The Cavity

She lived alone in a house that was slowly decaying, like a tooth with an untended cavity that needed a filling. She had moved there to care for her deceased mother’s dog, Trixie, but when Trixie died, she kept on, surviving on her military pension and the income from the quilts she sewed and sold at the local co-op. She was fighting cancer, a tumor lodged beneath a rib that devoured frequent doses of radiation. At night she watched the yellow eyes of stray cats in the woods behind the house, the golden eyes of coyotes, the slitted silver eyes of owls on the wing, all watching her through the kitchen windows. One noontime, as she prepared a tuna sandwich with mayo and sweet pickle relish, a wiry tomcat with a crooked tail meowed at the sliding door. She shooed it away, drew the curtain. At midnight the serenade began, an unorchestrated, ungodly cacophony, shrieking, yowling, howling, and hooting. Next morning she scuttled to Stop & Shop, purchased a case of cat food, and set bowls on the deck at twilight, a sacrificial offering.