This story begins six years ago, when we purchased our house. The couple we bought it from - well, the wife - had been feeding a small colony of feral cats. About eight of them. As part of our agreement, along with negotiating which appliances and curtains should stay, I asked that the cats be removed. I wanted to be able to let Bridget out sometimes to play without worrying about disease or fights. And I didn't want to be responsible for a bunch of wild cats.

They agreed to take care of the cats, and the husband made some comment that didn't register at the moment but later left me unsettled. I don't remember exactly what he said now, but it was something that suggested he might be capable of shooting cats.

It bothered me so much that I called him that evening. "Please don't kill the cats," I said. "I'd like them removed, but not harmed."

Looking back on it, that was perhaps too much to ask of him. Not too much to ask, but maybe too much to ask of him. He was the type of person who views cats as pests, not animals deserving respect. He was busy, with two kids and all the details of moving. I don't know what I expected him to do, but I absolutely didn't want the cats to die.

When we went to the closing, there was no sign of the cats. I asked him what he did with them, and he said he'd trapped them and taken them to his father's farm. Since that's exactly what I wanted to hear, I didn't doubt him. It wasn't until later that it occurred to me that he'd fed me the line people always tell kids when pets die: Oh, Felix? Well, sweetie, he went to live on a farm. There were a few other indications that made me suspect he had actually killed the cats - in particular, a streak of blood on the deck that I couldn't otherwise explain.

Of course, I'll never know for sure. But less than a year later, I began paying my penance.

Rob and I were on a walk one evening near our house when we came upon a meowing calico cat. She was standing at the edge of a field, and when we approached she let us pet her. She was very sweet. And very thin, except for a bulging pregnant belly. She kept crying at us, and I insisted we take her home for the night until we could figure out what to do with her.

We set her up in the garage. We gave her food, water, and a litter box. And when I placed a towel in a box on the floor, she crawled into it and promptly went into labor.

We watched her birth the kittens, and at one point Rob turned to me and said, "This is going to be for a lot longer than one night, isn't it?" Indeed.

She had a litter of seven kittens. SEVEN. All of them survived, and raising those kittens was some of the best fun I've had. In the days that followed I checked with each neighbor, but no one claimed a pregnant calico cat. I called the SPCA to report her found and the lady there said the cat had most likely been dumped by someone who didn't want to care for a litter of kittens.

Ten weeks later we'd found homes for all of them, including the mama. (Two of them, Simon and Maylee, came into the house to live with us.) I felt sure that the universe had given me these eight cats to save in order to make up for the ones I'd been indirectly responsible for killing.

But now I'm wondering if perhaps there were actually nine cats in that feral colony...

This past Tuesday, Rob and I went for a walk down the same road. Five years, almost to the week, after we found the pregnant calico. This time, we heard a meow and saw a brown tabby cat running towards us from the field. She rubbed against our legs, purring like we were long-lost friends. Her fur was thick and shiny like a housecat's, but when I petted her I could feel her spine and ribs. She followed us home, trotting behind us like a dog.

If there's one thing about stray cats, it's that they can spot a sucker from a mile away.

Call me a bleeding heart, but I cannot refuse help to an animal actively pleading for it. This is a conviction of mine. Which doesn't make me a saint or anything because it's also a no-brainer.

So I fed the cat and made a home for her in our garage. She was definitely hungry, but she seemed even more lonely. She is the most affectionate cat I've ever met. She loves to rub against our faces and curl up in our laps. I took her to the vet for an exam and spaying, and they discovered that she's already been spayed. She has clearly been someone's pet, and so I've reported her found to various outlets with hopes of finding her owner. Sadly, so far no one seems to be looking for her.

We can't keep her for a dozen reasons, all of which involve the best interests of this cat and the ones we already have. I keep repeating these reasons aloud because Rob and I are both finding ourselves smitten. In fact, Rob has advised our three cats to be on their best behavior or risk being replaced.

I'm working with a local no-kill cat adoption organization to find a permanent home for her. As they were filling out paperwork on her yesterday, they asked me for her name. "I haven't named her," I said. "I've just been calling her Kitty because I'm trying so hard not to get attached."

"Well, she needs a name," the lady urged.

I looked at the cat. She gazed back at me, and in her yellow eyes I saw innocence and dependence. I thought about the calico mama and her kittens, and the colony of cats that once considered our yard their home. We are called upon to care for these creatures when they need us, whether or not it is convenient.

The lady was waiting patiently for a name.

"Karma," I said.