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
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