It wasn’t the best way to meet my neighbors, but it showed me what a great choice I made when I moved into my new house.

I found it with a little luck and a lot of driving around looking for a place to live that felt like home.

Fielder

I’d been wanting to downsize from the four-bedroom house Richard and I bought to rear our children in. I decided I was finally ready to find a home that fit my taste.

The little neighborhood is tucked into a quiet, hilly, heavily treed nook. It is secluded, yet off a major street that leads to everywhere I want to go.

So last Saturday I packed up Kiefer and Chloe and Roy, and with the twins and a moving van following, I pulled into my new neighborhood.

It didn’t take long for my im­mediate neighbors, one by one, to introduce themselves and welcome me. There was a sense of community I couldn’t remember since I was a kid back in Callis­burg.

Kiefer was thrilled to meet so many potential head-petters, but Roy and Chloe were scared. Chloe, my fluffy gray tabby, found a place to hide. Roy, my silky orange and white 10 pounds of pure attitude, soon began to ex­plore the house.

Roy had been my son Chris­topher’s kitty, smuggled into a no-pets-allowed duplex when he was tiny.

Then Roy got busted and came to live with me.

Roy needed love. He wanted that top-of-head to end-of-tail rubbing that cats adore, and if he couldn’t get it by nudging my hand with his head, he’d try patting my cheek with a soft paw and staring at me with big yellow eyes until I gave in.

He loved to go outside and hunt bugs and dream of someday catching the squirrels that could outrun and out-climb him. He was mucho macho. Chloe is the queen of the house. Kiefer is the baby boy. To Roy I’d say, “You the man.”

The next-to-last time I saw him he’d managed to climb high on a ledge between the kitchen and living area. He preened up there. He was regal.

The last time I saw him, he was an orange streak flying out of the garage when I opened the door. He scaled my neighbor’s fence and was gone.

I called and called. I drove the neighborhood searching for Roy. Chris papered our five-street neighborhood with pictures of him on a “missing” poster.

And two days later, they began to appear at my door. One by one, neighbors from one street south of me rang my bell.

Some children had found a dead cat. It was orange. It had no signs of trauma. They were all so sorry, but they wanted me to know so I wouldn’t keep looking in vain, they said.

Nick came to my door with a little boy in his arms and a small, shy girl in tow. He knew by looking at the beautiful, silky cat that it was someone’s pet, he said. He took it down to the creek and buried it.

He couldn’t figure out what killed it because it seemed in perfect condition.

Through my tears, I told him how grateful I was.

I will never know what killed my Roy. But I do know that his death and my neighbors’ response to the tragedy of a stranger re­newed my belief in the concept of community and the spirit of neighborhood.

I’m going to love living here.