On Saturday morning, I drove to Mary’s house. As I wound up the hills behind the Claremont Golf Course, one amazing vista after another unspooled in my rear view mirror.  I gripped the steering wheel to calm myself, my head full of fears about what lay ahead mixed with anticipation at seeing Saffron again. Would he know me?

There’s an old saying about relatives being people who, if you suddenly show up on the doorstep, have to take you in. I was Saffron’s closest living relative. I could give him food and a place to sleep but I wouldn’t be able to exercise the “relative visiting rule” and ask him to leave after three days. I could already feel my credit card pulsing from the vet visits to come.

I pulled to the curb before a large, modern house. I rang the doorbell and waited.

“Hi, I’m Phil. You must be Eleanor,” said a pleasant looking guy with a big smile when he opened the door.

“Thanks so much for rescuing Saffron,” I said, as we shook hands.

“Glad to help,” he said.

“This is Isabella,” he added, putting his hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

I turned to the girl, whose pale face was dwarfed by her glasses.

“Hi, Isabella. How old are you?”

“I’m nine,” she said, gravely. “I think it’s really cool you are getting your cat back.”

“He’s in the laundry room,” Phil said, gesturing to the left of front door.

He led me down a corridor. Even before he opened the door, I could smell cat pee. For just an instant I wondered if I could claim there had been a dreadful mistake. Then I remembered the little purring kitten that had stolen my heart.

Phil opened the laundry room door.

A scrawny yellow cat with filthy ears and watering eyes looked up at me. Before I could reach for him, he started purring loudly.  He knew me!

I looked him over. He was slightly pigeon toed and had a crook in his mangy-looking tail. When I bent to pet him, wishing I could don a pair of hospital gloves, he immediately butted against my hand and doubled down on the purr. This was Saffron, without a doubt.

“Saffie,” I said, “You came back!”

I scratched his ears and his purr deepened into a low rumble. The tiny room reeked of cat waste and Phil was clearly eager to get this over with. Without ceremony, I loaded my runaway cat into the carrier Mary had given me.

I was shocked by how skinny Saffron was. I could feel the bones of his spine through his coat. The cat was no dummy. He knew that in order to survive he had to come inside. When Mary gave him the chance, he took it.

“We’re happy you got him back,” Phil said as he ushered me out the front door, finality and relief apparent in his hearty goodbye. The door clicked shut.

 It was a brilliant, sunny fall day. I breathed in the crisp air and took the Prodigal Son to the car. After six long years apart, our reunion had begun. Saffron had really come home!