Prologue
I don’t know where to begin. I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer. But I’ve noticed many writers mentioning the same thing: write about what you know. So I suppose I’ll start there. I know I had a dog named Princeton. A dog who lived to nearly eighteen years of age and occupied approximately one-third of my life. I know I loved him more than anything I’ve ever had or anyone I’ve ever known. I know he was my constant companion, rarely leaving my side for all the years we were together. I know I was also his travel companion in later years, he and I seeing much of Western and Northern Canada together. And although I miss him terribly, I know that my feelings of sadness and emptiness will eventually be replaced by the wonderful memories I have of him. More than anything, however, I know there will never be another dog like him. A dog who, in the last five years of his life, demonstrated a tremendous courage and determination. Lastly, I know that the many others who met Princeton and were inspired by him also continue to miss him greatly. Princeton was that sort of dog—a dog who touched the hearts of many and remained in their thoughts long after he continued on his way. This is our story.
1. A Dignified Dog
It all started with a dog named Gypsy. Or maybe I should say that it started with my getting reacquainted with a dog named Gypsy. In the fall of 1997, after being away for several years, I purchased the farm I had been raised on. It was a poultry farm, started by my parents in 1972 and successfully operated by them for twenty-five years. When I was younger and living on the farm, I never considered that I would one day take it over. I suppose like many others growing up on a farm, I felt that my future would be much brighter the farther away I was from the place. I enjoyed growing up in the country very much, but the appeal of farming was lost on me. Being allergic to chickens didn’t add to my enthusiasm either. But when I did return to the farm, I immediately rekindled my affection for the big Newfoundland dog named Gypsy who lived with my parents.
Gypsy was originally found by my sister (who had the good sense to stay away from farming after she left) in a ditch eating out of a discarded McDonald’s bag. We all thought she was less than a year old at the time and decided she would be a welcome addition to the family. I can’t recall who named her, but she became known as Gypsy. She grew into a big, loveable, and loyal farm dog. Newfoundlands are known as water dogs because of their instinctual
love of water. Show a Newfoundland dog a puddle of water, and they’ll soon be splashing around in it. The farm is alongside a river, and we’d often see Gypsy swimming around in it while my sister and I hollered frantically for her to stop and return home. She was there for me when I returned to the farm, accompanying me while I did my chores or watching me silently as I worked on my new home.
Poultry farming is a lot of work. I’m still in the profession today, always telling myself and others, “Probably not for much longer.” That I’ve been saying the same thing for several years hasn’t motivated me to abandon farming, however. Mine is an average-size farm, capable of producing up to thirty thousand chickens every eight weeks. For a one-person operation, it can be pretty demanding. Each growing cycle is approximately six weeks long, followed by two weeks of cleaning, disinfecting, repairing barns and equipment, and preparing for the next flock.
The growing cycle starts when the chicks, only a few hours old, arrive at the farm and I place them inside the barns. At such a young age, they’re extremely cute but also extremely fragile. The barns must be heated to about 35°C when the chicks arrive, and I follow strict lighting and environmental protocols to ensure they’re comfortable and can begin eating and drinking. For the first few days, they are under almost constant supervision. In addition to providing a suitable environment, I need to constantly monitor and adjust the equipment and machinery. A faulty boiler or furnace, an improperly working exhaust fan, or a mechanical failure involving feed or water systems can have catastrophic consequences. As the chicks grow and mature, they still require constant supervision and ongoing adjustments to their environment. When not in the barns, I’m usually hauling feed or performing general maintenance. It’s not a nine-to-five, five-days-a-week sort of job; it’s an in-the-barns-every-few-hours, seven-days-a-week sort of job. It’s not uncommon for me to be working in the barns throughout the entire day and then having to address a mechanical failure at 1:00 a.m., repairing it, and then having to perform regular checks and maintenance a few hours later.
When the chickens are ready for market, they are loaded onto specially designed trailers and shipped off farm to be processed. After that the cleaning component begins. Standing in chicken shit, a wash hose draped over your shoulder while you’re encased in a vinyl suit, washing twenty-four thousand square feet of poultry barns is far less glamorous than it sounds. When that’s completed I disinfect the barns and prepare new bedding. I also repair and adjust the water and feed equipment, and the entire process repeats itself once more.
Regardless of the work involved, it’s something I enjoy and will probably continue doing for some time despite how much complaining I do. It also gives me a sense of pride knowing that my farm is recognized for producing a quality product and, most importantly, for following very strict animal welfare protocols.
There are numerous benefits to being a farmer, or in my case, a chicken farmer. I’m my own boss, and my successes or failures are generally of my own making. My commute to work is an approximately six-hundred-foot walk from my home. And best of all, I can have a dog. A companion who keeps me company as I go about my day. Gypsy was that sort of dog. But one day she left and never returned. In her later years, she was never one to wander off the farm, so if she chose to leave, the reason had to have been important to her. I remember looking for her for days, but deep down I knew she was gone forever. Gypsy must have been about fourteen years old and had become a tired old dog. Some animals choose to go away on their own when death comes for them, preferring to pass away on their own terms. I knew that Gypsy had simply decided to leave us one day to die on her own. She left me with many wonderful memories, and although it would have been nice to have been with her when her time came, I respect and understand why she chose to leave.
It was difficult not seeing Gypsy around the farm. She wasn’t the type of dog to wait for me outside the barns or follow me around, but she was always a welcome sight, whether she was sleeping under a tree or lying on the grass outside my home. She was missed. In time, I started to think about getting another dog. The type or breed didn’t matter to me as long as the dog was on the larger side and capable of living outdoors.
I’ve always believed that the perfect dog is the dog who needs a home. I can’t imagine ever getting an animal from a breeder, preferring instead to go the adoption route. Plenty of wonderful dogs who need a home are often overlooked simply because they’re not of a particular breed or type. Many of these dogs never get a home. They never get the chance to be loved. And the people who pass them over are missing out on a special opportunity to receive the love only a dog who has known hardship or abandonment can give. I understand there will always be those who will only consider a purebred or a particular sort of dog, but that preference is something I’ve never been comfortable with. Thousands of cats and dogs are euthanized each year in Canada simply because they’re unwanted, and I’ve always felt that it’s better to save one of these animals instead of purchasing from a breeder.
I also preferred an adult dog. Puppies and kittens are cute and cuddly and tend to be adopted quickly, leaving the adults sitting alone in their kennels wondering why they were left behind. I was also aware that entirely black dogs and cats often have a harder time finding a home than their multicoloured counterparts, so I preferred a dog with a completely black coat. In short, I was prepared to adopt any dog, but I liked the idea of giving a home to one who would have the most difficulty finding one.
Princeton was approximately a year old when I first saw him. It was early winter of 1999. He was the first dog available when I decided to adopt. He was black with a tiny bit of white on his chest. The info card on his cage stated that he was a cross between a black Lab and a border collie. I found him in a pet store offering animals available for adoption from the local humane society. His info card also said his name was Prince, and in bold, capital letters, that he was extremely intelligent. To me he looked more bored than anything. A floor associate informed me that he was the last of a family of dogs brought to the humane society by one individual; all of his brothers and sisters had found new homes. The humane society had been unsuccessful in trying to place him, so they sent him to this particular store to see if he would have better luck. The associate also said that the staff found him remarkably well behaved and very intelligent. I would discover later that yes, he was intelligent, but well behaved? Well, no. There was a hold on him for twenty-four hours, as someone else had an interest in him. Even though he didn’t seem all that outgoing or even interested in me, something about him intrigued me. And he seemed to be a hard luck case, which appealed to me even more. I left my name, and the staff promised to phone me within twenty-four hours to let me know if he was still up for adoption.
The next day the store staff contacted me to inform me that Prince’s adoption hadn’t gone through and he was mine if I wanted him. I stopped by after lunch to find him sitting in his cage, still looking bored and very much in his own little world. But I could tell he recognized me from the day before. I spoke his name and he immediately came forward, his brown eyes filled with the intelligence I hadn’t seen earlier.
I walked closer to his cage and said to him, “Do you want to go home with me? Do you want to be a farm dog?” Looking at me inquisitively and cocking his head to one side, he let me know his answer.
I told a store associate I wanted to adopt him, and she began working on the adoption process. While waiting, I found a nice red collar I thought would go well with his black fur. After Prince was officially mine, the staff let him out of his cage and I put the new collar around his neck. He would wear the same collar for the rest of his life. It would be removed only for the surgeries, treatments, and X-rays that would happen frequently later in his life.
After paying the adoption fee, I led Prince to the back of my truck, where I had placed a large animal crate in the bed. He showed little emotion but was remarkably well behaved as we crossed the parking lot. From my limited knowledge of border collies, I expected him to be rambunctious and outgoing; Prince showed neither of these qualities. It was when we arrived at my truck that I decided his new name would be Princeton instead of Prince. I wanted him to have a connection to his past, but I really didn’t like the name the store staff had given him. I thought “Princeton” had a dignified tone to it, and it suited his regal bearing. After all, such a supposedly intelligent dog deserved to have a dignified name. My newly acquired dignified and intelligent dog then pissed all over me as I lifted him into the crate.