Chapter 13 2

So Feather, Chirp, Fluff, and Sherry settled in a box on our kitchen counter, with a light bulb dangling over their heads to keep them warm.They sleep after eating, eat after sleeping, and eat more, so they grow up at a very amazing speed.A few weeks after we brought the chicks home, I was awakened at dawn by a sound.I sat up straight on the bed and listened.From downstairs came a faint, dismal cry.It was a hoarse wah-wah, more like the cough of a patient with tuberculosis.The voice came again: "Ooo-oh-oh!" A few seconds later, the voice came again, though still weak, but this time more clearly: "Ooo-oh-oh!"

I shook Jenny awake, and when she opened her eyes, I asked, "When Donna brought the chicks over, did you ask her to check them to make sure they were hens?" "You mean you'd do that?" she asked, before rolling over and falling back into a sound sleep. This is called gender identification.Farmers who know what they're doing examine a newborn chick and determine with about 80 percent accuracy whether it's a male or a female.At a produce store, a pair of sexed chicks will require the buyer to pay an additional fee.So, the cheaper option is to buy a bird of unknown sex, with the following in mind: if it's a male, kill it while its meat is still tender; If it is a female, then it will be raised for egg production.Of course, taking this sex-unknown gamble means you could kill, eviscerate, pluck the feathers, and a host of other brutal ways to end the lives of those roosters.As anyone who has ever raised chickens will know, there is no room for two roosters in a flock.

It turned out that Donna hadn't tried to sex our four chicks, three of our four "incubating hens" were males.Our kitchen counters are the "Boystown America" ​​of poultry.One of the habits of roosters is that they are never satisfied with being second to other roosters.If you had an equal number of roosters and hens, you might expect them to pair up and form a happy couple like Orchi and Harriet.But you are wrong.The roosters will fight endlessly to determine who is the boss of the chicken coop, and the scene will be bloody and bloody.The winner will have all the hens.

As they entered adulthood, our three roosters started posing, pecking, and as I ran out to the backyard to set up their coop, I thought with great sadness that they were still in my kitchen, Moreover, under the stimulation of the male hormone, they will cry at a high pitch.And Shirley, our poor, overburdened hen, gets more attention than even the most sexually driven females can ever get. I used to think that the constant crowing of our three roosters would drive Marley crazy.In Marisan's young years the sweet twitter of a tiny chaffinch in the backyard would also have caused him to bark wildly, and he would run from window to window, using The hind legs jumped up and down.However, the three crowing roosters who are now only a few steps away from his food bowl have no effect on him.He didn't even look like he knew they were close at hand.Each day the crowing would get louder and more powerful than the previous, and the crowing from the kitchen at five o'clock in the morning would fill the house. "Woo-oh-oh!" Marley was soundly asleep amidst the deafening noise.That's when it dawned on me for the first time that maybe he wasn't deaf to the cries, or maybe he didn't hear them at all.One afternoon, when he was dozing off in the kitchen, I walked up behind him and said, "Marley?" He didn't respond.I yelled louder, "Marley!" Still no response.I clapped my hands and yelled, "Marley!" He lifted his head and looked around blankly, his ears perked up, trying to figure out what his radar system was picking up.I did it again, clapping my hands loudly and calling his name loudly.This time, he turned his head and caught a glimpse of me standing right behind him. "Oh, it's you!" He jumped up, tail wagging, looking very happy and obviously surprised to see me.He bumped his head against my feet in greeting, then gave me a cowardly look as if to ask, "What's the purpose of sneaking up on me like this?" My dog, it seems , he was going deaf.

So everything started to make sense.For the last few months, Marley seemed to be ignoring me in a way he hadn't before.He didn't even glance in my direction when I called to him.When I took him outside at dusk, he would sniff his way all over the yard, forgetting my whistles and calls to turn him back.When someone rang the doorbell, he would fall asleep at my feet in the family room, not even bothering to open his eyes. Marley's ears had given him a lot of trouble when he was a kid.Like many Labradors, he was prone to ear infections, so we used to spend a considerable amount on antibiotics, ointments, cleansers, drips, and vet visits.He even had surgery to shorten his ear canals in an attempt to get rid of these troubles.It wasn't until we brought these impossibly neglected roosters into our house that it dawned on me that Marley's ear troubles had damaged him badly over the years, and our dog, had gradually Into a world of silence where whispers can no longer be heard.

However, Marley didn't seem to mind that.He's fine with retirement, and his hearing problems don't seem to be having any ill effects on his laid-back country lifestyle.If anything, deafness proved to be a blessing for him, finally giving him an excuse to disobey his doctor's orders.After all, how could he heed an order he couldn't hear?While I've always insisted that he was dull, I could swear he knew how to turn his deafness into an advantage.If you dropped a steak into his bowl, he'd be trotting over from the next room in no time.He still has the ability to recognize the dull, delightful sound of a piece of meat falling into a metal bowl.However, when he is somewhere he prefers, he will never hear your yelling to come over, and he will happily hang around far away from you, not even Steal a guilty look at you like he used to.

"I think the dog is teasing us," I told Jenny.She also agrees that Marley's hearing problems appear to be selective.Every time we sneak up on him, clap our hands, call his name, test him, he never responds; every time we drop food into his bowl , he will run over.He didn't seem to be able to hear all the other sounds except the one that tickled his heart the most, or rather, the one that tickled his stomach the most: the sound of the meal being served. Marley's appetite for food was insatiable, and he seemed to be forever hungry.Not only were we giving him four big scoops of dog food a day—enough to last a week for a litter of Chihuahua puppies (small, pointy-eared, slippery-coated dogs native to Mexico)—but , we also started haphazardly supplementing his diet with table scraps, a move that went against the advice of every dog ​​guidebook we'd read.We know that leftover food on the table will only make dogs develop the bad habit of choosing human food instead of dog food (however, if the dog is fed between a half-eaten hamburger and a dry kibble Who can blame them for choosing between foods?).Table scraps are the prescription for obesity in canines.And Labradors are especially prone to becoming chubby, especially as they enter middle age.Some Labradors, especially those of the English lineage, grow into adults in a round mass that looks as if they have been inflated with an air hose. Get ready to float in the Thanksgiving parade on Fifth Avenue.

But our dog does not belong to the above situation.Although Marley has many problems, obesity is not one of them.No matter how many calories he wolfed down, he was always going to burn more calories.His irrepressible, high-spirited exuberance consumed a tremendous amount of energy.It's like an extremely powerful electric machine that instantly converts every ounce of fuel into pure, raw power.Marley is an astonishing physical specimen of limitless vitality, the kind of dog that stops passers-by to giggle.He was huge for a Labrador retriever, and he weighed ninety-seven pounds, which was much more than the average male dog of the breed, which was sixty-five to eighty pounds.Even when he was old, most of his body was still pure muscle--firm, strong, without an iota of fat.His ribcage was the size of a small beer barrel, yet those ribs stretched right under his fur without any extra padding.We're not worried about obesity; in fact, quite the opposite.We visited Dr. Jay several times before we left Florida and Jenny and I always had the same anxiety: We fed him a lot of food and he was still skinnier than most labs , and he always looked hungry, even after he had just wolfed down a bucket of kibble, which, you know, was enough for a draft horse.Are we slowly starving him?Dr. Jay often responds in the same way.He'd put his hand on Marley's muscular flank, send him on an utterly blissful Labrador evader tour around the cramped testing room, and tell us, in terms of physical fitness, Said Marley was doing great. "Just keep what you're doing," Dr. Jay would say.Then, when Marley dives between his legs, or knocks a cotton ball off the counter to the floor, Dr. Jay will add, "Obviously, I don't need to tell you that Marley burns A lot of energy."

Every night, after we had finished our dinner, it was time to feed Marley.I would fill his bowl with dog food, and then randomly toss any good leftovers I could find into his bowl.There were three kids at the table, so the half-eaten food was something we had plenty of stockpiled.Bread crusts, steak toppings, pan drippings, chicken skin, gravy, rice, carrots, prunes, sandwiches, three-day-old macaroni—it all went into his bowl.Our pet may act like a court jester, but he eats like the Prince of Wales.The only foods we won't give him are those that we know have a negative effect on the dog's health, such as desserts, potatoes, and chocolate.I have the same problem as people who buy human food for their pets, however, enriching Marley's meals with scraps that would otherwise be thrown away makes me feel eco-conscious and merciful .Because, I gave Marley a little respite from the never-ending plight of eating monotonous dog food.

Marley no longer has to rummage through our trash cans for food, as he has become the first responder who responds to spills and spills.For him, any confusion is nothing more than a piece of cake.When one of our kids drops a whole bowl of spaghetti and meatballs on the floor, we just whistle and stand back while the old vacuum sucks up every strand of spaghetti, And then keep licking the floor until it shines.Scattered peas, dropped celery, slid scallops, splattered applesauce, whatever it was, Marley could handle it.As long as it is dropped on the floor, it will disappear quickly.To the amazement of my friends, he even wolfed down the salad wrapped in leafy greens.

Since the food had to fall to the ground before it ended up in Marley's stomach, he gradually became a skilled and unrepentant thief, most of the time Marley would target his plunder in the The three children who were not on his guard, and before he acted, he always checked to make sure that neither Jenny nor I noticed him.For him, birthday parties are like mining a bonanza.He would weave among partygoers as young as five years old, brazenly snatching hot dogs from their tiny hands.During one party, we estimate he snatched nearly two-thirds of the birthday cake in total, stealing piece by piece from the paper plates the children were resting on their laps. No matter how much food he greedily devours, whether through legal three meals a day or through illegal acts, he always wants more food.So, when Marley went deaf, it shouldn't surprise us at all that the only sound he could still hear was the sweet, soft thud of food slamming down. One day, when I got home from get off work, the whole house was empty.Jenny was out with the kids, so I called for Marley, but there was no answer.I went upstairs because Marley used to stay upstairs to nap when he was left alone, but I didn't see him there.After changing, I went back downstairs to find him standing maliciously in the kitchen.With his back to me, he was standing on his hind legs, resting his front paws and chest against the kitchen table as he devoured a grilled cheese sandwich.My first reaction was to scold him loudly.But instead of doing that, I decided to see how close I could get to him before he realized he was there.I tiptoed behind him and approached him step by step until I was close enough to touch his body.As he chewed the crust, he glanced now and again at the door to the garage, because he knew that was where Jenny and the children would go when they returned.The moment the door opened, he would lie on the floor under the table and pretend to be asleep.It didn't seem to occur to him that his father would come home too, just sneaking in through the front door. "Oh, Marley?" I asked in my normal voice, "What do you think you're doing?" He just kept swallowing his sandwich, oblivious to my presence.His tail was wagging listlessly, a sign that he thought he was home alone and that his food-snatching behavior would get away with it.Obviously, he was having fun. I cleared my throat loudly, but he still didn't hear me.I made a kissing sound with my mouth.He still didn't respond.He quickly finished off one sandwich, nudged the plate aside, and leaned forward, targeting the crust on the second plate. "You're such a bad dog," I said angrily as he munched.Twice I snapped my fingers, and he froze for a moment, staring at the back door. "What's that? Is that the car door slamming?" After a while, convinced he didn't hear anything, he returned to eating his stolen food. Just then, I reached out and gave him a light pat on the buttocks.I seemed to light the fuse of a powder keg.The old dog's soul was almost blown away.As soon as he saw me, he recoiled from the table and fell to the floor, rolling over and exposing his belly to me in a sign of surrender. "Saboteur!" I told him, "You are such a saboteur." However, I did not punish him.He's an old dog; besides, he's deaf;I don't intend to change him.Sneaking up behind him just for fun and seeing him freaking out of my wits made me laugh out loud.Now, as he lies at my feet, begging for forgiveness, I just feel a little sad.I secretly hope that he can always disguise his behavior of stealing food. I built the chicken coop, which is a pyramid-shaped structure of plywood with a drawbridge-style diving board that opens and closes, and at night I raise this diving board so that the predators Guard out.Donna kindly took two of our three cocks back and swapped them for two hens.Now we have three hens and one over androgen rooster, so almost every waking minute the rooster is doing one of three things: courtship, sex, or serving He crowed boastfully at the sexual performance he had just made.Jenny remarked that men would be like roosters if they weren't forced by social convention to repress their true nature.I also agree with this.Because I have to admit, I do kind of envy that lucky cock. Every morning we would release the chickens from their cages and let them roam free in the yard while Marley would heroically run towards them several times, before losing strength and finally stopping. Charge ahead, barking all the way.It was as if some genetic code inside him was sending an urgent message: "You're a hound and they're birds. Don't you think it's a good idea to chase them?" I think so.Soon, the birds knew that this rumbling yellow beast was not threatening, but just a somewhat annoying guy.Also, Marley was learning to share the yard with these new feathered interlopers.One day I was weeding in the garden and I looked up and saw Marley and the four chicks walking towards me in a single file, as if in formation, the birds were pecking and Marley was sniffing. Where they walked, it was like a Sunday stroll with old friends. "What kind of self-respecting hound are you?" I ran after him.Before Marley hastily reunited with his new pals, he lifted his legs and pissed on a tomato. In fact, a person can learn a few things from an aging dog.As time passed, Marley's debilitation increased.He made us realize the finiteness of life that will never compromise.Jenny and I are just entering middle age.Our children are still young, our bodies are still healthy, and our retirement years are far away on the unseen horizon.So we could have easily denied that the inevitable age crept up our brows and hairpins, could have easily pretended that we were not living the years.Marley, however, does not afford us this luxury of denial.As we watch him grow old, deaf, and crippled, we cannot ignore his dying state.Time invades us slowly and quietly; however, time invades a dog very quickly, and this speed is astonishing and direct.In the short span of twelve years, Marley has gone from a happy puppy to a clumsy teenager to a muscular adult to a shambling old dog. process.One year for us is equivalent to seven years for a dog. Therefore, Marley, who has only lived in the world for twelve years, is now nearly ninety years old. His once shining white teeth have gradually worn away into brown stumps.Three of his four canine teeth were already missing, falling out one by one in the frenzied panic attack he was trying to carve out a way to escape as far as China.His smell, which is always a little fishy, ​​has taken on a sun-dried Dumpster can It smells like trash cans). His digestion is not the same as before, he has become the same gas as marsh gas.There was a time when I could have sworn that if I lit a match, the whole house would burst into flames.Malita's silent, deadly flatulence (a state of excess gas in the digestive tract) that often fills the room seems to have a direct relationship to the decline in the number of diners in our home. "Marley! Stop farting!" the kids would scream in unison and scurry away.Sometimes, he even waved his paws to drive the smell away.Sometimes, when he was sleeping peacefully, the smell would float into his nostrils; then his eyes would open suddenly, and he would knit his brows, as if to ask: God! Who farted this?" Then he quickly stood up and moved to the next room. When he wasn't farting, he was going outside to defecate.His choice of where to squat to defecate has become a compulsive obsession.Every time I let him out, it took him longer and longer to decide on the best spot.He would pace back and forth, round and round, sniffing, pausing, scratching the dirt, circling, walking on, all the while with a pretty ridiculous grin on his face smile.When he was searching the ground for a piece of heaven where he could squat down and defecate, I would stand outdoors, sometimes in the pattering rain, sometimes in the swirling snow, sometimes Is standing in the dark night, often barefoot, occasionally wearing men's boxer shorts.I knew from experience that I wouldn't dare leave him outside unsupervised, as he would most likely climb the winding hill to visit the dog on the next street. Sneaking around has become a sport for him.As long as there is a chance, he will take the opportunity to escape suddenly.Of course, it was not a sudden escape in the true sense.He would move from bush to bush until he was completely out of sight.I let him out the front door late one night to take one last walk before falling asleep.The icy rain had formed a large slush (partially melted snow or ice) on the ground, so I went inside and grabbed a raincoat from the closet.Less than a minute later, when I was back on the sidewalk, Marley was nowhere to be seen.I went out into the yard, whistling and clapping my hands, knowing he couldn't hear me, but all the sleeping neighbors must have heard me, so, for Marley's sake, I was willing to risk The next day, there is a danger of facing dissatisfied eyes from neighbors or even direct questioning.I dove into neighbors' yards in the pouring rain and spent twenty minutes looking for Marley in what was sure to be the new fad in wellies, raincoat, and boxer shorts.I pray that the lights on the neighbors' porches never turn on.The longer I search, the more my rage burns. "Where is he going at this hour?" However, as time passed, my anger turned into worry.I thought about all the old people you read about in the papers who sneaked out of nursing homes and were found freezing to death in the snow three days later.I went home, went upstairs and woke up Jenny. "Marley's gone," I said. "I can't find him anywhere. Don't know where he's been in this freezing rain." She jumped out of bed immediately and hurried into her jeans , put on a sweater, and put on rain boots.Together we broaden the scope of our search.As I stumbled through the dark woods looking for Marley, I could hear Jenny coming up the other side of the hill, whistling and clucking for him, and I figured I'd find the lost Conscious Marley was lying on the river bed. Finally Jenny and I met on the mountain road. "Did you find anything?" I asked. "Nothing," Jenny replied. We were drenched from the rain, and my bare feet were shivering from the bitter cold. "Come on," I said, "let's go home and warm up before I drive out to look." We went down the hill and up the driveway.That's when we spotted Marley, standing under a huge rain curtain, looking ecstatic about our return.I could have killed him.Instead, I led him inside and wiped his wet body with a towel, the unmistakable smell of a wet dog filling the kitchen.This late-night excursion took all the strength out of Marley, and he was so exhausted that he lay there motionless until noon the next day. Marley's vision was gradually blurring, too, and children could now run up to twelve feet in front of him without him noticing.He's also shedding so much that Jenny has to vacuum every day, but even then she can't keep up with Marley's shedding.Dog hair gradually stuffed into every crack in our home, sneaked into every corner of our closet, and even slowly appeared in the dishes of our three meals a day.He has always been a shedding animal, but what used to be a little snow has now grown into a blizzard.He would shake his body, and the stray hairs would rise around him like a cloud of smoke and settle on every surface.One night, while I was watching TV, my legs were dangling under the couch, absently stroking his buttocks with my bare feet.During commercial breaks, I looked down and there was a pomelo-sized furball near where I was rubbing against his body.His hairball (a clump of hair that exists in an animal's stomach or intestine and is the result of an accumulation of bits of hair swallowed each time the animal licks) rolled on the wooden floor like in a windswept landscape. Tumbleweed (a plant that, at the end of its growing season, detaches from its roots, is blown by the wind, and rolls across fields). Most disturbing is Marley's buttocks.He suffered from stubborn arthritis, which left his joints debilitating and often painful.The dog that would let me mount him like a wild horse, the dog that could lift the entire dining table on his shoulders and circle the room, can barely support himself now up.When he lay down, he would moan in pain, and when he struggled to stand up, he would moan again.I didn't realize how weak his hip was now, until one day, when I gave him a light pat on the hip, his hind legs and buttocks slumped, as if he had just Was hit violently.He fell down.This scene is really unbearable to watch. It's also becoming increasingly difficult for him to climb to the second floor, but he doesn't want to sleep alone on the first floor, even after we set up a dog bed for him at the foot of the stairs.Marley loves humans, crouching under people's feet, resting his jaw on the mattress, panting in our faces when we sleep, and squeezing his head behind the shower curtain to drink while we shower drink.Now, he is not willing to stop all this.Every night, when Jenny and I were back in the bedroom, he would pace up and down the stairs in annoyance, whimpering, barking, pacing, and finally plucking up the courage to tentatively use his front Claw took his first steps toward the stairs that not long ago had been climbed without effort.I stood at the top of the stairs on the second floor and called him, "Come up, boy. You can do it." After a few minutes, he disappeared around the corner because he needed a run-up, and then he rushed, he His shoulders carried most of his weight.Sometimes he managed to climb the stairs; other times he stopped halfway and had to go back to the starting point and try again.And his most sympathetic attempt was when he completely missed his foot and slid back down the stairs humiliatingly on his belly.He was too big so I couldn't carry him upstairs but I followed him downstairs more and more and when he wanted to move his front paws forward I carried his ponytail to help him with every step of the stairs. Since stairs are more difficult for him now, I thought Marley would try to limit the number of trips up and down.But his actions still violated this common sense view of mine.No matter how hard it was for him to climb the stairs, if I had to go back downstairs to grab a book or turn off the light, he would be right at my heels, stomping down the stairs behind me.Seconds later, he had to repeat the painful climb all over again.Once he got to the second floor at night and Jenny and I needed to go back downstairs, we would sneak behind him so he wouldn't have to follow us downstairs.We figured it would be fairly easy to sneak downstairs without him noticing, since his hearing is now severely impaired and he sleeps longer and deeper than before.Yet he always seemed to know when we were sneaking away.One night I was lying in bed reading a book while Marley was asleep on the floor next to me, snoring heavily.I closed the pages quietly, slid off the bed, tiptoed around him, out of the room, and turned around to make sure I hadn't disturbed him.Only a few minutes after I got downstairs, I heard his heavy steps looking for me on the stairs.He's supposed to be deaf and half his eyesight is halfway gone, but his radar system still seems to be working fine. This accompanying shadow not only occurs at night, but also throughout the day.For example, I would sit at the kitchen table reading the newspaper while Marley curled up at my feet as I stood up and walked across the room to refill the coffee pot, even though I was still in the Within his line of sight, and soon to be back, he would still struggle to get up and walk to my side with difficulty.However, as soon as he lay comfortably under my feet, which was filling the coffee pot, I immediately returned to the dining table, so he had to drag his heavy body again to move back to the foot of the dining table.A few minutes later, I'd walk into the family room, turn on the stereo, and he'd struggle to pull himself up, waddle, follow me into the room, twirling around, then groaning and dropping down at my feet, But at this moment, I was about to get up and walk away.In this way, Marley endured endless pain, overcame many difficulties, and tirelessly followed, not only for me, but also for Jenny and the three children. 随着年岁的增长，马利的状况时好时坏，有时候，这种好与坏的时段太过接近了，以致于很难相信这是同一只狗。 在2002年春天的一个晚上，我将马利带到户外，绕着院子进行一次短暂的散步。那天夜里十分寒冷，风也很大。户外清爽的空气使我浑身充满了活力，于是我开始跑起步来，而感到分外欢闹的马利也在我的身旁飞跑起来，就仿佛回到了以前的那些日子。我甚至大声地对他说道：“看，马利，你的身体里面仍然有一部分是小狗的状态。”我们一起小跑着返回到了前门，他的舌头吊在外面，开心地喘着气，眼睛也显得很有活力。在门廊的露台处，马利勇敢地试图跳跃上两级台阶。可是，当他正要奋力一跃的时候，他的骻部却塌落下来，于是他发现自己尴尬地卡在了那里：他的前爪搭在了露台上，他的腹部搁在了台阶上，而他的屁股则平塌在了人行道上。他坐在那儿，抬头看着我，仿佛不知道自己刚才上演了多么难为情的一幕。我吹了声口哨，把手在大腿上拍了拍，然后他便勇敢地用力摆动着他的前腿，试图站起身来，然而却没有成功。他无法将自己的骻部从地上抬起来。“来啊，马利！”我叫喊道。但他就是动弹不得。最后，我用手抓在了他的肩膀下面，将他移到了人行道上，这样他就可以四条腿全都着地了。然后，在经过了几次失败的尝试之后，他终于站立了起来。他朝后退去，神情忧愁地看了一会儿台阶，然后朝前大步慢跑，进到了屋子里头。从那一天开始，他作为一个楼梯攀爬的常胜将军的自信心就大为减弱了；他再也没有尝试着不停顿地连续跃上那小小的两级台阶了。 毫无疑问，衰老是一个十分糟糕的状态。而且，还会令人丧失尊严。 马利让我意识到了生命的短暂，意识到了生命那转瞬即逝的快乐以及令人怀念的时刻。他让我领悟到，我们每个人都应该去珍惜那如金子般宝贵的寸寸光阴，不可以挥霍与浪费。这一天，你还在海里游泳，相信自己的速度可以与海鸥赛跑；第二天，你或许都无法弯下身子从地上的碗里饮水喝了。与帕特里克?哈里以及其他所有的人一样，我只拥有一次生命。我一直都在追问着同一个问题：难道我的一生就要在编辑一本园艺杂志上度过吗？这并不是说我的这份新工作没有意义。我很自豪自己从事着这样一本杂志的编辑工作。可是，我非常怀念以前在报社的生活。我怀念那些阅读报纸的人们以及那些撰写报纸的人们。我怀念成为当天重要故事中的一部分的感觉。我怀念在最后期限的压力之下思如泉涌的创作快感，以及第二天早上醒来便发现我的电子邮箱里面挤满了那些对我的文字作出回应的邮件。而我最怀念的，便是讲述故事的快乐。我想知道，为什么我要离开一个与我的性情如此适合的工作，而在一本杂志那令人厌烦的成本预算、无情的广告压力、令人头痛的人员配置以及无人喝彩的幕后的编辑琐事等一系列的管理工作中逆水跋涉着。 所以，当我以前的一位同事顺口提到说《费城调查者》正在寻找一位专栏作家的时候，我便毫不犹豫地投去了简历。专栏作家的职务是很难得到的，即使是在那些小型的报纸上，而且，当报社内部有人可以担当此任的时候，这一职位一般是不对外招聘的，而会启用那些有着丰富记者经验的老手。《费城调查者》在业界颇有声望，是第十七届普利策奖的大赢家，也是国内的主流报纸之一。我是该报的忠实读者，如今，《费城调查者》的编辑们正要求与我面谈。但是我并不想为了接受这份工作而不得不再次举家迁移。幸好我将要在其中工作的办公室距离宾夕法尼亚收费公路大约有四十五分钟的车程，所以经常往返于住所与办公室之间还是可以忍受的。我并不是十分相信世界上真的有奇迹的存在，可是，整件事情实在是太完美了，我简直都难以相信这一切是真的，仿佛如有神助一般。 在2002年11月的一天，我将我的园艺服换成了《费城调查者》报社的徽章，这似乎是我这辈子最开心的一天了。我回到了我应该属于的地方，以一名专栏作家的身份回到了报社的编辑部里。 当2003年的第一场大风雪袭来的时候，我开始这份新的工作才只有几个月的时间。在一个周日的晚上，雪片开始洒落下来，一直到了第二天的晚上雪才停，地上的积雪厚达两英尺。当我们的社区因为道路积雪而难以通行的时候，学校便宣布放假三天，而我也只能从家里将专栏发给报社。我从邻居家借了一台吹雪机，清理了车道上的积雪，开通了一条通向前门的狭窄小道。考虑到马利再也无法爬过陡峭的墙壁跳到院子里来了，更别提越过厚厚的雪堆了，所以我便清理出了一块他自己的“排便间”，孩子们对其十分质疑——走道外面的一个小小的空间，他可以在那儿方便。当我唤他出来测试一下这一新的便利设施的时候，他只是站在空地上，充满怀疑地嗅着积雪。对于怎样才算得上是一个解决内急的适当地方，他有自己特殊的想法，而现在这块空地显然并不符合他的认知。他不愿意在这儿抬起腿来撒尿。“就在这儿拉屎吗？就在这扇大型落地窗的前面吗？你该不会是认真的吧？”他转过身，迈了一大步，爬上了打滑的门廊台阶，回到了屋子里面。 那天晚上，吃过晚饭之后，我又一次将他带到了户外，这一次，马利无法再耗得起等待的奢侈了。他不得不去了。他紧张地在清理干净了的走道上来来回回地踱着步子，进入到了“排便间”里，然后又站到了车道上，嗅着雪，用爪子笨拙地扒着结冰的地面。“不，不能够这样做。”我还没来得及阻止他，他便吃力地爬上了吹雪机刚刚切割出来的陡峭的雪墙，开始了他那穿过院子，朝着五十尺远的白色的松树走去的路程。我无法相信这一切：我这只患有关节炎的老态龙钟的狗，居然跋涉起了“高山”。每迈出一步，他的骻部都会塌陷下来，于是他便陷落进了雪里，他会在雪里腹部着地休息几秒钟，然后再挣扎着站起身，继续前进。他缓慢地、痛苦地在深雪中行进着，用他那仍然强健的前肩把身体向前推动着。我站在车道上，想知道当他陷在了雪里无法前进的时候我该如何去营救他。但是他一直向前跋涉着，最后终于来到了最近的一株松树旁。突然，我明白了他的意图。这只狗有一个计划。在松树密集的树枝下面，雪只有几英寸厚。这棵树扮演了一把伞的角色，就在树的下面，马利可以自由地移动，舒服地蹲坐下来排便了。我不得不承认，他的计划实在是太棒了。他转着圈，四处嗅着，用他那惯有的方式刨着土地，试图要为他每日所提供的“黄金”确定一块圣地。然后，令我大吃一惊的是，他放弃了这块安逸的避风港，再次扑进了厚厚的雪里，开始了向着下一株松树进发的漫漫征程。在我看来，他所找到的第一个地点已经相当完美了，可是，很显然，那块地方仍然没有达到他的高标准。 他历经重重困难，来到了第二株松树旁，可是，在经过了深思熟虑的转圈之后，他再一次觉得这株松树树枝下面的这块地方并不合适。于是他前往了第三株松树，然后是第四株、第五株，每一次都离车道越来越远了。我试图唤他回来，尽管我知道他并不能够听见我的声音。“马利，你会陷在雪里的，你这个大傻瓜！”我叫喊道。他只是凭借着自己那坚定的决心费力地前进着。这只狗就像是一个走在朝圣之路上的信徒，真可谓九死未悔，矢志不移。最后，他终于来到了属于我们财产范围内的最后一株树旁。这是一株树枝繁茂的云杉，孩子们平常就是在靠近这株云杉的地方等校车的。他觉得这块结冰的地面便是自己所要寻找的地点，不仅十分隐秘，而且几乎没有积雪。他转了几次圈，然后便叽叽嘎嘎地蹲坐在了他那衰老的、患有关节炎的腰上。他终于在那儿排便了。想必此刻他的心里正在高呼：“我找到了！” 在排便任务完成之后，他便开始了回家的漫长旅程。当他吃力地在雪里奋进的时候，我挥动着我的手臂，拍打着我的手掌，对他进行着鼓励。“继续，孩子！你能够做到的！”但是我可以看出他的疲累不堪，而且他仍然还有一段很长的路要走。“现在别停下来！”我叫喊道。在距离车道十二码远的地方，他终于停了下来，躺倒在了雪地里，精疲力竭。马利看上去并没有显得很沮丧，但是也没有显得很轻松。他向我投来了一个忧心忡忡的神情，仿佛在问：“现在，我们该怎么办呢？上司？”我一筹莫展。我可以涉过雪地走到他的身边，可是之后再怎么办呢？他太重了，我无法将他抬回家。我在那儿呆呆地站了几分钟，呼喊着，说尽了甜言蜜语，可是马利仍然动弹不得。 “坚持住，”我说道，“让我把靴子穿上，然后我就来接你。”我渐渐想出了一个办法，我可以把他搬到平底雪橇上，然后将他推回到房子前。他一看见我带着雪橇到来，我的计划就变得没有任何实际意义了。他跳上了雪橇，重新燃起了活力的火焰。我唯一能够想到的事情便是，他还记得我们那次滑进树林、跌落在河床上的声名狼藉的雪橇之行，所以他希望能够再来一次。我在雪地里艰难地行走着，为他踏出了一条路径，于是他便一点一点地向前挪动着。最后，我们终于越过了雪堤，一起来到了车道上。他抖落了身上的雪，将他的尾巴重重地击在我的膝盖上，显得无比雀跃和骄傲，俨然一位刚刚从地图上未标记的茫茫荒原的远足当中胜利归来的冒险家的那样一副自信满满的模样。我怀疑他压根儿就把自己当初陷在雪地里的狼狈样给忘到脑后了，也不想想，要是没有我的古道热肠，他现在还在喝西北风呢。 第二天早上，为了马利，我用铁锹铲出了一条通往远处那株云杉树的狭长小径，而他便将那块地方作为了他在冬季期间的私人盥洗室。何处排便的危机终于化解了，可是更大的问题却在迫近。他能够像这样持续多久呢？他在每一个昏昏欲睡的、懒散的日子中所能找到的简单的满足感，如何能够战胜年迈的疼痛以及尊严的丧失呢？