Chichi Farm (English version)
(Originally written in Chinese, translated by ChatGPT)
March 11th, I was adopted. The caretaker at the dog shelter was running towards me, shouting something excitedly. At that time, I didn’t quite understand what he was saying. But with his joyful expression and the envious looks from my companions, I felt that something good must be happening to me, so I happily wagged my tail and barked.
The transition period for adoption was six months. My future owner—Old Master John—came to see me every two months. He would pet my fur, chat with the caretaker for a few moments, and then shake his hands to say goodbye. Although my life during this six months hadn’t changed much, I received "bio" dog food while other dogs were still eating regular food. I became more and more eager for the new life that awaited me.
After six months, I finally arrived at Chichi Farm. I found it to be a large royal-level farm, with many high-end facilities. This farm is famous for frequently adopting good dogs, and now more than twenty strong dogs live here. Due to the large number of animals on the farm, each dog has its own tasks. When I arrived, they were all diligently working. Looking at my frail self, I began to doubt the reason I was adopted. Perhaps Old Master John wanted to adopt a dog that was a bit different, something “exotic”. And I, a disheveled Yorkshire Terrier, might just fit his wish.
Old Master John assigned me my first task: to fetch firewood with Toby, as the carpenter was building a small cabin in the backyard. Toby is a very smart Border Collie. Whenever the carpenter requested a piece of firewood, Toby would immediately find it and quickly bring it to him. I ran alongside Toby, pretending to be useful, but I wasn’t contributing anything at all. Later, Old Master John noticed this and, hoping to give me something to do, assigned me to feed the two guinea pigs in the yard three times a day. This was an easy task that I could finish in just a few minutes. So during my free time, I felt a bit lost. Sometimes I wanted to learn how to fetch firewood from Toby, but he didn’t have the time or energy to teach me patiently. Watching Toby and the carpenter collaborate perfectly, I gradually became somewhat inferior.
After a while, the cabin project was completed, so Toby was assigned to herd sheep with Ash. Ash is a German Shepherd and, like Toby, is also highly intelligent. Accompanying them was Pipi, a lively Golden Retriever. The three of them worked together every day to herd the sheep efficiently: Toby was responsible for driving the sheep, Ash counted them, then Pipi reported to Old Master John. John was very pleased with their teamwork. After bringing the sheep back each day, the three of them would run together to the hilltop to watch the sunset. Ever since they took over the herding duties, I saw them less and less. It seemed I had lost the last bit of supervision from Toby and became completely isolated.
In fact, I admired Toby very much and wished I had his abilities. One night I dreamt that I was in charge of the sheep, skillfully directing the herd. But soon, Toby came over and began to blame me for messing up the herding, saying I had lost several sheep. He called Ash to help round them up, and then they went off to rest together. They gazed at the sunset, while I sat in the corner gazing at their backs. Then I woke up.
Gradually, I became more silent and lost in self-doubt. I kept receiving small tasks, striving to complete them well, but it didn’t give me any sense of value. I worked all day while many dogs could finish their tasks in an hour. My suppressed emotions led to behavioral issues. I started scratching my face, with the golden fur began to fall off me; I also barked at night from nightmares, disturbing the other dogs. Old Master John had to take me to the vet, who concluded that I was physically healthy and just needed to rest.
Sometimes I felt that Chichi Farm didn’t belong to me. Yorkshire Terriers are usually pets of nobility, elegantly groomed every day, while I was running around here with a bunch of clever and agile dogs. Despite this, I felt grateful for my position on the farm. My work was unrelated to emotions, providing me with a serious job. My sentimentality became an extra characteristic, making me a unique dog. But without that job, I would become a full-time crybaby, and then my emotions would feel cheap, leading me to further question my worth.
Slowly, I began to get familiar with the other dogs and made two good friends. Mario is a Dachshund, and Longer is a black mutt. They both have demanding responsibilities. Mario is in charge of watching over the two cats in the house, stopping them before they cause trouble. This requires great attention and quick reflexes—tasks that are beyond me, who gets easily distracted. Longer accompanies Old Master John on hunts, always able to sniff out the prey and bringing a rabbit home at the end of the day. Although both of them do their jobs exceptionally well, they still find time to play with me. Mario lets me tease his cats, and Longer sometimes brings me a piece of fresh meat. Every time I see them, my worries fade away.
According to the rules, if the owner is not satisfied with the adopted dog within a year, the dog can still be returned to the shelter. So, in the last two weeks of the year, I felt that Old Master John was paying more attention towards me. He occasionally looked over from a distance to see what I was doing. A few times, I realized I was being watched and got so nervous that I urinated. John frowned upon seeing that. But did I really fear being sent back? Not really. What I cared about wasn’t the bio dog food or the vast farm. I knew that I am a cute, caring, and sensitive Yorkshire Terrier. Even if I returned to the shelter, there would still be owners willing to adopt me; it was just a matter of time. Perhaps a new owner would just need me to accompany them for walks morning and night, and they would fall in love with me, giving me their full attention. Maybe it would take a long time for someone to adopt me, but I would also get along well with shelter dogs. None of them had owners, so there were no hierarchies; we would all empathize with each other. I felt relaxed being with them.
I also heard about a wolfdog that had left the estate because it wanted a freer life. Leaving was simple; just run straight ahead from the farm. It later became a wild dog in the mountains but would occasionally return to the farm to bring fresh meat to the other dogs and offer the old master some fresh wild fruits. The old master never interfered with the dogs leaving home; on the contrary, he respected each dog’s choice. However, thinking of this, I felt I couldn’t be compared to that wolfdog, as I had no ambition to be a wild dog.
Without my notice, the last two weeks had passed. The old master didn’t send me back. This meant I would continue to stay at Chichi Farm. I would keep trying more challenging tasks—which meant more failures and setbacks. I felt that the best time to leave the farm had passed, even though it was never too late. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only little dog at Chichi Farm who wasn’t that happy. Sometimes, I would climb to the hillside alone to watch the crescent moon.