Sylvia is no fool. By cat standards, she’s been around the block a few times. She is five years old and already she has known what it’s like to have her babies taken before their eyes have opened. Still, she has enjoyed a comfortable life with me. She has always been sure of a good meal and a warm home.

Today she knows something is up. Otherwise, why the car ride to this high-fenced place with the cacophony of barking dogs? As soon as I open the door she bolts for the long grass at the rear of the animal shelter. I call to her softly, walk to her slowly, reassure her gently, that everything is alright. Her eyes say she doesn’t really believe me, but she is willing to be scooped into my arms. Better the devil she knows.

Sylvia’s eyes are wide and wild, but she holds herself still as I take her inside. “I would like to leave this cat with you,” I say to the shelter attendant behind the high counter.

“You can put her in this cage and we’ll fill out the forms,” says a cheerful young woman.

“We’ll fill out the forms,” I think, “but I won’t mention that Sylvia is expecting kittens. They might not take her if they know.”

The attendant holds the door open while I deposit Sylvia in one of a dozen wire cages. As I close the door she shrinks to the rear of the mesh box, slowly, deliberately tucking each of her paws beneath her body. She wraps this package with her tail, and all the while she has her eyes fixed on mine. As I fasten the latch her stare seems to say, “You will pay for this.”

Years after Sylvia’s last day, I am back in the same building; this time, as an employee. I need a part-time job. Sylvia is a dim memory now and this job is a good fit because I have always been a lover of animals. I pride myself on “having a way” with them.

Today I am in the shelter’s euthanasia room, and it is my job to put down one cat. I have done nearly a dozen others in my month of employ here, but this orange tabby is by far the most difficult. Usually, once we give them the tranquilizer, they are content to rest in a corner of the room until, stupefied and limp, they are taken to a table and given the deadly injection.

But this cat is smarter than most. She wants to live. She has seen through my tender touch and soothing voice. She has struggled to get away. She has hidden behind furniture. She has fought the tranquilizer and it has made her sick. I will have to clean that up.

Putting down cats is a necessary job here, because more cats are dropped off than adopted. (I know for sure now – as I knew in the back of my mind then – that my pregnant Sylvia likely didn’t last ten days.) I happen to be good at this job because I care about doing it right. Someone has to take responsibility for these abandoned animals, and it is better they die at compassionate hands.

Finally, with some help, I catch the tabby and force her onto her side so I can feel for her heart. My index and middle fingers go to that place between her ribs where I know I will find a fast, pounding beat. This is where I insert the needle. Just to make sure it’s right I pull the plunger back slightly. If there is blood I know I can push it down. If I miss her heart she will die a slow, tortuous death. I make very sure I have the right place. When I squeeze the needle, she makes one banshee cry, jumps straight up from the table and is dead before she lands.

Just like the others.

That night, I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes I see cats, all kinds of beautiful cats. I have cuddled and reassured each of them - and I have killed each one in turn. At home in the dark I see their silent, pleading eyes. I love these cats so much. How can I be their executioner? I cry all night.

The next morning I quit the animal shelter, and for a good ten years keep my distance from cats. This is not difficult because they seem to want to keep their distance from me, too. I often imagine the whole feline species senses I am dangerous.

I am relieved the nightmare is behind me but I know there is something to be gained from the ordeal. Now that I see from a longer view, I start lining up details and coincidences. I have been learning about karma, the great cosmic law that demands everything I cause be balanced by an effect on me. Is it possible that my treatment of Sylvia led to this? How poetic that I administer the same fate to innocent cats I so cavalierly consigned to Sylvia. Perhaps her eyes were right. Perhaps I did pay…

A decade after the shelter, the pain has begun to subside. Cats approach me willingly again. I imagine they are beginning to forgive. Perhaps they are offering a second chance. Maybe it’s time to find a cat to keep my husband and me company. There is no question where I should look for our new companion.

As I take my first walk along an aisle of glass-fronted enclosures, my eyes come to rest on two black and white kittens locked in playful combat. They are adorable, with tiny white mittens and tuxedo chests, showing just a hint of white on the tips of their writhing tails. They look so happy and hopeful as they roll around their pen, alternately biting and swatting each other. These tiny creatures are almost exactly what I envisioned bringing home. I proceed to the shelter office to claim them.

I am excited about feeling the company of cats again as I lead the attendant to point out my kittens. But there is movement behind the glass at my feet. It is a scraggly little calico, skin and bones under a mass of disheveled hair. She has planted her front paws on the glass and stopped me with her stare. Only once before have a cat’s eyes penetrated so deeply. No sound passes through the barrier, but there is no mistaking the appeal in the round, golden eyes and the silent movement of her mouth: “Haven’t you come for me?”

This multi-colored scrap of feline has seen better days. When she exposes her belly, it is clear she has been recently nursing kittens. Who knows where she has been and what diseases she has picked up. But there is no ignoring the plea through the glass. She seems sure I have come for her. And how can I be sure I have not?

I stop and turn to the attendant. “I would like to see this cat.”

She says apologetically, “You’re allowed into one cage per visit. It’s how we control disease. If you go in there, you won’t be able to take the kittens home today.” I nod acknowledgement.

“Are you sure you want to see this cat?”

“Yes,” I say, knowing with the voicing of the word that someone else will be taking home the adorable kittens at the end if the aisle. “I want to look at this cat.”

As soon as I enter the cage, Gizmo gives herself to me. As I kneel to greet her, she falls onto her back and begins to purr. Then she rights herself, rubs the whole length of her body against me and begins to speak. It is as if she is gushing relief that I have finally come to take her home. As she continues to roll around expressing her joy, the shelter attendant explains how Gizmo was taken from her owner, diseased and expecting kittens.

This is Gizmo’s second stay at the shelter. Soon after her return she became severely ill and was saved from certain death by a shelter worker who nursed her at home until after the kittens were born. Tears rise in my eyes as the attendant tells the story. I imagine the fear and dejection this tiny cat must have felt. And I remember Sylvia. As Gizmo writhes with elation before me, I realize this cat needs me – specifically me. I am the one to make sure she never sees the inside of an animal shelter again.

Twelve years after bringing Gizmo home, I am still certain she was there at the shelter for me to find. The pieces have fallen together now, and a circle of karma is complete. I have been given a second chance. Gizmo and I are both glad I took it.

Ruth Edgett grew up on Prince Edward Island off Canada’s east coast. Having spent more than 20 years writing for a living - first as a journalist, then as a communications consultant - she now writes for pleasure from her home in Ontario, Canada. Her first book, A Watch in the Night: The story of Pomquet Island’s last light keeping family (Nimbus Publishing), will be launched on May 7. Ruth also writes spiritual poems, the fifth of which will be published in October. She has a BA in Philosophy from the University of Prince Edward Island and an MS in Communications Management from Syracuse University. Ruth is proud to be owned by a beautiful calico cat and a magnificent black horse.