Nine Lives

In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Tybalt asks Mercutio: What wouldst thou have with me? Mercutio responds: Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Even in the 1500’s, the superstition that cats have nine lives existed. Although I don’t know where this belief comes from, I can attest to its accuracy when it comes to my family cat, Kari, who has consistently defied the odds against her.

I remember the day when my dad, a dog lover, told us that we could finally get the cat we had been begging for. We were stationed in Oslo, Norway at the time, and we picked her because she was the most playful, the feistiest of the bunch. A Norwegian forest cat, she would roam outside for hours, returning in the winter with icicles hanging off her fur and whiskers, and in the summer with branches and twigs tangled in her tail. She often would leave us “presents” on the doorstep, as Kari always has been a hunter. When it was time to leave Norway, she was upgraded to first-class where she had a personal flight attendant watching her—we, meanwhile, were stuck in economy, sharing a flight attendant with the other 70 passengers.

We arrived in Michigan in September and then moved to Illinois in January, Kari moving each time with us. In Illinois one winter night, Kari was outside, as she usually was. But, as we had just moved there, the neighborhood was unfamiliar. That night, it snowed, and Kari couldn’t find her way home. We plastered the neighborhood with her picture and advertised a $50 reward; kids from all over would bring us black and white cats in the hopes that they had found our lost Kari and could claim the money. After three months, we had lost hope and assumed that Kari was gone forever.

I had been at cheerleading practice one afternoon when my dad came to pick me up. As I got in the car, he casually mentioned there was a surprise waiting for me at home, but would say nothing more. I walked into our home in Rantoul and in the kitchen sat Kari, about half the size she was when I last saw her. A neighborhood child told my sister she saw a black and white cat; in one last attempt, my sister followed her where, about three blocks away from our home, she spied a Norwegian forest cat. She yelled Kari’s name and our feisty cat came running to her arms. Amanda cradled Kari on the way home and to the vet that afternoon; after a clean bill of health, we took our Kari home.

Since then, Kari has lived in Arizona, where she escaped from coyotes, snakes and gila monsters, and now she resides in Maryland. About five years ago, Kari was diagnosed with FIV, feline HIV. When I see her, I still remember the kitten who would sleep on my neck; the cat who would climb up our burlap wall in Norway rather than take the stairs; my pet who has given me a handful of scars as I tried, without success, to hold her against her will; and now the aging darling who still purrs when I pet her face.

Despite being lost for several months, moving numerous times, being in more fights than you can imagine, and having a crippling disease, Kari recently turned 20. Kari is without a doubt a survivor and I only hope she still has a few more lives left: Happy birthday, Kari!

Kari as a kitten in Norway

Kari in Arizona

Kari, age 20, still enjoying the outdoors in Maryland

Tea and Soup

Andy and I arrived in Maryland on Friday night, after a rather long drive on the car-filled Jersey turnpike. Tired and frustrated, we lugged our luggage and laundry up the walkway, and standing in the warm light of the kitchen window was my mother. George Eliot once wrote, “Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.” As life continues, I still find very little that compares to the comfort and love I feel when I see my mother’s face.

After dropping off our bags, we went into the kitchen, where brewing on the stove was one of my favorite soups – fresh vegetable (only slightly second to her homemade chicken noodle). I eagerly scooped a bowl of soup when my mom said, “Lis, come here, I want to show you something.” I followed her to the garage, where she had bought out the commissary of my favorite tea—after searching the town for weeks to find it. As I sat down with my bowl of soup and tea, I couldn’t help but think how very fortunate I am to have a mother who gives so much. I know everyone is partial to their mother, but I do know I hit the jackpot.

Later that night, as I lay next to Andy, I started to cry, overcome with love and emotion for my mother—this woman who has given me so much; who has shown me the importance of family, of love and of enjoying life; who encouraged me to be my own person, even when I wanted to cling to her; who supported me through periods when I had no friends at school or was changing careers; who persuaded me to attend a college 3,000 miles away from family when she knew it would open more doors for me; who always put me, and my future, first.

Even though there are no words that can adequately thank my mother for all she has done for me, I would still like to say thank you, Mom, for everything—for the love and support, for the strong example you set, for being such an amazing, kind and remarkable woman, for the soup and tea. I love you.

My mother with all three of her children

My high school graduation with my mom and dad

At my wedding with my sister