#1 尚能饭译：鸡乐
鸡乐
她来过，她咯咯叫过，她征服过我们纽约市的后院.
英文原著者: 威廉·格里姆斯; 译者：尚能饭
原载“纽约时报” （现收入《我的美羽朋友》）
隆冬某日，余自后窗外观，见一小鸡。周身乌亮，颈下肉坠绯红, 宛若仓院觅食, 一如继往, 扒来啄去，咯咯直叫, 全然不知身处纽约市井之中也。
然小鸡何以流落至皇后区阿斯托利亚一小院, 仍不得而知。其初见于街邻一帮孟加拉人 “的哥” 之家。妻南希与吾皆疑彼等购来饲肥尔后烹食之。待其越篱入吾后院周边, 徘徊间大有喧宾夺主之势，吾等揣度遂烟消云散也。
食之? 断不可行也! 集饭庄评家与动物仁者于一身，吾素取彻头彻尾之伪君子心术。授吾以鱼鸭，则食不厌精; 万勿令吾观宰, 倘见之， 则难再下箸。
南希与吾旋又思忖, 小鸡或逃自距此仅约四街之遥一生禽市场，且尚在逃难之中。吾等顿生同情此勇敢小难民之心。搭救之责, 盖无旁贷者也。
至此，小鸡似为理想之宠物是也。
小鸡适应新境颇易。其社交重任咸在与其周围阿猫世界融为一体—盖缘吾处喂养约五只无家可归之野猫。然物不类, 何以聚乎?
某晨，余作窗外观，但见四猫一字排开, 立于其食盆之前，惟小鸡雄居其中，风卷残云, 宛若饕餮！且时而搡猫于側，以近食盆。
诸猫则审视小鸡, 以求对策。伊为鸟，乃阿猫盘中物矣。奈何大猎物是也。阿猫不时尾随其后，俯身地面，嗖嗖摆尾，作伺机出击状。旋即权衡小鸡块头，乃临阵作罢。继之，为挽回颜面, 阿猫们再做一番半心半意虚幌突进之招式。
双方遂成平局。时而，吾向外观，见猫逐鸡。俄顷，又见鸡逐猫。可见鸡猫间已至相互尊重之份上。抑或两厢喜欢焉可知也？
纵欣闻鸡无所不食，然猫食咸不宜矣。故电吾母。
母驱车至德州拉波特市饲料店，购一袋25磅蜀黍、玉米及燕麦杂拌, 并分批寄来。鸡食此料, 不亦乐乎。
种瓜得瓜。某晨，南希窥见院内有一鸡卵。鸡就寢之松树下有巢，复有四卵。虽小，介淡褐与米色间，仅此而已。犹可喜也。
余撰文“纽约时报” 以记 “鸡” 事，引得信箱爆满, 皆好事者函告照料及喂养小鸡之良方也。复有 “追星族”为小鸡尚无雅号而忐忑不安，便来函奉赠各种名号：“维维恩” 似太性感，“亨利伊达” 听之颇逗，然“小小鸡·佩尼” 当否？
媒体亦蜂拥而来。“美国国家广播电台”在其周末节目里邀吾 “侃” 鸡。采访者问曰:“吾制作人欲知，君能否将电话置小鸡前，以闻其声？” 所憾余无长达100英尺之电话连线。“美联社” 差一摄影师，来拍小鸡之风情多种（无奈其仅有两种风情。）
此后某晨，余复作灶窗外观，心骤停跳。呜乎, 小鸡不见矣! —未在我之松下，亦未在邻之树下。更未在邻院扒啄。无丝毫争斗之迹象，惟后门处落一黑羽而已。
小鸡定是丢了。然何故也？
春已至。抑或她春心荡漾, 觅爱求偶去耶? 抑或她不堪成名之累, 愤然出走耶？抑或她仅在寻一静谧之处, 平安产卵去耶？
译者注: 标题下的一句警语 (斜体) 系作者摹仿莎翁 “凯撒大帝” (“Julius Caesar”) 剧中凯撒大帝在征服Zela城后的名言: “I came, I saw, I conquered” (veni vidi vici).
Chicken Delight
She came, she clucked, she conquered our New York City backyard
By William Grimes
From “New York Times” (now included in his book entitled “My Fine Feathered Friend”)
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.
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