Some dogs are born for the wild.
Yorkies just think they are.
I’ve had four in my lifetime, each one no bigger than a loaf of bread, each one certain he was built to rule the world. And I loved every one of them. But if there’s a place less suited for a silky, five-pound dreamer than the deep Ozark woods, I haven’t found it.
Monty was the worst offender—and the dearest to me. A city-born pup with the heart of a frontiersman, he loved the outdoors like it was stitched into his tiny frame. I took him everywhere: boat rides, river trips, fishing holes tucked in the green veins of the hills.
One of Monty’s first adventures was to Beaver Lake. I set him down to explore, proud of how natural he looked striding toward the water. Five minutes later, he was a tangle of stickers and burrs, his silky coat snagging every bramble in sight like a living magnet. It hit me then: some dogs wear the wilderness like a second skin; Monty wore it like a heavy cloak.
But he didn’t care.
If there was water, Monty would find it.
He tubed behind our boat, ears pinned back, yipping into the wind. He leapt over the stern to swim circles around me whenever I slipped into the lake. At home, no bath was sacred—if I filled the tub, he cannonballed in like it was a secret pool meant just for us.
Fishing was a lesson in patience. Monty perched on the boat’s edge, stiff and alert, barking at every duck or dragonfly foolish enough to pass by. One afternoon, he spotted a “no wake” buoy bobbing in the distance. Mistaking it for a giant bird, he launched himself overboard mid-cruise, splashing into the open water with more bravery than sense.
Even our new little Yorkie, Louie, inherited the spirit.
One evening, Joy and I floated out into the middle of Table Rock Lake, chasing a sunset we could never see back home in our holler. Out of nowhere, Louie jumped ship. He dropped like a stone. We watched, breathless. Just when I was about to dive after him, he popped back to the surface, stunned but afloat. Louie spent the rest of the ride curled on the bottom of the boat, a soggy ball of humility.
Monty and his brother Charlie rode in canoes, too—Monty dripping wet in my lap, or standing atop the cooler like a tiny admiral surveying his kingdom. They had no idea they were outmatched.
But out here, the Ozarks are no playground.
The wilderness has teeth.
Coyotes and foxes slink from the trees at dusk. Hawks and eagles cut slow, lazy circles overhead, always hunting, always waiting. Even the neighbor’s yard—hidden just beyond a stand of hardwoods—erupts some evenings in a symphony of thirty barking dogs, unseen but deafening.
Out here, a Yorkie isn’t just a pet. He’s prey.
A little king ruling over a kingdom that could swallow him whole.
It’s easy to think Yorkies don’t belong in a place like this.
Too soft.
Too delicate.
Too small.
But maybe the truth is harder—and better—than it looks.
Yorkies weren’t bred for pampered laps and pink sweaters. They were born in the grit of England’s mills, built to hunt rats in the dark, filthy corners where larger dogs couldn’t reach. They worked barns like little machines, diving into haystacks and overturning bales, snatching rats mid-scurry.
Watch two working Yorkies today, and you’ll see the old blood still in them: one grabs the rat by the scruff, the other by the hindquarters, tugging with the violence of survival until the enemy breaks apart. There’s nothing dainty about it. No hesitation. No mercy.
They were never made for comfort.
They were made to be brave in a world that outweighs them.
Maybe Monty wasn’t wrong to bark at the buoy.
Maybe Louie wasn’t wrong to jump into the unknown.
Maybe the Yorkies weren’t misplaced in the Ozarks at all.
Maybe they understood something I’m still learning—that it isn’t the size of the body that matters, but the size of the heart.
I think of Torver—the eight-year-old Yorkie who fell six hundred feet down a sheer cliff in England’s Lake District. His owners searched in vain, mourning him. Five days later, someone found him miles away, alive but battered, limping under a stranger’s RV.
Torver didn’t give up.
Monty never did either.
Neither have any of mine.
Out here, under these broad, blistering skies, in woods thick with hidden dangers, the Yorkies run headlong into life, fur snagged, hearts wide open.
They do belong.
They always have.
Never underestimate a Yorkie.
To learn more about my Ozark writings click here.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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