The man at the end of town has more cats than anyone in the town. He has a long white beard and smokes a pipe like my grandfather did. The folks named him Methuselah and shake their heads at the site of over 50 cats that roam his property. It's run down and the mailbox is tilted, but if you have a missing cat you need to go look at Methuselah's place. You'll likely find it there.
The story goes that Methuselah had a wife. She's long gone. They say she's buried along the creekside of his bungalow. There is no marker so it's all speculation, but we've all accepted that as fact. She had one pet cat she took everywhere she went. The bowls of cat food spill over to keep up with demand.
Methuselah shops one day a week. He gets a handful of canned beans, some fish and potatoes and two large bags of mixed cat food. He doesn't say much but his money is good.
He sits on his porch smoking his pipe and the cats swarm around his feet. The kittens climb up his trousers and play through his beard. You can hear him talking, almost like he's talking to his wife.
The town committee talked about making him get rid of the cats once but it was decided that at least the strays had a home.
Last month the church took up a collection and left it on his porch with a note thanking him for helping the town deal with all the cats.
He never returned to the store for more food. The head of council went investigating and came back with the empty envelope. The house was completely empty and all the cats and bowls were gone.
Sometimes at night now we hear cats crying and wonder where Methuselah went. I say he went to the river to be with his wife.
This is my five minute freewrite using prompt a long white beard.
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