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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 | 
