Atlanta, Georgia. The old man was a recluse. A hermit. He lived in an old neighborhood, in an old part of town. In a house built in 1910.

He’d been in this home since he was 16. The old man went to Vietnam, once upon a time. He jumped out of airplanes. Learned to shoot. Learned to survive. He came back, post-war.

Protestors ridiculed him in the airport. They crashed trash can lids together, like orchestra cymbals, spat at him, and called him “baby killer.” It did something to his mind.

He never married. In old age, he was the cat guy. He didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Never touched drugs. But he had a weakness for cats.

He talked to cats. He let cats sleep in his bed. He fed the local ferals. They congregated in his front yard. And only he could tell them apart.

There were neighbors all around him, of course. Homes that had been redone, and fancified. Antique houses with modern American families inside them. Two cars. Swingsets in the backyard. Two 30-something parents, and 2.5 children.

He never even stepped out of his house, except to crawl into his beat-up Chevy Impala and visit Walmart for frozen pizzas and cans of Campbell’s soup. Few in the neighborhood even knew his name.

His house was an eyesore, of course. Most houses owned by recluses are. He never cut the lawn. The exterior had been in need of a paint job since the Johnson administration.

Looking at him, it was hard to believe he once led a normal life. They say he used to be a plumber. Worked for a big company. Installed kitchen sinks, and outdoor spigots. Unclogged poopy toilets.

But recently, times got hard. He got a reverse mortgage on his home. It was a mistake. He got caught in a scam. There are some organizations who prey on seniors.

He fell behind on payments. They were going to foreclose. It was a mess. He was drowning in debt.

Someone in the neighborhood got wind of this. The first check showed up on his porch last September. More checks started coming. Checks came from random people in the neighborhood. People he’d never even met.

One check was for $800. Another was for $2,500.

Over the course of one year, he nearly paid back his reverse mortgage.

But one evening, last week, neighbors noticed many cats gathered on his front stoop. There must have been 25. They were loud. They were hungry.

Someone broke inside. The old man had passed. As far as anyone could tell, he died peacefully. He was lying on his sofa. The television was going. TV Land was playing “The Andy Griffith Show.”

The funeral home expected a small service. Recluses don’t often receive many mourners.

But funeral home employees were shocked when almost 130 people wandered into the chapel doors, one by one, to pay respects.

They were mostly neighboring families. People the old man had never even spoken to. But they shared the same patch of earth, and that apparently counted for something.

They left cat toys and feline figurines in his casket. Someone left a small baggy of catnip.

He was buried. It was a nondescript grave. There was no preacher present. Only people.

The cats still gather at his house. Every morning. Without fail. People in the neighborhood take turns feeding them.

And one of his neighbors just thought you should know about him.