One day in the dead of winter, I looked out my back window and saw a chicken. It was jet-black with a crimson wattle, and it seemed unaware that it was in New York City. In classic barnyard fashion, it was scratching, pecking and clucking.

How it came to a small backyard in Astoria, Queens, remains a matter of conjecture. The chicken made its first appearance next door, at the home of a multitude of cabdrivers from Bangladesh. My wife, Nancy, and I figured they had bought the chicken and were fattening it for a feast. That hypothesis fell into doubt when the chicken hopped the fence and began pacing the perimeter of our yard with a proprietary air.

Eating it was out of the question. As a restaurant critic and an animal lover, I subscribe to a policy of complete hypocrisy. Serve fish or fowl to me, but don’t ask me to watch the killing. Once I meet it, I don’t want to eat it.

Nancy and I next theorized that the chicken had escaped from a live-poultry market about four blocks away and was on the run. Our hearts went out to the brave little refugee. We had to save it.

Chickens were beginning to sound like the ideal pet. The chicken took to its new surroundings easily. Its main social task was to integrate into the cat society—a group of about five strays we feed.

How would the two species deal with each other?

One morning I looked out the window and saw four cats lined up at their food bowls, and, right in the middle, eating cat food with gusto, was the chicken. Occasionally it would push a cat aside to get a better position. The cats, for their part, regarded the chicken warily. To the extent that it was a bird, it was prey. But big prey. From time to time they would
stalk, press their bodies to the ground, swish their tails and give every sign of going for the kill. Then they would register the chicken’s size and become gripped by second thoughts. A face-saving, halfhearted lunge would follow.

The two sides soon achieved parity. Sometimes, I’d look out back and see a cat chasing the chicken. Ten minutes later I’d see the chicken chasing a cat. I like to think they reached the plane of mutual respect. Perhaps affection.

Although it was nice to know the chicken could eat anything, cat food didn’t seem right. I called my mother. Mom drove to the local feed store in La Porte, Texas, and picked up a
25-pound bag of scratch grains, a blend of milo, corn and oats. She began shipping the grain in installments. The chicken seemed to appreciate the feed.

Our care paid off. One morning, Nancy spied an egg on the patio. At the base of the pine tree, where the chicken slept, was a nest containing four more eggs. They were small, somewhere between ecru and beige, but this was it. The blessed event. After I wrote about the chicken in the New York Times, my mail-bag was bursting with letters offering advice on the proper care and feeding of chickens. Disturbed that she did not have a name, fans wrote with suggestions.

Vivian had a certain sultry appeal; Henrietta seemed cute. But Henny Penny? The media jumped in. National Public Radio quizzed me about the chicken for one of its weekend programs. “My producer wants to know, could you hold the telephone up to the chicken so we can hear it?” the interviewer asked. Unfortunately, I don’t have a 100-foot cord on my telephone. The
Associated Press sent a photographer to capture the chicken’s many moods.
(She had two.)

Then one morning I looked out my kitchen window, and my heart stopped. No chicken—not in my pine tree or the tree next door. Nor was she pecking and scratching in any of the nearby yards. There were no signs of violence, only a single black feather near the back door.
She was definitely missing. But why?

Spring was in the air. Could she be looking for love? Or perhaps she was reacting badly to the burdens of celebrity? Or maybe she was simply looking for a place to lay her eggs in peace.

雞之樂(lè)趣
她來(lái)了，咯咯叫，并征服了我們的紐約市的后院
文/  威廉·格里姆斯
摘自“紐約時(shí)報(bào)”

一個(gè)嚴(yán)冬的日子，我從后窗往外看，見(jiàn)到一只雞。它是烏黑色的，帶一塊深紅色的垂肉，似乎沒(méi)有意識(shí)到自己在紐約市。它像在傳統(tǒng)的谷倉(cāng)前的院子里那樣抓來(lái)抓去，啄來(lái)啄去，咯咯地叫著。
它是如何來(lái)到昆斯區(qū)阿斯多利亞地方的一個(gè)小小的后院的呢？這一直都是個(gè)不解之謎。這只雞是在鄰居那里初次亮相的，而那是一群孟加拉籍的出租車(chē)司機(jī)的家。我妻子南希和我猜想是他們買(mǎi)來(lái)這只雞并正在把他喂肥以便吃肉的。不過(guò)，當(dāng)它跳過(guò)籬笆開(kāi)始以主人的姿態(tài)在我們的院子四周踱步時(shí)，這個(gè)猜測(cè)就站不住腳了。
吃它是不可能的。集美食家和動(dòng)物愛(ài)好者于一身的我，采取的是一種徹頭徹尾的偽君子態(tài)度。給我端上雞鴨魚(yú)肉吧，但是別讓我觀看宰殺。一旦我看到，我就不想吃了。
南希和我接著懷疑它是從一個(gè)大約四棟樓遠(yuǎn)的活禽市場(chǎng)跑出來(lái)的，而且還在繼續(xù)逃命。我們的心為這個(gè)小難民而顫抖。我們必須解救它。
這年頭，雞正開(kāi)始顯得像人們理想的崇物了。
這只雞很容易就適應(yīng)了新環(huán)境。它的主要社會(huì)任務(wù)就是把自己溶入他身邊的貓的世界—— 一群我們所養(yǎng)的五只左右無(wú)家可歸的貓。
一個(gè)早晨，我從窗戶向外望去，見(jiàn)到四只貓?jiān)谒鼈兊氖澄锿肭芭胖��?duì)，而就在它們中間，吃得津津有味的卻是那只雞！它偶爾會(huì)把一只貓推開(kāi)，以便獲得更好的位置。
貓們則警惕地看著雞。好像這是一只鳥(niǎo)，是獵物。不過(guò)是個(gè)大的獵物。有時(shí)，它們偷偷接近它，身體貼向地面，嗖嗖地?cái)[動(dòng)著尾巴，現(xiàn)出要去殺戮的一切跡象。然后，他們要衡量一下雞的尺寸，于是，行動(dòng)就被自己的一轉(zhuǎn)念給止住了。隨之，就是一陣為省面子的、半心半意的突進(jìn)動(dòng)作。
雙方很快就達(dá)到了平局。有時(shí)，我會(huì)向后院看，看見(jiàn)一只貓追趕著那只雞。十分鐘后，我又會(huì)看到雞在追貓。我傾向于認(rèn)為它們已經(jīng)達(dá)到了彼此尊敬的地步。也許是相互吸引的情愛(ài)吧？
盡管知道雞什么都能吃令人感覺(jué)不錯(cuò)，但貓食還是顯得不那么合適。我叫了我的媽媽。
媽媽開(kāi)車(chē)到了德克薩斯州拉波特市的飼料商店，買(mǎi)來(lái)一袋25磅的谷物，那是由蜀黍、玉米和燕麥混合而成的。她開(kāi)始以分期付款的方式漸漸地把這種谷物運(yùn)進(jìn)來(lái)。雞好像很喜歡這飼料。
我們的苦心沒(méi)有白費(fèi)。一天早晨，南希發(fā)現(xiàn)庭院里有一個(gè)雞蛋。在雞睡覺(jué)的松樹(shù)底下，有一個(gè)窩，那里還有四個(gè)蛋。它們很小，淡褐色的，但畢竟是不錯(cuò)的。一件值得慶幸的事。
我在“紐約時(shí)報(bào)”上發(fā)表了關(guān)于這只雞的故事之后，我的信箱就擠滿了建議我如何照顧和喂養(yǎng)好雞的信件。有人因?yàn)檫@雞沒(méi)有名字而不安，便寫(xiě)信建議各種名字：“維維安”顯得有點(diǎn)激烈，“亨利埃塔”聽(tīng)來(lái)很聰明，但是“亨尼·佩尼”呢？
媒體一涌而入�！皣�(guó)家公共電臺(tái)”把我的雞安排進(jìn)了它的一個(gè)周末節(jié)目里，這下給我出了個(gè)難題。“我的制片人想知道這件事，您能不能把電話放到雞前面，讓我們聽(tīng)一聽(tīng)它的動(dòng)靜？”采訪者這樣問(wèn)我。不幸的是，我沒(méi)有一根長(zhǎng)達(dá)100英尺的電話線�！奥�(lián)合報(bào)社”派了一位攝影師，拍下了雞的很多狀態(tài)。（她有兩只雞。）
此后的一個(gè)早上，我從廚房窗戶往外看，心一下子停跳了。沒(méi)有雞了——沒(méi)在我的松樹(shù)木里，也沒(méi)在鄰居處。也沒(méi)在附近的任何一家院子里抓抓啄啄。沒(méi)見(jiàn)到什么暴力的跡象，僅僅在后門(mén)處有一根黑色雞毛。
她肯定是溜走了。但是為什么呢？
春天來(lái)了。難道她在尋找愛(ài)情？或者，也許她對(duì)于成名不堪其負(fù)？或者，也許她只是去尋找一個(gè)安靜的下蛋地方吧？