She got one for me, a “Persian” mix from a local crazy cat lady. Simba was taken too young from his mother; he fit the cup of my hand perfectly. My family called him Booger.
I remember when I bottle fed him; he scrambled for purchase for his little paws and scratched his own face.
I don’t have photos of those times. I will try and see if my sister does.
Anyways, when I moved into my own apartment, Simba went with me. He was the consummate indoor kitty, and the few times he stepped on grass he shook his foot off at each step, as if to say: “Ewww! Ewww!” It was so funny.
He had a little trick that he taught himself. If I called him, he would not come to me. But if I made scratching motions with my hand, he would saunter towards me to be petted.
Once I was so broke, I only had one dollar in change in the entire house. There was no human food. There was no kitty food. Not a question of survival, since my boyfriend would be paid the next day. I only had to choose who ate that day and who went hungry.
Simba ate, of course.
I had the dengue fever, and I had no health insurance, so I spent it at the apartment alone. A week of the bone-break fever, alone, too weak to ask for help, too unconcerned to make an effort. I remember Simba placing his cool nose on my cheek awakening me. He kept on insisting I wake up, probably only so that I fed him, but since I was up already I ate too, and washed, and survived.
During my periods of unemployment, he was there to purr at me. During the periods of employment, he greeted me at the door when I returned home.
Not claiming he was perfect. He could be quite the little dictator.
Just saying I loved him.
He died on March. It broke my heart like you can’t imagine. I felt, and still feel, like I let him down, like a bad mother, because I never noticed how sick he was until it was too late.
That first weekend after he died, while I was doing the laundry, I found one of his whiskers on my clothes, and I had to sit right there on the floor and bawl my heart out. I dreamt a few times that I was in a labyrinth looking for something, and it was vitally important that I find what was in the center, only to find Simba there, with his engine on and a mischievous glint in his eye, waiting for me. I grab him, but there I remember that I can’t take him home, that he has to remain there and I have to return alone.
Not alone, really. We still have Kojiro, my husband’s cat and Simba’s playmate.
He is funny, energetic, and playful. He follows me around going: “Miw! Miw! Miw! Miw! Miw!...”. He demands attention, and when he wants to play he wants to play right now!
I love him; don’t doubt it for a sec. But he is such an energetic kitty, and as he is alone most of the day, I am sure he would appreciate someone to torture/play with.
When Simba died, a whole lot of well-meaning people started to offer us random cats. We declined.
But I dreamt the other day of cats, and for once, Simba was not in it. I dreamt that we were overrun with cats. There seemed to be an invasion, kitties entering through the windows, the A/C vent, the clothes dryer vent… And I ran around trying to get the cats out of the apartment, but they kept on coming in. At last I got most of them out, but there was one kitten that simply refused to leave. It was fluffy and gray. Looked like this.
I threw it out the door, and as soon as I turned around, there it was on my couch, looking pleased and quite at home. I allowed it to stay.
Maybe the dream is a sign. Simba at the Rainbow Bridge, telling me to go on with my life.
I want to get a pet for our cat!
Well, maybe for me too.
What do you think?
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