One day in the dead of winter, I looked out my back window and saw a chicken. It was jet-black with a crimson¹ wattle, and it seemed unaware² 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, remains³ a matter of conjecture⁴. 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 fattening⁵ it for a feast. That hypothesis fell into doubt when the chicken hopped⁶ the fence and began pacing the perimeter⁷ of our yard with a proprietary⁸ air.

Eating it was out of the question. As a restaurant critic and an animal lover, I subscribe⁹ to a policy of complete hypocrisy¹⁰. Serve fish or fowl¹¹ to me, but don’t ask me to watch the killing¹². 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 warily¹³. To the extent that it was a bird, it was prey¹⁴. 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 parity¹⁵. 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 mutual¹⁶ 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 shipping¹⁷ the grain in installments¹⁸. The chicken seemed to appreciate the feed.

Our care paid off. One morning, Nancy spied an egg on the patio¹⁹. 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 celebrity²⁰? Or maybe she was simply looking for a place to lay her eggs in peace.

鸡之乐趣

她来了，咯咯叫，并征服了我们的纽约市的后院

文/ 威廉·格里姆斯

摘自“纽约时报”

一个严冬的日子，我从后窗往外看，见到一只鸡。它是乌黑色的，带一块深红色的垂肉，似乎没有意识到自己在纽约市。它像在传统的谷仓前的院子里那样抓来抓去，啄来啄去，咯咯地叫着。

它是如何来到昆斯区阿斯多利亚地方的一个小小的后院的呢？这一直都是个不解之谜。这只鸡是在邻居那里初次亮相的，而那是一群孟加拉籍的出租车司机的家。我妻子南希和我猜想是他们买来这只鸡并正在把他喂肥以便吃肉的。不过，当它跳过篱笆开始以主人的姿态在我们的院子四周踱步时，这个猜测就站不住脚了。

吃它是不可能的。集美食家和动物爱好者于一身的我，采取的是一种彻头彻尾的伪君子态度。给我端上鸡鸭鱼肉吧，但是别让我观看宰杀。一旦我看到，我就不想吃了。

南希和我接着怀疑它是从一个大约四栋楼远的活禽市场跑出来的，而且还在继续逃命。我们的心为这个小难民而颤抖。我们必须解救它。

这年头，鸡正开始显得像人们理想的崇物了。

这只鸡很容易就适应了新环境。它的主要社会任务就是把自己溶入他身边的猫的世界—— 一群我们所养的五只左右无家可归的猫。

一个早晨，我从窗户向外望去，见到四只猫在它们的食物碗前排着队，而就在它们中间，吃得津津有味的却是那只鸡！它偶尔会把一只猫推开，以便获得更好的位置。

猫们则警惕地看着鸡。好像这是一只鸟，是猎物。不过是个大的猎物。有时，它们偷偷接近它，身体贴向地面，嗖嗖地摆动着尾巴，现出要去杀戮的一切迹象。然后，他们要衡量一下鸡的尺寸，于是，行动就被自己的一转念给止住了。随之，就是一阵为省面子的、半心半意的突进动作。

双方很快就达到了平局。有时，我会向后院看，看见一只猫追赶着那只鸡。十分钟后，我又会看到鸡在追猫。我倾向于认为它们已经达到了彼此尊敬的地步。也许是相互吸引的情爱吧？

尽管知道鸡什么都能吃令人感觉不错，但猫食还是显得不那么合适。我叫了我的妈妈。

妈妈开车到了德克萨斯州拉波特市的饲料商店，买来一袋25磅的谷物，那是由蜀黍、玉米和燕麦混合而成的。她开始以分期付款的方式渐渐地把这种谷物运进来。鸡好像很喜欢这饲料。

我们的苦心没有白费。一天早晨，南希发现庭院里有一个鸡蛋。在鸡睡觉的松树底下，有一个窝，那里还有四个蛋。它们很小，淡褐色的，但毕竟是不错的。一件值得庆幸的事。

我在“纽约时报”上发表了关于这只鸡的故事之后，我的信箱就挤满了建议我如何照顾和喂养好鸡的信件。有人因为这鸡没有名字而不安，便写信建议各种名字：“维维安”显得有点激烈，“亨利埃塔”听来很聪明，但是“亨尼·佩尼”呢？

媒体一涌而入。“国家公共电台”把我的鸡安排进了它的一个周末节目里，这下给我出了个难题。“我的制片人想知道这件事，您能不能把电话放到鸡前面，让我们听一听它的动静？”采访者这样问我。不幸的是，我没有一根长达100英尺的电话线。“联合报社”派了一位摄影师，拍下了鸡的很多状态。（她有两只鸡。）

此后的一个早上，我从厨房窗户往外看，心一下子停跳了。没有鸡了——没在我的松树木里，也没在邻居处。也没在附近的任何一家院子里抓抓啄啄。没见到什么暴力的迹象，仅仅在后门处有一根黑色鸡毛。

她肯定是溜走了。但是为什么呢？

春天来了。难道她在寻找爱情？或者，也许她对于成名不堪其负？或者，也许她只是去寻找一个安静的下蛋地方吧？ William Grimes