Charlie, aka Don Gato, will be missed around the Rogers house.

Don Gato, an outdoor feline lodger who adopted us for a while, has been reunited with his real family. An online missing pet registry worked, which has left us with mixed feelings.

As I’ve written before, I don’t believe urban cats should be allowed to roam. They should be kept inside for their safety. The closest our own two get to the great outdoors is our screened back porch.

But Nashville does not require cats be restricted to quarters, so an informal community habitat has developed in our neighborhood. Since moving in almost four years ago, we’ve become a dining stop for a variety of furry wayfarers. We’ve given names to our regulars:

Gray Lady, a slight, faintly tabbyish female of that color, named after a nickname for The New York Times; Popeye, a sturdy, solid gray male, whose left eye gives every indication of not being functional but who is otherwise apparently fit and hardy; and Chai II, a sleek, muscular male tuxedo who is a slightly larger doppelgänger for our female tuxedo Chai.

(Mai is our other female tuxedo, whose sizable girth and coloring pattern are more reminiscent of a miniature killer whale or a penguin.)

We serve up kibble and water on our front porch for the wanderers, which of course ensures their continued stopovers. Kayne even bought a padded kitty shelter against the winter chill, which the cats have largely, if not completely, ignored.

Don Gato introduced himself as a member of this rotating menagerie a couple of weeks ago. At first, he was somewhat hesitant around us, but hunger won him over. While the other cats might chow down only briefly, and sometimes not at all, before moving on, Don Gato would plow through a bowl and linger for a second round.

Soon he was hanging out all day just outside our front door, alternately lazing on the steps or snoozing on a chair. One morning, I even saw him emerge from the cat house the others had resolutely disdained. And his demeanor suggested he’d be happy to take up residence inside our house, as well, should that option be made available. Meanwhile, he peacefully napped in Kayne’s lap one afternoon while we sat outside, enjoying the onset of spring.

He called forth for Kayne a Spanish song she learned in elementary school: “El Señor Don Gato.” Mister Cat, basically. The lyrics tell a tale of a tom who falls in love with a lady cat, in his amorous excitement meets his end falling off a roof, and is then revived by the smell of fish as his funeral procession passes the market.

That didn’t fit any of the known facts in our situation. Still, Don Gato this cat became, a black male with just a touch of white below his neck.

I was initially reluctant to welcome him. We don’t need another cat. We especially don’t need a cat whose constant presence keeps all the other feline visitors at bay.

But it’s funny how quickly I got used to him and his obvious devotion despite our only recent arrival in his life. I’d check for him every morning when I went outside for the paper; he was more reliably there than it was. I was always careful that he didn’t follow me to my Jeep when I left, stopping first to give him a bit of a stroking. He was appreciative to the point of affection. If cats smiled, I’m pretty sure he would have. I can’t swear that he didn’t wink.

In short, he was often more affectionate than our indoor pair, who can be a bit – how shall I put it? – standoffish. Aloof. Nuts.

Don Gato’s left ear was clipped, indicating that at some point someone had ensured he would not reproduce. We were on the verge of taking him to a vet to see if he’d had an identifying microchip implanted, as well, when, after a week or so, Kayne posted Don Gato’s picture in the neighborhood lost pet registry.

At first she heard nothing. But then one afternoon, in the course of about an hour, a woman messaged, “I think that may be my cat!” and raced to track down our house based on the cross streets Kayne had posted. “As soon as I called his name he came running to the sidewalk,” she wrote later. “My family and I have been missing him terribly.”

Charlie – his real name – had been gone about a month, she said, from maybe a half-mile away. “Everything is amazing now,” she added, and we’re glad for her and for him. It’s nice to have been a part of one of those rare missing pet stories with a happy ending.

But not without a touch of sadness, too.

Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville.