Last updated: 14.03.2025.
Me and Simba hanging out the summer I met him, August 2024.
Simba is a good cat and a very kind person. He lives in the summer house that belongs to Konrad's family. The first day I met Simba he hopped on over to me and meowed with his little coughish meow until I pet him. I was a little afraid he wouldn't like me, or even worse, just tolerate me, but he welcomed me into his family's summer as well, without much hesitation and with the greatest kindness.
Simba spends most of his days in the summer house, especially when it's cold, but when it gets a little warmer he goes around in the forest doing god knows what. Sometimes he fights with other cats and sometimes he comes back with a little offering - like that time he waited patiently by the door with a whole rabbit for someone to notice (it was clear he had not killed it himself, because Simba is a little old now and he's not that agile anymore, but everyone appreciated the gesture). Simba is a perfect cat, a little silly, but a great guy. He's very cuddly and he lets you do mostly anything you want to him; you can pick him up and let him down whenever you want. But sometimes, when you're petting him, he puts a paw on your hand, to let you know he's done. He's very firm on his feeding times, though, and comes meowing at you if you don't respect them. Otherwise, he's perfectly friendly and good-mannered. Not that a cat has to be, of course. He usually sleeps on Konrad's parents' bed, but recently, during the last winter, he's grown very fond of the mother's heating pad as well.
Few things have made me so happy in my life as going up the stairs to Konrad's attic bed and finding Simba there, perfecty nestled in the sheets, catching the last rays of the afternoon sun.
Simba speaks Swedish, of course, but we have always understood each other. The second time I saw him I tried a little Swedish, but he also responded to Konrad's mother's English, marking him as exceptionally talented in the languages. I sometimes suspect he speaks Gutamål as well, but I have no proof.
Simba has been very kind to me and to everyone he meets. He's very generous with his warmths and the frequencies of his purrs and he likes everyone, though you can tell he's not stupid, it's just that his heart is too big.
Simba is actually very silly and me and Konrad often joke, receiving pictures from his mother, that he's got at least three faces: a very serious, almost evil one, with sunken cheeks that we call Mr. President, a very friendly and somehow more rotund face which looks very silly and we call Robert Kennedy, as well as the standard Simba, somewhat absent but very beautiful. Simba is the softest cat. Simba's fur has gotten softer and turned just a little paler with age and now he looks exactly the colour of grain husks. We have multiple names for him: Kimba, Kimbap, Simbatron 3000, and all possible combinations of these.
Simba is not as big as you think he would be, he's actually pretty small, perfectly pick-up-able. Simba has a lovely pace but he still remembers how to run. Simba knows the real meaning of summer. Simba is loved by and loves everyone and I don't care for anyone who doesn't like Simba.
Me and Simba in the last week we had together, February 2025.
In January of 2025 Simba was operated and for a while he was okay and didn't bleed anymore, which meant he could sleep inside again. But the swelling came back five days later, meaning it had been a tumor all along. His family has put up special blankets for him to sit in and prepared a cover for his tail, where the fur has been shaven and the swelling is most evident, maybe painful, with gauze and a colorful fabric with what I think are flowers. Now, at the end of February, me and Konrad have gone to visit him one last time. One of these days Simba will not wake up anymore and we all hope he won't have felt pain. But today I've spent the afternoon by his side, up in the attic. Tomorrow we go into town and I think this will have been my last day with Simba. I fell asleep for a little while before, next to him. He sleeps most of the time these days, or rather goes from sleep to resting, the way cats do, and purrs every time I manifest my presence to him - whether that is by moving around to fetch my PC and revisit these words I began writing in January, when we first knew of the issue, or to pet him. I have to resist the impulse to write in the past tense. Sometimes I genuinely can't tell if he's snoring or purring. He makes the softest little sounds. When I start crying just now Simba stretches all of his body, turns around and puts a paw on my leg. Then he gone back to sleep, turning away from me. Paw still there. His little body shakes a little sometime and that's what makes me worried he's in pain. But I think he's fine, after all. I think Simba has had the best life he could've had - there are so many people who love him. Every time Simba goes to sleep, he knows that, when he wakes up, there'll still be a little sunlight left and shrimps to eat and evenings by the fireplace, as everyone watches TV, before it's time to sleep again.