A Sad Story

masonry Writing about a time when you tried to do something good and actually succeeded can be quite nice.
Telling the story of a time when you didn’t succeed at all isn’t as pleasant. When we share stories, it’s usually the postcards we want to send—the pleasant little pieces of life where everything turned out fine in the end.

This is not one of those stories, but still, I can’t see how I could have chosen differently, or how I could have foreseen what was going to happen.

When I was in eighth grade, some friends and I chose volunteer work as an elective. We reached out to Inger Marna Beskeland, who at the time was the driving force behind a shelter in my hometown,Trondheim. We were quickly put to work.
Every other week (or was it every week? It’s been quite a few years now), Inger Marna drove us to Høgheim, the cat shelter. There were two buildings with cats and two floors in the main house. Cats were everywhere. Some were very social and affectionate. Others were shy and withdrawn.

We carried water up the steep hill, cleaned litter boxes, washed floors, food and water bowls, and fed the cats. When the work was done, we got to cuddle and play with the cats.

It was a good and educational time. It was also deeply inspiring to see how tirelessly Inger Marna and the other passionate volunteers worked for the cats.

Misti, our cat, was five years old at the time. She was the first animal to become part of our family. We weren’t supposed to have pets. That’s what my parents always said. But one evening, when I was ten years old, there was a knock on the cabin door.

Outside stood our cabin neighbor. She held a small cardboard box tied with a blue ribbon. Inside the box was the most beautiful kitten in the world. A black and white beauty with wide, anxious yellow eyes. Misti was longed-for and deeply loved. She was shy and afraid of strangers but incredibly devoted to the family.

At Høgheim, there were an overwhelming number of cats. There were social cats, beautiful cats, young cats, playful cats, but also old and injured ones. After months of pleading and negotiating, I finally persuaded my parents to let another cat move into our home.

I had no doubt who our new family member should be. It had to be Ahas Verus. He was a tired, older cat who didn’t seem to be anyone’s first choice. Ahas Verus had been living outside in Melhus for several years before he was rescued. His ears were torn, and he had a strange expression due to an old jaw injury. When you petted him, he was incredibly happy, but he never pushed himself forward.

Ahas Verus came home with us. In a house full of medical curiosity, he was quickly renamed—from Ahas Verus to Adeno Virus, and finally just Virus.

He was loved and cared for from the very start, and he blossomed dramatically. In just a few weeks, it was as though the years melted away. He became younger, happier, more energetic. He played with spools of thread, balls of yarn, anything really—and he ran through the house.
He was a happy cat.

It was exactly how I had dreamed it would be.
Or so I thought.

At first, I didn’t notice that Misti was spending more time outdoors. That she had stopped coming into the living room like she used to. But when she no longer slept in my room at night, I understood that something wasn’t right.

I had never imagined it would be a problem for Virus to share us. After all, he came from a place with over 50 cats. How could one cat be a problem?

It didn’t matter what I thought. Virus had made up his mind.
We were his people. The house was his home. And he had no intention of sharing it with another cat.
He chased Misti whenever he found her in the house. She barely dared come inside anymore.

We thought it would get better.

Autumn came. The weather turned cold.
All I saw of Misti were brief, fleeting glimpses.

We knew we had to do something, but we kept giving ourselves another week.
“Let’s try a little longer, wait and see,” we said.
Virus was so happy. After years as a stray and then just one among many, he had finally found a home.
And we were so terribly fond of him.

One day, during one of the brief moments when Misti was inside, I stood holding her in my arms.
I didn’t know Virus was nearby.

But when he saw us, he became furious. Jealousy, rage—who knows.
He attacked me.
He scratched my bare legs and bit me until I bled.
He was angrier and more aggressive than I have ever seen a cat—before or since.

Misti leapt from my arms and ran into the woods. Days passed. She didn’t come home.
I saw her from a distance, but she didn’t dare return. It had become too dangerous.

The time had come to say goodbye. Not to Misti, who had been our cat for five years—but to Virus.
He who had been so happy, and so young again, during the months he lived with us.

I cried the day he left.
It wasn’t an easy choice, but I couldn’t betray Misti.
It had to be her first.

I wasn’t there when he returned to Høgheim, but a few weeks later I heard he had died.
He passed away in his corner, deep inside the shelter.

In despair, I thought—we should’ve held on just a couple more weeks. Then he could’ve passed away at home, with us. That would have been the dignified ending I had wanted for him.
But I don’t think it was a coincidence that he died so soon after returning.

I’m sure he died of heartbreak.

This is the other side of the postcard. The part we write in invisible ink.
Sometimes we mean so well, and still, things don’t turn out right.

Misti came home again.
She was safe and happy and lived for many more years.

Sometimes love is difficult.
But we have to keep trying.

Even when it hurts.