Chapter 12 Part VI-1

Not long after Colleen turned two, I inadvertently started the fateful chain of events that would take us out of Florida.I finished my column early that morning and wasted an hour and a half waiting for my editor.Bored and on a whim, I decided to browse the website of a magazine I'd been subscribing to shortly after we bought our West Palm Beach house.The magazine, Organic Farming Fields, was started in 1942 by the eccentric JI Rodale, and the magazine became the "Back to the Land" movement that flourished in the 1960s and 1970s of the Bible. Rodale was a New York City businessman dealing in electric switches when his health began to decline.Instead of turning to modern medicine to solve his problems, he moved from the big city to a small farm outside the borough of Emoth, Pennsylvania, and began working the fields.He was deeply distrustful of technology, and he believed that modern farming and gardening methods, which relied entirely on chemical pesticides and fertilizers, were not the savior of American agriculture as they were advertised.Rodale's theory is that the chemicals slowly poison the soil and all the humans, animals, and plants that inhabit it.He began experimenting with primitive farming techniques.On his farm, he builds a giant compost pile (a mixture of decaying organisms, such as leaves or manure, used to improve soil structure and increase soil nutrients) that decomposes plants, once the material turns into a fertile black humus (a brown or black organic matter consisting of whole or partly decomposed plant or animal matter that nourishes plants and improves the soil's ability to hold water), which he used as fertilizer and a natural soil-building By.He mulches his vegetable garden with a thick layer of straw, which suppresses weed growth and keeps the soil hydrated.He planted a crop of clover and alfalfa, then laboriously turned them with the plow to return nutrients to the soil.Instead of spraying pesticides, he unleashes thousands of ladybugs that devour the pests, as well as other beneficial insects.He was a little eccentric and even crazy, but his theory proved to be practical.His vegetable garden prospered, his health improved, and his theory and its results were advertised at length in the journals he founded.

By the time I started reading The Organic Farming Field, Rodale had long since passed away, as had his son, Robert Rodale.Robert carried on and developed the business his father started, turning Rodale Publishing into a successful multi-million dollar business.The writing and editing quality of this magazine is not particularly good; however, when you read it, you will deeply feel that it is written by a group of media who have not received professional media training, but rely on the knowledge of Luo Dai It is the result of a strong love for my farming philosophy and the hard work of gardeners who believe in it and devote themselves to the cause.I later learned that this was indeed the case.Regardless, I became increasingly interested in the philosophy of organic farming, especially after Jenny's miscarriage, when we suspected that this unfortunate event might have something to do with the pesticides we used.By the time Colleen was born, our yard was an organic oasis in the desert of chemical feed and pesticides on the outskirts of the city.Passers-by would often stop and admire our lush gardens, which fueled my enthusiasm, and they always asked me the same question: "What did you put in to make them look so good?" When I replied "I didn't put anything," they looked at me uncomfortably, as if they had just stumbled across some indescribable, Subversive and destructive things.

In my office that afternoon, I clicked through the Rodale Publishing page, and finally found the button that said Career Opportunities.I clicked through to the link, but I'm not sure why I did it.I love my job as a columnist; the daily interaction with readers; the freedom to pick my own topics and write as serious or as tongue-in-cheek as I want.I love newsrooms and the quirky, smart, neurotic journalists they attract.I love that my articles are listed among the most important stories of the day.I didn't want to leave the newspaper and go to some sleepy publishing company.However, I still skimmed through the list of jobs listed by Rodale Publishing Company, just out of a sense of novelty, but when I was in the middle of the list, I suddenly stopped. Organic Farming, the company's flagship magazine, is looking for a new executive editor.My heart skipped a beat.I often daydream about how a decent reporter can make a huge difference to a magazine, and this is my chance.It's just crazy; it's just ridiculous.A career editing stories about cauliflower and compost?Why would I want to do that kind of work?

I told Jenny about the opportunity that night, expecting her to say, sarcastically, "You're crazy for thinking of changing jobs." Instead, she Encouraging me to send in a resume, I was taken aback by her response.The idea of ​​leaving hot, humid, crowded, crime-ridden South Florida for a simpler life in the country had a powerful appeal to her.She misses the distinctly colored seasons and rolling hills; she misses the leaves falling in late autumn and the daffodils blooming in spring; she misses the hanging icicles and the sweet cider.She wanted our kids—as absurd as it sounds—and our dogs to experience the wonder of a winter blizzard. "Marley never even chased a snowball," she said, rubbing her bare feet against his hair.

"Now, finally, there is a good reason to change careers," I said. "You should just do it to satisfy your own curiosity," she says, "and see what happens. If they offered you that job, you'd probably say no." I have to admit that I shared her dream of moving north again.I've thoroughly enjoyed our decade-plus in South Florida, but I'm a northerner who never knows how to stop thinking about three things: the rolling hills, the changing seasons, and the open land.Even as I grew to love Florida's mild winters, spicy food, and witty, irascible locals, I couldn't stop dreaming of one day escaping to my own private slice of paradise—no That small piece of land the size of a postage stamp in the middle of Boca Raton is a real piece of land where I can dig in the dirt, chop my own firewood, and walk my dog ​​through the woods.

I applied for the job and told myself it was just a game.Two weeks later, the phone rang. It was Rodale's granddaughter, Maria Rodale.I sent the letter to Human Resources and was so taken aback that I didn't expect to get a phone call from the owner of the company in person that I asked her if she could repeat her last name.Maria has a personal interest in the magazine started by her grandfather, and she hopes to restore it to its former glory.Believing she needed a professional journalist, not another avid gardener advocating organic farming, she wanted the magazine to feature stories about the environment, genetic engineering, chemical plants, farms, and the growing organic Sports are more challenging as well as important stories.

I arrive at the job interview hoping to perform hard enough to get the job, but the moment I pull out of the airport and onto the winding two-lane country road, I'm completely intoxicated.Every bend in the road is a picture postcard: a stone farmhouse here; a wooden bridge there.The gurgling stream gurgles in the mountain stream, and the farmland with furrows stretches to the horizon.Next to a stop sign standing alone on the side of the road, I got out of my rental car and stood in the middle of the sidewalk.I looked around as far as I could, and saw nothing but trees and grass.Not a single car, not a single person, not a single building.At the first payphone booth I could find, I called Jenny: "You won't believe how beautiful this place is," I said.

Two months later, the moving company loaded everything in our Polka house into a giant truck.A tow truck came up to the house and towed our car and minivan.We handed over the keys to the new owners and spent our last evening in Florida on a neighbor's floor.Marley lay sprawled between us. "Indoor camp!" Patrick screamed. I rose early the next morning to take Marley on his last walk on Florida soil.As we walked around the block, Marley sniffed around and hopped on his hind legs, pausing at every bush and mailbox we passed to put his legs up.He seemed quite happy with the sudden change I was about to impose on him.I had bought a strong plastic crate in which to transport Marley on the plane, and, following Dr. down his throat.By the time our neighbors drove us to Palm Beach International Airport, Marley was red-eyed and pliable.We can put him on a leash and he won't mind.

As they entered the terminal, the Gerrogan family presented a lineup that looked quite amusing: two excited little boys running in circles, a hungry young man in a stroller. baby, two exhausted parents, and a dog who seemed to be drunk.Next to this lineup is our zoo: two frogs, three goldfish, a hermit crab, a snake named Sluggy, and a box of live crickets to feed the frogs.That crate was the biggest I could find, but when we got to the check-in counter, a woman in uniform looked at Marley, looked at the crate, looked at Marley, then said: "You can't put this dog on the plane in this container. He's too big to fit in."

"The people at the pet store said it was 'big dog' size." I pleaded. "The FAA regulations require that the dog can stand upright in the container and turn around," she explained, before adding, somewhat skeptically, "Okay, let's try that first." I opened the crate door and called to Marley, but he didn't voluntarily walk into the mobile cell.I pushed his body, I coaxed him with sweet words; but he just didn't move.Where do they go when I need dog biscuits?I searched my pockets, hoping to find something that would successfully bribe him, and finally, I pulled out a small jar of mints.I took out a candy and put it up Marley's nose. "Want a mint, Marley? Go get the mint!" And I tossed the mint into the crate.Sure enough, Marley took the bait and ran happily into the crate.

The lady was right; the case was a little too small for Marley.He had to curl up so his head wouldn't hit the top of the box; even his nose hit the back wall, and his butt stuck out of the open box door.I curled his tail and closed the door, nudging his ass in with a gentle elbow. "What did I tell you?" I said, hoping she'd think it was a standard animal container. "Can he turn around in it?" she asked. "Turn around, kid." I beckoned to Marley, and gave a little whistle, "Come on, turn around." He gave me a sideways look with those sleepy eyes clouded by anesthesia. His head was rubbing against the top of the box, as if waiting for instructions on how to perform such a difficult feat. If he can't turn around, the airline won't let him fly.I checked my watch.We only had twenty minutes left in total to go through security, walk through the concourse, and board the plane. "Come here, Marley!" I said even more desperately, "Come on!" I curled my fingers and shook the metal door so it rattled like a kiss. "Come on," I begged, "turn around." I was almost on my knees begging him when I heard a crash followed by Patrick's yell. "Frog," he called. "The frog is gone," screamed Jenny, jumping to her feet to catch the runaways. "Frog! Screaming! Come back!" cried the boys in unison. My wife, now pale, scurried about as the frogs hopped nimbly ahead of her.People passing by stopped and stared at the amusing scene.From a distance you can't see the little frogs at all, just a crazy lady with a diaper bag around her neck crawling around like she's having a paranoid attack early in the morning .I could tell from their expressions that they thought she might howl and roar at any moment. "Sorry, please wait a moment." I said to the airline's ground staff as calmly as possible, and then I joined the arrest operation with all hands and feet, hoping to help Jenny. We put on a hilarious entertainment for the early morning travellers, and just as the frogs were near the automatic gates, ready to make a final jump for freedom, we finally caught this group of frogs who almost achieved a group rally. Runaway guys.As we returned to the security counter, I heard a loud bang from the dog crate.The whole box trembled and wobbled on the floor.When I looked in, I saw Marley had turned around, and I wondered how he'd done it. "See?" I said to the baggage inspector. "He can turn around, no problem." "Okay," she said, frowning, "but you're really torturing him." Two crew members lifted Marley and his crate onto a dolly and carried him away.The remaining five of us, in order to catch up with our plane, ran all the way, just when the flight attendant was about to close the door, we finally ran to the door.It occurred to me that if we hadn't caught the plane, Marley would have arrived in Pennsylvania alone, and I couldn't even imagine what a terrible mess it would be. "Wait! There's us!" I yelled, pushing Colleen ahead of me, while the two boys and Jenny followed fifty paces behind me. When we were seated, I could finally let out a long breath.We've managed to pack Marley into a crate that didn't quite fit his size; we've caught the frogs trying to escape; we've gotten on the plane.The next stop is Pennsylvania.Now, I can take a break.Through the cabin window, I could see a crane unloading Marley's crate. "Look," I said to the kids, "that's Marley." They waved out the window and yelled, "Hi, Marley!" As the plane's engines revved up and the flight attendants checked that the passengers were buckled up, I pulled out a magazine.At this time, I noticed that Jenny, who was sitting in the row in front of me, froze suddenly.Then, I also heard that sound.From beneath our feet, from the bottom of the cabin came a muffled, but undeniable, sound.It was a low, mournful sound, a primal cry that started low and then rose. "Oh my God, he's wailing down there. Historically speaking, Labradors don't wail. Beagle retrievers (a small hound with short legs, drooping ears, and White, black and tan tabby) can howl. Wolves can howl. But Labradors don't howl, at least not basically. Marley has tried to howl twice before, both times in response to a howl A passing siren, the sound echoed in his head, his mouth opened into an O shape, and then, the most tragic sound I've ever heard, he didn't seem like he was responding wildly , more like gargling. But now, without a doubt, he was absolutely wailing. Passengers began to divert their eyes from the newspapers and novels they were reading.A stewardess who was distributing pillows suspended her work and raised her head, looking a little ridiculous.A woman sitting across the aisle from us looked at her husband and asked, "Listen. Did you hear that? I think it was a dog." Jenny stared straight ahead, and I stared straight ahead. Staring at my magazine.We would deny our dog ownership if asked. "Marley is sad," Patrick said. "No, son," I hoped to correct him, "it's a strange dog that we have never seen before and we don't know." But I didn't say anything, just held the magazine up high , covering my face, following the advice given by the immortal Richard Millhouse: the plausible gesture of denial.The jet's engine rumbled and the plane skidded down the runway, drowning out Marley's mournful elegy.I pictured him down there in the dark cargo hold, alone, terrified, confused, hallucinated, unable to even stand upright.I imagined that the roaring engine might, in Marley's unhinged mind, be interpreted as yet another thunderstorm.The poor fellow.As much as I hated to admit that Howling Marley was my dog, I knew that I would spend the entire flight worrying about him. No sooner had the plane left the ground than I heard another small pop, and this time Crowe said, "Gooooo." I looked down, and then, once more, stared straight at my magazine. "A plausible gesture of denial".After a few seconds, I furtively looked around.When I was sure no one was watching me, I leaned forward and whispered in Jenny's ear, "Don't look now, but the crickets are gone." We moved into a house on two acres on the side of a steep hill.Maybe it's just a small hill; but the locals don't seem to agree with that.Our property included a meadow where we could pick wild raspberries, a grove where I could chop and chop all I wanted, and a small trail where the kids and Marley soon discovered they could get their feet full of mud. brook.There is also a fireplace and countless plants and flowers, and when the autumn leaves fall, we can see the white steeple of the church on the nearby hill from our kitchen window. Our neighbor to our new home is a man with an orange beard who lives in a stone farmhouse built in the 1790s and who likes to sit on the back porch on Sundays , and then raised his rifle and fired a few shots into the woods, just for the fun of it, not knowing how frightened Marley would be with his frail nerves.On our first day in our new house, he visited us with a bottle of the family's maraschino wine and a basket of the largest blackberries I'd ever seen.He introduced himself as Dick (the digger).As we might guess from the moniker, Dick is a digger.If we needed to dig a hole or move a piece of land, Dick would be there to guide us, and we had only to yell, and he would come flying with his big machine. "If you hit a deer by accident, come to me," he said, with a wink, "and we can eat it before the police find out." In Polkadot. In our idyllic new life, there is only one thing that is more regrettable.Just minutes after we pulled into the driveway of our new house, Crowe looked up at me, saw big tears rolling down his eyes, and announced, "I thought I was Pennsylvania should have pencils." For our two boys, seven and five, it was a completely different world, a sort of truncation from where they used to live.Thinking of the name of the state we are about to relocate to, they arrive at the land expecting to see yellow berries like berries hanging from every tree and shrub for picking. object. The lack of educational provision in our present living environment is explained by the skunk (a small, mostly carnivorous Eastern Hemisphere mammal of the genus Skunk and related species, having a bushy tail and black fur with white spots , which emits a foul-smelling oily fluid from the genitals near the anus when frightened or in danger), opossum (a nocturnal omnivorous tree-dwelling species of kangaroo, especially those of the Western Hemisphere, fur thick, long and stout body with a long, winding tail), marmot (a common burrowing rodent of northern and eastern North America with short legs, a stocky body, and gray-brown fur), and Poison ivy (a North American shrub or vine with compound three-leaved leaves, small green flowers, pale white berries, and a skin rash when touched) is compensated, and these plants and animals are in our It grows so thick around the edge of the wood that they meander up the trees, and I get measles just to look at them.One morning, as I fumbled for the coffee pot, I casually glanced out the kitchen window, only to see a gorgeous eight-antlered stag staring back at me.Another morning, a whole family of wild turkeys ran across our backyard, clucking and clucking all the way.One Saturday, as Marley and I were returning home through the woods at the foot of the hill, we came across a hunter setting traps for mink pelts.A mink trapper, almost in my backyard! Life in the country is peaceful and charming, if a little lonely.The Pennsylvania Dutch are polite, but wary of outsiders.Of course we belong to the foreign population.After all the crowds and lines in South Florida, I should have loved and enjoyed solitude.On the contrary, however, I found, at least for the first few months, to reflect bleakly on the idea of ​​moving my family to a place where few would want to live. Marley, on the other hand, had no such qualms.Aside from the crackle of Dick's rifle being fired, he was perfectly attuned to his new country life.For a dog with more energy than reason, how could life not be enjoyed in the country?He ran across the lawn, through the bushes, and forded the stream.His mission in life is to chase down one of the myriad hares that use my garden as their own personal salad bar.He'd spot a hare munching loudly on lettuce leaves, and gallop down the hill in a furious chase, his ears fluttering behind him, paws pounding the ground, his dog barking. filled the entire air.Then he would sneak like a gangster in action, never getting within twelve feet of his prey until they ran off into the woods for safety.His distinguishing feature is that he will maintain an eternal optimism, believing that success is within reach.His tail wags, never gets frustrated, and five minutes later, he'll do the whole thing all over again.Fortunately, he's not very good at stalking skunks. Fall is here, and with it comes a whole new naughty game: raiding the leaf piles.In Florida, trees don't drop their leaves in the fall, so Marley thought the leaves falling from the sky at this moment were a special gift for him.While I raked the orange-yellow leaves into giant piles, Marley would sit by, waiting patiently, waiting for his moment, for the exact moment to strike.Right after I've finished building a huge, towering pile of leaves, he'll sneak up and crouch low.After every few steps, he pauses for a moment, his front paws raised, as if rounding up a gazelle (a small, swift antelope and its related African or Asian antelopes, distinguished by their slender legs). Famous for its neck and ringed horns) the lion sniffed the air.Then, just as I'm leaning on my rake, admiring my handiwork, he'll suddenly charge across the lawn in a series of bounding strides, fly himself up the last few feet, and , landing with a thump on the belly among the leaves, over which he growls, rolls, swings, claws, bites, and, for some reason I don't quite know, he And chasing my own tail furiously, without stopping, until my neat pile of leaves spread across the lawn once more.Then he would sit upright in the midst of his handiwork, the scattered remnants of the leaves clinging to his hair, and a self-satisfied look would appear on his face, As if his contribution was an essential part of the foliage-gathering process. Our first Christmas in Pennsylvania was supposed to be a white Christmas.Jenny and I once had to do a series of sales pitches to Patrick and Crowe, trying to convince them that leaving their Florida home and friends was in order to get the best home and friends, and one of the biggest selling points was that The promise of snow.In the north, when winter comes, large snowflakes like goose feathers will fall silently from the sky, and soon the whole land will be covered with a thick white carpet - this beautiful scenery covered in silver , can be used as a snow scene on a postcard.Then, people will go outside to have fun with snowball fights and snowmen.Moreover, the auspicious snow of Christmas is the best holy grail of northern winter experience.We look forward to the fact that when they wake up on Christmas morning, they will find a world that is completely white and flawless, save for Santa's sleigh outside our front door. In the week leading up to the big day, the three of them would sit together by the window for hours on end, gazing at the leaden sky as if they could will it open and open it up. Same with unloading those white cargo. "Come on, Snow!" shouted the children.They had never seen snow; neither had Jenny and I in years.We long for the sight of snow falling.However, the sky did not show any signs of imminent snowfall.A few days before Christmas, the whole family packed into the minivan and drove to a farm about a half mile away, where we felled a spruce tree and enjoyed a free ride Night tours in hay vans and hot cider around campfires.This is a classic moment of northern festivals that we all miss in Florida, but one thing is missing.Where is the damn snow?Jenny and I were beginning to regret the hype about the obligatory first snowfall.When we hauled home the freshly felled tree, the sweet scent of spruce sap filled the wagon, and the children complained that we had been cheated for not seeing a single snowflake.First there were no pencils, now there is no snow; what else could their parents have to make them happy? On Christmas morning, the kids found a brand new toboggan and enough ski gear for a hike to Antarctica under the spruce tree, but the view out our window was still just bare branches, dead lawn and brown corn field.I lit a cherry red flame in front of the fireplace and told the kids to be patient.When the snow is coming, it will come naturally. The New Year has come, but the snow still has not come.Even Marley looked fidgety like an ant on a hot pot, pacing, staring out the window, whimpering softly.The children are going back to school after the festival, but there is still no snow.At the breakfast table, they looked at me sullenly—a father who had cheated on them.I started making unconvincing explanations, saying things like "Maybe little boys and girls elsewhere need snow more than we do." "Yeah, that's right, Dad," Patrick said. Entering the third week of the year, snow has finally released me from the torment of purgatory.That night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Snow came quietly.Patrick was the first to sound the alarm, running into our bedroom at dawn and yelling and drawing the curtains. "Look! Look!" he screamed. "It's snowing!" Jenny and I sat up on the bed and stared out at the white world that justified the promise we had made.A white blanket covers hillsides, cornfields, pine trees, and rooftops to the horizon. "Of course, it's snowing," I said nonchalantly, "how did I tell you?" The snow was a full foot deep, and it was still falling.Soon, Crowe and Colleen also ran down the hall in a "winter".Marley woke up, too, and he stretched and slammed his tail on everything, looking terribly excited.I turned to Jenny and said, "I guess it seems unlikely that they will go back to sleep again." When she confirmed that this is indeed unlikely, I turned around and faced The children, then yelled, "Well, little bunnies, let's get dressed!" For the next half hour we wrestled with zippers, leggings, buttons, bandanas and gloves.By the time we're finally dressed, the kids look like mummies and our kitchen looks like the Winter Olympics, or the set of a big dog downhill ski race for a dog named Marley Assemble the standby area.I opened the front door, and before anyone else could sprint out, Marley rushed past us, knocking Colleen, who was bundled up, in the process.The instant his paws touched the strange white mass—ah, wet!Ah, cold! — he reconsidered, and then tried to turn sharply back.As everyone who's ever driven in the snow knows, sudden braking plus a reverse turn is never a good idea. Marley came to a full stop, his hips spinning in front of his body.Before he could spring straight up again, he fell on his side and, with a well-timed somersault, rolled a few steps from the front porch, crashing headfirst into a snowdrift middle.当他一秒钟之后站立起来时，他看上去就像是一个涂满了粉末的巨大的油炸圈饼。除了一个黑黑的鼻子以及两只褐色的眼睛之外，他完全是一团白色。一只令人讨厌的雪狗。他鼻子里面塞满了雪花，于是他打了一个惊天动地的喷嚏。他用爪子擦着脸上的雪。然后，仿佛有一只看不见的手从天堂里伸了下来，将一个装有兴奋剂的针管扎进了他的屁股中一样，他陡然地弹射了出去，开始绕着院子飞跑起来，大踏步地跳跃着，期间偶尔有几次因为摔了个筋斗或者跌倒在地而中断了跳跃。在马利看来，雪简直就跟突袭邻居家的垃圾堆一样地好玩。 如果你跟随马利在雪地里的足迹，便可以开始理解他那错乱的头脑了。他的路线充满了陡然的转弯以及反向，还伴有古怪的环形、八字形、螺旋形以及三角形，就仿佛他正在演算着某种只有他自己才明白的运算法则。不久，孩子们也以他为榜样，旋转着、滚爬着、嬉戏着，雪花将他们的外套上的每一处折痕和裂缝都给塞满了。詹妮将涂有黄油的面包、盛有热可乐的杯子带到了户外，她还带来了一个激动人心的消息：学校因大雪而延迟了返校的时间。我知道，不久我就没有办法将我那辆尼桑开出车道了，更别提在山路上艰难地上上下下行进了，于是我宣布，下雪天我也正式放假。 我将雪从我为了后院的营火而搭起的石头圆形物上给擦走，很快，里面就燃起了噼啪作响的火焰。孩子们坐在平地雪橇里从山坡上滑了下来，一路尖叫着，从营火旁边经过，然后滑到了树林边上。马利在后面追赶着他们。我看着詹妮，然后问道：“如果一年前有人告诉你说，你的孩子们乘着雪橇，正好停在了他们的后门外的话，你会相信吗？” “绝对不会。”她回答说，然后，弯曲着身体，捏了一个雪球朝我扔了过来，“砰”地一声击在了我的胸前。她的头发上落满了雪，她的双颊潮红，她呼出来的气凝结成了一团白雾。 “到这儿来，亲亲我。”我说道。 之后，孩子们便围坐在营火边取暖，我决定也来玩一玩雪橇，我还是在十几岁的时候坐过这玩意呢。“介意和我一道玩吗？”我问詹妮。 “很抱歉，吉恩?克劳德，你还是自个玩吧。”她回答说。 我将雪橇放在山顶，然后，坐在雪橇的后部，用轴部支撑着身体，脚则缩拢在雪橇的前端里面。我开始摇摆着要移动了。马利并不是经常有机会俯视着我，而且我倾斜着身体，看上去就等同于是在向他发出邀请。于是他侧身移到了我的身边，嗅着我的脸。“你想要什么？”我问道。这便是他所需要的欢迎。他爬上了雪橇，跨骑到我的身上，坐了在我的胸膛上。“快从我身上下来，你这个大傻瓜！”我尖声叫道。但是太迟了。我们已经徐徐向前移动了，当我们开始下降的时候，速度变得越来越快了。 “一路平安！”詹妮在我们身后叫喊道。 我们出发了，被雪橇破开的雪朝两边飞溅了起来，马利坐在我的前面，紧贴着我的身体，当我们沿着斜坡快速下滑的时候，他精力充沛地将我的脸给舔了个遍。凭借着我们两个的总重量，我们的动力自然要比孩子们的更大，所以我们飞速冲过了他们的雪橇痕迹逐渐消失的地方。“稳住，马利！”我尖叫道，“我们要进入树林了！” 我们冲过了一棵很大的胡桃树，然后，在我们冲过两棵野樱桃树之间的草丛时，居然不可思议地避开了所有坚挺的物体。我突然想到，再往前去便是距离尚未解冻的小溪只有几英尺的滑坡了。我尽力将我的脚踢出去，想起到刹车的作用，可是双脚却粘在了一起。这个滑坡十分陡峭，几乎是垂直向下的，而且我们仍然在向前滑去。我只能用手臂将马利搂抱住，然后紧紧地闭上了我的眼睛，叫喊道：“停——！” 我们的雪橇从滑坡上射了出去。我感觉自己就像是处在那些经典的卡通片的时刻之中——在落入到一个毁灭性的损害之前，在半空中停了一个被拉到无限长的一秒钟。只有在这部卡通片当中，我才会与一只精神失常、分泌着过量唾液的拉布拉多猎犬紧紧粘合在一起。我们互相紧紧贴着对方，然后以一个轻柔的蜡烛熄灭的声音紧急降落进了一个雪堤里，半个身体都悬在了雪橇外面，一直滑到了水边。我睁开了眼睛，察看了一下自己的身体状况。我的脚趾头和手指头还可以动，脖子也能够转动；身体没有任何一处出现骨折现象。马利站起了身，围绕着我腾跃着，渴望能够再来一遍这一充满刺激的游戏。我站了起来，呻吟了一声，然后将身上粘着的枝枝叶叶抖了抖，说道：“我太老了，不适合这玩意。”没料到，几个月之后，马利也老得无法再经受得起这种刺激了。 在宾夕法尼亚所度过的第一个冬天即将结束的时候，我开始注意到，马利在十二月份便已经九岁大了，他也表现出了一丝轻微的衰老迹象。虽然他仍然具有那不受任何拘束的突然的爆发力以及由于肾上腺素分泌过旺所导致的无穷精力，就像他在第一场雪落下的那天所表现出来的那样，可是现在，情况却发生了一些变化。白天的大部分时候，他都在打盹儿，散步的时候，他会比我先觉得疲累，这在我们的关系当中还是第一次。深冬的一天，气温在结冰的温度以上，空气里洋溢着冰雪即将融化的初春味道，我带着他在山坡上散步，我们下了一座山，然后爬上了第二座，这一座山比我们刚刚爬过的那一座更为陡峭，那间白色的教堂便坐落在这座山的顶部，教堂旁边还有一个安葬着国内战争期间阵亡士兵的公墓。这条路线是我经常走的，甚至在上一个秋天的时候，马利还能够不费多大的劲儿就走完了这段路程，尽管登山的角度总是会让我们两个都气喘吁吁。然而，这一次，马利却远远地落在了后面。我一路上都耐心地哄着他，喊着一些鼓励人心的字眼，然而，这就像在看着一个玩具随着其电池的耗尽而慢慢地停了下来一样。马利就是没有精力登上山顶了。我停了下来，让他休息一会儿再继续上路。这是我以前从来都没有做过的事情。“你该不会打退堂鼓吧，对吗？”我问道，弯下身子，用我戴着手套的手抚摸着他的脸。他抬起头来看着我，他的眼睛很明亮，他的鼻子湿湿的，完全没有为他那正在减弱的精力而担忧，仿佛没有比这更好的生活了：在一个冷冽清爽的深冬的早上，和在你身旁的主人，一起坐在乡间的一条路边上。“如果你认为我会背你的话，”我说道，“请你趁早打消这个念头吧。” 阳光照耀在我们的身上，这时候，我注意到，有许多的灰色已经爬上了他那茶色的脸庞。因为他的皮毛颜色很浅，所以效果并不十分明显，但也无法被否认。他的整个鼻口部位以及他的大部分眉毛，都已经从浅黄色变成了白色，我们并没有很好地意识到，我们那只永远的小狗，已经变成了一位年老的公民了。 这并不是说，他的行为也会随着年龄的增长而变得更为理性了。马利仍然保持着他那些滑稽的动作和古怪的姿态，只不过速度更为悠闲罢了。他仍然会从孩子们的盘子里面偷走食物。他仍然会用他的鼻子轻轻弹开厨房里的垃圾桶的盖子，然后在里面四处搜寻一番。他仍然会紧拉着拴在他颈子上的皮带。仍然会吞下种类广泛的家庭用品。仍然会喝光浴缸里面的水。而且，当天空黯淡下来、雷声隆隆作响的时候，他仍然会惊恐万分，如果那时候他是独自一人的话，他还是会变得极具破坏性的。有一天，当我们回到家里时，发现马利浑身都是泡沫，而克罗的床垫则摊开了在了地上，里面的线圈都被扯开了。 这些年来，我们对于马利所造成的损害都抱着达观的态度，但是现在，因为我们远离了佛罗里达那经常性的暴风雨天气，所以这些损害变得不那么频繁了。在一只狗的生命当中，难免有些石膏会掉落，有些垫衬会被撕开，有些地毯会被扯碎。就像任何一种关系那样，总是要付出一些代价的。它们是我们在获得马利所给予的欢乐、开心、保护以及陪伴的同时所应该接受的代价。我们花费在我们的狗以及被他破坏的物品身上的钱，或许足够让我们买下一艘小小的游艇了。但是，有多少艘游艇会等待在门口，迎接你的归来呢？它们能够爬到你的膝盖上，或者与你一道乘坐着雪橇滑下山坡，舔着你的脸吗？ 马利已经赢得了我们家庭中的地位。就像是一位诡诈但又让人爱戴的叔叔那样，他就是他。他永远不会达到参加威斯敏斯特的水平，甚至也不够资格参加全国性展览。我们知道这些。但是，我们接受了这只狗，接受了他的所有缺点，并且深深地喜爱着他。 “你这个怪老头。”在那个深冬清晨的路边上，抚摸着他的脖颈，我对他说道。我们需要再攀登一段陡峭的山坡，才能够到达我们的目标——那个公墓。可是，就像在现实生活中那样，我领会到，旅程要比目的地更为重要。于是我单膝跪了下来，将我的手放在他的侧腹上，然后说道：“让我们就在这儿坐上一会儿。”当他准备好了之后，我们便转过身，走下了山路，回家去了。 那一年的春天，我们决定尝试一下畜牧业。现在，我们在乡下拥有了两英亩的土地；所以似乎应该在这块土地上养上一两只家畜。而且，我还是《有机肥耕作园地》的编辑，一本长久以来都在致力于倡导将动物——以及它们的肥料——与一个健康的、十分平衡的园地相结合的杂志。“养一头奶牛一定会很有趣的。”詹妮建议说。 “一头奶牛？”我问道，“你疯了吗？我们甚至连一个畜棚都没有；我们怎么能够养一头奶牛呢？你建议我们把它养在哪儿呢，养在车库里吗？就让它待在小型客货车的旁边？” “那么养只绵羊如何？”她说道，“绵羊很可爱。”我朝她投去一个“我十分老练而你则毫无实践经验”的神情。 “一头山羊怎么样？山羊也很可爱。” 最后，我们终于否决了所有饲养家畜的提议而决定饲养家禽。对于任何一位发誓要戒除化学杀虫剂和肥料的园丁来说，饲养小鸡会很有意思的。它们很便宜，而且养护的费用也相对较低。它们仅仅需要一个小小的鸡笼以及每天早上的几杯碾碎的谷物就会很开心了。它们不仅可以提供新鲜的鸡蛋，而且，当不受束缚自由闲逛的时候，它们会将一天都用来挖泥土，就像是颇具效率的小型旋转式耕耘机一样，而且当它们一边漫步的时候，还会一边用它们那含有丰富的氮的排泄物给土壤施肥。每天晚上，在黄昏的时候，它们会自觉地回到自己的鸡笼里面去。这样的动物有谁会不喜欢去喂养呢？一只小鸡便是一位崇尚有机肥耕作的园丁的最好的朋友。饲养小鸡非常有意义。此外，就像詹妮所指出来的那样，它们也通过了可爱这一关的测试。 那就决定饲养小鸡了！于是詹妮主动同在孩子的学校里所结识的一位母亲成为了好朋友，因为她居住在一个农场里，而且她表示愿意从下一窝孵化的蛋中挑几只小鸡送给我们。我将我们的计划告诉了狄克，他也同意有几只母鸡在这块地方晃悠是件非常有意思的事情。狄克自己就有一个很大的鸡笼子，他在里面饲养了一群小鸡，这样一来，他不仅有鸡蛋可吃，还有鸡肉可尝了。 “不过我要提醒你们一句，”狄克说道，将他那两只肉墩墩的胳膊交叉到了胸前，“你怎么做都可以，就是不要让孩子们给它们起名字。一旦你给它们起了名字，那么它们就不再是家禽，而变成了宠物。” “很有道理。”我表示赞成。我知道，家禽畜牧业不应该有多愁善感的空间。母鸡们可以存活十五年甚至更长的时间，可是，它们只有在交配的最初几年里才会产蛋。当它们不再下蛋的时候，也就是要把它们炖成鸡汤的时候了。这是饲养鸡群的一个组成部分。 狄克狠狠地看着我，仿佛已经猜想到了我将会面临的情形，于是他补充了一句：“一旦你给它们起了名字的话，那么一切都完了。” “一定，”我附和着他的意见，“绝对不会给它们起名字的。” 第二天晚上，我下班后将车开进了车道上，然后，三个孩子从房子里面冲了出来迎接我，他们每个人的手里都捧着一只刚刚出生的小鸡。詹妮跟在他们的后面，手里抱着第四只。她的朋友，堂娜，在那天下午便将这些幼禽带了过来。这些只有一天大的小家伙们竖起脑袋向上凝视着我，好像在问：“你是我们的妈妈吗？” 帕特里克是第一个将坏消息委婉地告诉我的人：“我的这只叫做羽毛！”他宣布说。 “我的叫啁啾。”克罗说道。 “我的这只叫毛毛。”科琳插话进来。 我向詹妮投去了一个疑惑的表情。 “绒毛，”詹妮纠正说，“她给她的小鸡命名为绒毛。” “詹妮，”我抗议道，“狄克是怎么告诉我们的？这些是农场里的动物，不是宠物。” “哦，得了，农夫约翰，”詹妮说道，“你和我都知道，你是决不会伤害它们中的任何一只的。看看他们有多么可爱！” “詹妮。”我说道，声音里升起了一股挫败感。 “顺便说一句，”她说道，举起了她手里的第四只小鸡，“来见一见雪莉。”