Shoved deep into the bench seat of an old Ford truck we found a kitten. The bench seat, like a black sofa, leaned against the chicken coop. We used to play house and pretend outside was our living room. It was dead, of course, the kitten, you can't stuff a body, no matter how small, between the stiff cushions of a Ford bench seat. Other animals had been found, recently Cats, kittens, chickens, a mouse. They said it was a coyote or a fox but how can an animal stuff a kitten into an abandoned black bench seat? There was that day when... A porcupine attacked the dog. The dog howled in screams as men pulled her from the truck. It wasn't a porcupine that killed the kitten. This needed human hands. We ran home to tell our mothers. We climbed over split rail fences, through dead and dying orchards. across old rail tracks that once transported swine, beef and grain, but now the trains were ghosts and the rails vanished into the dirt. We reached the farm house, the white peeling paint revealing rot. We'd lived there, but not long, two families without fathers, and many kids. Sometimes men would visit. Some fathers. Some not. They'd bring beer. We were out of breath from running. We heaved and pressed our palms against our knees. Ma! we called. Ma! It's dead. A kitten! we called. It was empty. There were no mothers. No fathers. no adults. Stapled to the door A pink paper. Animal Abuse it said. The animals were all gone. The dog with the porcupine quills. The cat missing kittens. The puppies. The chickens. All gone. A dust kicked up around our tired feet. The pink paper waved in the breeze the tape held it to the door. A car was approaching from the distance. They would take us next put us in foster homes send us to strangers. Soon we forgot all about the kitten.
A Chatoyant Fleck 