behind, though. I wasn’t sure I could make it out here in the country. All I had known was city life. However, I sensed that this place would allow me to get closer to my roots as a hunting dog. My new humans hadn’t had a dog in quite a while, so they seemed nervous, too. They asked lots of questions. "How much food does he eat?" "When does he go out to do his ‘business’?" "Is he easy to train?"

My former humans just chuckled at the last question. "Scottish terriers are very stubborn,"they explained. "We didn’t even try to train him beyond potty manners."

We all got in their car. Sylvia was going to take me home from the end of the lane. This gave her a chance to say good bye to her family, and give them a chance to change their minds. They didn’t. I climbed into Mom’s lap and looked happy to Scott and Dot. I’m sure they were thinking about some of the trouble I had gotten into, and wondering how long this arrangement would last. Michigan and Pennsylvania are very far apart. Would they get a call in a few weeks to come and get me? I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I knew it was worth a try.
When the hugs and kisses were over, we were left alone. ( I don’t understand this part of human behavior. We Scotties are quite reserved and find emotional displays unnecessary.) There was a pause as this new companion and I looked at each other. What secrets did we each have that might make or break this relationship? For a moment we were both so unsure of what lay ahead that we walked in silence. There were tears in her eyes. Why? I could not know how much she missed her children since they were grown and on their own. Neither could I know that she was beginning to transfer some of that love to me. I pranced ahead of her with my tail in the air, trying to look alert and proud.

When we got back to the house, I had terrible misgivings. How would I be treated? Did they have a place for me to sleep? Did these new people really like canines? At first I felt unsure, and started to tremble. I hid under the coffee table so my new humans wouldn’t see me shaking. This whole thing might have been a bad idea. After all, I hardly knew them. They knew I was scared, though. I had crawled under the coffee table. After trying to coax me out from under the table for a few minute, an idea came to them.

"He needs a new name," my new female human announced, a brave Scottish name to suit a brave Scottish Terrier. This is a noble breed with linage that goes back to the time of kings and gentlemen."

I listened while she told how my breed had evolved in Scotland. My fear began to disappear. At least they had respect for my breed. So that’s what I am, I thought. Knowing your linage can give you respect. I sat up a little straighter. My name at the time was "Kramer" after a spastic TV sitcom character. Every time the old family called me, I cringed. They thought I was a comical creature. That did not help my self esteem.

Anyway, Sylvia, my new female companion, threw out a few trial names like, Mac Dougal, Sean (after her favorite actor), Angus , Danny and the old stand by Blackie.. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "Fergus," she said, "He was a brave Scottish King." Sylvia had studied Celtic art and history in Scotland and knew a lot about the land of my forefathers. Some of this knowledge she related to me by way of telling others. So Fergus I became. I answered to my new name without a moment’s hesitation. "Come Fergus," cooed Sylvia. I came out from under the coffee table and settled at her feet. This new situation might just work, I thought.

A beginnig

Hi everyone,

I'm happy to reach you in cyberspace. I am in the process of writing my memoirs, and would like to share parts of them on this blog. Forgive me if I don't get the hang of this new (for me)tool right away. I have asked my human companion, Sylvia, to help me. She's a little slow when it comes to the internet. I met her while visiting her home on Lone Pine Road. And as you will learn, we've shared alot of adventures.