This old cat of ours. Ben was three or four when we got him, which makes Simba seventeen or eighteen now. He hates riding in cars. He’s been to the vet once in his life, after a raccoon tore him up. He lived outside and reckless most of his years, killing prey for food and sport. The vet told me he’d die young without vaccines. Nope. He once spent four days and three nights stuck in a tree, higher than any cat my $75 tree man had ever rescued. He belayed himself to the branch above Simba and rappelled up, whispering to him the whole way. Simba staggered over to him and let himself be shrouded into a pillowcase.
Simba doesn’t hunt anymore. He hasn’t scratched a kid in ages. He lets chickens chase him, though he refuses to run. His favorite food is canned dog food, and if he’s especially cold he’ll even snuggle a dog. Young Simba would never have suffered such humiliations.
I found an online calculator for cat years which says Simba’s age is comparable to being an eighty-four-to-eighty-eight-year-old human. Looking back, he didn’t really start to mellow until well past middle age. The tree incident was in his late sixties. This give me all kinds of hope for my own future.
As I’m writing, Simba’s come to lay against the computer screen. I’ve had to drag the window sideways to keep working. He’s still King Simba, as some things never change.
~ peace & prayers,