The winds sang that night; wooden gate swung back and forth. Trees swayed and diesels carrying piggy backs danced along the highway. The trailer park was quiet for the most part. Few lights were on. Cars parked in front of one trailer; lined up for their nightly fix.

The old man sat in the front room with a lamp on; sat in a pleather chair that was torn to shreds; seven cats paws scratching on furniture, walls, carpet; a smell of piss filled the air.

No one ever knocked on his door. They’d all heard stories. How he used to have a wife and kids that suddenly disappeared one night. How he’d never had anything or anybody but those damn cats. Kids would ride bikes by his place and throw rocks at windows. Thud. It made this thud sound every time one hit the glass. Windows had cracks in them. Lines reaching up, down, and across. He let it be; just fix em up with Duck Tape.

And the winds blew through the trailer; very little insulation, walls were thin. Some pictures were hung. An old one of his grandparents, his mom and dad, a painting of an old man giving thanks for his daily bread. They rattled as the night went on.

The cats spoke that night. Wanting to be fed. Always wanting food. He got up and poured dry food into bowls along with water from the tap. Seven cats, seven bowls. He walked back over to his chair, but this time got his shot gun out of the closet and laid it ‘cross his lap. He heard sirens.

His mind wondered as the train whistled through town. Would his cats be taken care of ? Could someone love them as much as he did ?

The winds sang that night. His body was found a week later.