I could not believe my ears. “Your cat Saffron has been found,” the recorded voice from the pet retrieval service said.

Saffron had vanished six years ago. Luckily, I had had him chipped by my vet, a way of ensuring a lost pet will be returned. During the spring of 2006, I called the chip people every week but no orange tabbies had been reported found. Sorrowfully, I gave up and presumed he was dead. His sudden resurrection blew my mind.

The Good Samaritan who found him, a woman named Mary, took him to her vet who scanned for the chip and then contacted the pet retrieval service who called me.

Saffron would be 18 now, an old man in cat years. I had recently gotten a new cat, a young frisky orange tabby named Odie. Would they get along?

I carefully tapped Mary’s number on my cell phone keypad. After several rings, she picked up.

“Hi,” I said. “I think you have my cat.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I’m glad you called,” her voice full of relief.

Mary explained that Saffron had been living under a deck behind a nearby house. Neighbors left out food but he would not come to anyone until she and her family moved to the neighborhood. For whatever reason, Saffron attached himself to Mary and one day when she put down a cat carrier, he waltzed right in. She was keeping him in her laundry room.

“My vet says he’s in amazing condition considering what he’s been through,” Mary assured me. It was the “what he’s been through” part that worried me.

We agreed I would come the following morning to pick him up. Mary lived in Upper Rockridge, an expensive Oakland hills neighborhood with sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay. At least the cat had good taste! Our old house had been in the flatlands of Oakland, a less desirable zip code, even for felines.

“Saffie has been found,” I texted my daughter Meghan.

“No way!” she replied.

Meghan, then 14, had brought home a little orange fluff ball and begged to be able to keep him. We already had a 3-year-old cat, Oliver, but once I laid eyes on the kitten I had to say yes. Meghan chose the name Saffron because she was a Donovan fan and loved the song “I’m Just Mad About Saffron.” This was during her thrift-store, nose-piercing, acoustic-music phase.

For a little kitten, Saffie, had a big purr and an equally big heart. When he wasn’t chasing his tail or leaping for toys, he’d curl into the crook of my arm and purr loudly or butt his head against my arm to keep the love coming. But that was the old Saffron. What would he be like now that he was a road-hardened warrior?