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.
I shrugged off the apparition. Birds come and go. Usually they’re pigeons, not chickens, but like other birds, this one had wings and it would probably use them. Or so I thought.
The protagonist of this story is known simply as the chicken. How it came to a small backyard here, 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.