Kitty was a feral cat who showed up at our door one day, as they tend to do. She was a sweet little cat, but incredibly shy. We could feed her if we left a bowl out and went back inside. We could take her picture if we did it from inside the house or through a bush or other kind of blind. We could love her from afar, but that was all. At first.

She slowly warmed up to us, approaching us as we sat on the front porch then quickly beating a hasty retreat if we moved. Eventually, she allowed us to pet her, and she liked it! She liked it so much that she started running to greet us whenever we pulled into the driveway. Weeks later, she gathered all her courage and actually came inside the house. It was a victorious moment for her, and for us.

She quickly became part of the family, once she’d literally crossed that threshold.

At the time, we were a two-home family—we lived and worked in one city, then drove three hours away to what was to be our retired-and-live-happily-ever-after home (that sounds so much better than calling it a “retirement home,” doesn’t it?). And we made the trek every single weekend, even though we often couldn’t leave for our forever home until after midnight on Friday. But we could stay only until Sunday (Monday, if it was a long weekend), so “What to do with Kitty?” became a constant concern. As hard as it was to leave her for the week, we knew she was feral and had been supporting herself all her life, before we met. It didn’t seem quite fair to her to take her away from her home to a new, unknown house, where she would have to be an inside cat five days a week. So we commuted back and forth, always anxious to get back to our Forever Home and our Kitty.

On one such weekend, I had come up a little earlier than the rest of my family, and I was alone. My timing was perfect—there was a storm blowing in from across the lake, and our deck overlooks that lake. So I grabbed a cold drink and an afghan (one that I had crocheted) to cover my legs from the approaching wind and rain, and I went out on the deck. In less than ten minutes, Kitty was waddling up the stairs to see me. She was waddling because she was very heavily pregnant; we’d expected her to have had the babies during the week, but she obviously hadn’t.

I loved on her, as required, then settled in for the Storm Show. And it was magnificent—big angry clouds hanging over the far-off trees, with streaks of lightning and gusty winds. I was so glad I’d thought to grab that afghan! I could tell that even though the deck was covered by the roof, I was going to get wet from the wind and rain.

The storm was so stunning, I hardly even noticed when Kitty crept under my legs and curled up on the afghan.

When I did realize where she was, I reached under to assure her, in case she was afraid. And I couldn’t find her. So I lifted the edge of the afghan off my lap and peered under. She was there, all right. But she was a tad busy—giving birth to some of the cutest little kittens you’ve ever seen! And yes, right there on my hand-crocheted afghan! I stroked her head and told her what a brave, beautiful mama she is, then I put the corner back down so she could labor in peace. She knew I was there, though, as she had her back firmly tucked up against my calves as she delivered the most precious bundles I’ve ever been lucky enough to receive.

She’s a cat, right? I know that. But I believe down to my bones that she put off having those kittens until her Hoomans were home. I also believe that she chose me as her harbor-in-the-storm for this beautiful moment.

The rest of my family got there after the second kitten was born. When my husband joined me on the deck and asked where Kitty was, I gestured under the afghan. He thought she was frightened of the storm, but I told him, “No, she’s having her babies.” He was stunned. “You mean, right now? She’s having her babies right now, under the blanket?!” I told him yes, and she’s doing so very well, and she’s going to be such a great mama.” He couldn’t resist—he got down on the deck next to my legs, and carefully lifted the edge of the afghan, just in time to see her contract, then deliver, Kitten #3. He was amazed, and I think, every bit as delighted as I was. It was such a tender moment, I could not make myself take photos as it was happening.

I had never heard of a cat waiting for her Hoomans to be there to give birth, and I’d certainly never known of one to actually shelter underneath the legs of a person for such an intimate event. So I called my eldest niece, who is as cat-crazy as I am, and I asked her about it. It was new to her, too, and I felt deeply honored by Kitty’s precious gifts.

When she appeared to be finished, I quietly got up from my chair, tucked the afghan softly around her and her three bundles, and went in the house to prepare a box for the new family. We put it in the house, in an out-of-the-way bathroom, and I gently carried one of the new arrivals inside and into the box. Kitty very quickly got the idea, and she brought in the other two. Then she settled in to nurse her new brood. It was very sweet, very domestic, very loving.

But something was off.

Her tummy just did not look like it should, after birthing a complete litter of kittens. So I gently rubbed her little abdomen, and up and down both sides, and I told my husband, “She’s not finished.” At his confused look, I explained, “There’s at least one more kitten inside her.” But she was happily nursing, and he thought there was no way that could be true.

We checked on her often that evening, to make sure the kittens were well and she was feeding all of them. She had, of course, cleaned them immediately after each was born, and they were adorably soft and fluffy. But we didn’t want to make the new mom nervous, so we didn’t stay with her for too long at a time. Every single time we went in, though, we counted the kittens. Nope, only three.

Eventually, night came, and the household settled down to its night-time routines. When we went to bed, Kitty was contentedly cleaning her three sleeping babies and purring up a storm.

Of course, we headed straight to her nursery when we got up the next day, and there he was—the fourth kitten, solid black and bigger than any of his siblings.

Kitty’s family was complete. And so was ours.