It was a bleak night, even before the storm started. Grey clouds were gathering silently overhead, and the sky was slowly turning dark. Colourless fog pushed it's way through the raging wind and lightning flashed at random intervals in the distance. Over the hill, and into the village, old drinks cans and newspapers were flapping wildly, struggling against the gale, fighting in vain to keep their position, before finally being overcome and swept away. The odd human could be seen hurrying, heads pushed into turned up coat collars and windswept umbrellas by their sides. Clatters could be heard as frightened animals pushed their way into small cracks, knocking over dustbins and boxes.
As you take the small road out of the village, you hear less noises, but it is nonetheless noisy. The screeching of skidding tires on the slippery street, or the wind rustling the grass, until it looks like a sea of ripples, so unstable you cannot step on it. Many tress creaking, straining against the new pressure in the air, until either snapping it's branches, or slowly bending over, to bow acceptance to the wind. From time to time, you can see a small creature scurrying away, who set off too late to get back to the safety of its home, eyes just slits against the stinging gusts throwing dust and grit into the air.
It was one of the wildest nights that anyone could remember. But this was the night the cats had been waiting for.