DuPierre lingered long on the dock, thinking, imagining, some said that he had the look of one who was trying to remember. Yet, there would be a last cigarette and he would rise to make his slow walk home.
The Cannery - that was the name of the place, no more than that - was a long, faded red building, half of it anchored upon the massive rock outcropping, half of it suspended over the waters, perched on grey wooden piers. This main place of business for the village had harvested the sea for many, many years, long before DuPierre had begun walking by her on his way home. She had earned her right to be called the oldest resident in this seafaring town.
Here at the Cannery, the waterfront neighbor of the fishermen's dock, three sisters lived. And everyday on his walk home, the sculptor DuPierre would stop by and give a visit.
DuPierre would give a beckoning whistle, pursing his thin lips. If that did not fetch the sisters, he would call them by name in that clear, accented voice. "Rose, Cassie, Coco."
"Rose, Cassie, Coco," he would keep calling, loud enough to carry into the shadows beneath the old wood building, but not loud enough to draw attention to himself. Eventually they would come to meet with DuPierre, to enjoy the bits and pieces of bait the old man would bring and to enjoy the tender strokes he would place on each of their heads.
DuPierre had no cats at home. He had one as a boy but it died. The three sisters, as he declared them to be, were his closest friends it seemed: Rose, an overfed calico, who purred when he pet her, Cassie, a playful, grey cat, the color of smoke, and Coco, a rather stand-offish brown cat, the color of tea with milk.
He would make his cordial visit, but then he would soon move on, for both the sisters and DuPierre had much work to be done.