I fell in love with Bhuja the first time I saw him.

I went to a shelter with a friend who was adopting a cat. I wandered into the kitten room and found him—a tiny black ball of chaos, ass-up in the garbage can, toppling a radio, kibble flying, just demolishing the place. I sat down. He climbed into my lap, latched himself upside-down on my arm, and refused to let go.

That was it. He was mine.

I never had a cat growing up (my mom was allergic) but I always wanted one. Bhuja became my best friend. He came with me to every military duty station, rode shotgun on cross-country road trips, and had a talent for getting into places he absolutely should not be. Once, during a layover in Chicago, he escaped in an airport bathroom, crawled into a plumbing hole under the sink, and got stuck inside the wall. Security had to extract him.

He was impish. Clever. Endlessly amusing. A little naughty. You couldn't help but adore him.

He was also weirdly obsessed with me. He sucked on my earlobes, stole food off my plate, and greeted me at the door when I came home so I'd sit on the couch and he could curl up in my lap. He slept in my right armpit every single night. When I deployed, he slept on my bed for four months waiting for me to come home.

On November 10, 2021, he disappeared.

I was working remotely, helping to coordinate evacuations from Afghanistan after the fall of Kabul—casework, liaising with government officials, fundraising specifically on that day. It was an intense, stressful time. Bhuja had been staying out longer than usual in the evenings. That day, I saw him lounging in the front garden around 3 PM. He never came home.

I searched everywhere. I put up 48 neon posters. I handed out over 450 flyers. I knocked on 106 doors. I showed up to check every possible reported sighting, setting humane traps with trail cameras. I caught four other cats, none of them Bhuja. I checked every shelter within 30 miles. I left his litter box outside in daylight hours, my worn clothes in the yard at night.

Nothing worked.

Here's the thing: I'm trained as an OSINT analyst. I know how to dig through data, follow leads, reconstruct timelines. I've done everything I can think of. And I've hit my ceiling. I need fresh eyes. I need people who can see patterns I've missed, who can think of angles I haven't considered.

That's why I'm here. That's why I'm offering $10,000. That's why I'm asking the internet—an army of researchers, investigators, cat lovers, and problem-solvers—to help me find him.

I know some people think four years is too long. That I should move on. That maybe someone found him and gave him a good home.

But here's what I can't get past: What if he's somewhere waiting for me to find him? What if he thinks I gave up?

I grew up as the oldest sibling. I joined the military. I learned that you don't leave people behind—not ever. And Bhuja isn't just "a cat." He's my family. He's the one who kept me grounded through deployments, cross-country moves, and the hardest year of my life.

I haven't given up. I won't give up.

He's microchipped. He can be found. And if anyone can find him, it's the collective power of people who refuse to let an impossible case stay unsolved.

Please help me bring him home.