My First Day With The Lion!
There is a lion in my backyard. But if you come to visit, don’t worry – she won’t attack you. She can’t. And she wouldn’t even if she could. She’s not that kind of a lion.
Simba was sent to me – like most things that have entered my life – from God. I know that now, but I did not realize it at the time. I first saw her leaping around the window at the local “Lion’s Shelter”. I had never owned a lion. And at that point in my life I really had no credentials for ownership of any living creature. I had owned a fish once, but it jumped out of the tank and died. I chose to believe that the leap was purely accidental – possibly out of curiosity concerning what was outside of the glass, and the death was in no way a reflection upon it’s rather limited existence inside the tank, or upon me as an owner. To be honest, I sometimes wonder if I had bought the aquarium castle for the tank, or maybe a few more tank toys if things might have turned out differently…
But a lion? This was a whole different animal. Such a commitment. Such responsibility. Not to mention the fact that I was living with two housemates at the time – neither of whom was particularly found of any animals, and in a house with a strict “no animals” rule by the landlord. And the three of us in that house were, well, not particularly pillars of maturity at this time. Although we had all completed college, and held down some kind of employment, the primary focus of our energies at home was usually directed at acquiring alcohol, consuming alcohol, or recovering from the effects of alcohol.
So from the outside – sitting in the bleachers and observing my life at that time, the casual spectator most likely would have suggested that a lion was not the ideal addition for me, and that I would have been better suited trying to sustain the life of another fish – or set my sights lower in the food chain and buy a nice, hearty house plant. The woman who ran the Lion’s Shelter seemed to hold that opinion, but she thought that requiring me to bring a document stating that I could have an animal in my rented home would be enough of a deterrent. A rather gruff lady, she kept emphasizing the weight and significance of adopting an animal, and went on and on about how important it was that I understood what I was undertaking. Like the lovable but naïve “Peanuts” characters, most of what I heard from her was the droning “Whak whak whak whak whak”. You see, nothing mattered at the point when she began to speak to me – I was getting this lion – one way or another.
But let me back up. After seeing the animal in the glass window of the shelter, I turned around immediately and went back. I had driven by this place hundreds of times, and had never entered. But today I did. And no sooner had the door closed behind me than the lion jumped down from the window and approached. She was one of the few animals in the place that was allowed to roam free – most of the others were confined to crates or small fenced cubicles with members of their own pack. She was unique – the only lion of her tribe – and she walked slowly and timidly towards me. Everything about her was striking – her golden fur, the thick mane that was starting around her head, the gentle nature of her approach, but the most amazing feature of this creature was her eyes – they were human – and within them was something deep, and wise, and full of understanding. From the moment I knelt down to greet her, I knew she was coming home with me.
“Oh, have you made a new friend, Simba?” asked one of the shelter workers.
“Simba, huh?” I asked. The lion looked up at me, cocking her head. I would not know for some days later that the name was a reference to a popular children’s movie of that time. I just knew it seemed to fit her perfectly. “Is she up for adoption?” I asked.
“Yes. She just came in. We think she is about 6 months old. Isn’t she beautiful? She won’t be around long.” After saying that, the worker must have seen the concern and alarm in my eyes. “Do you think you want to adopt her?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” I replied, with all thoughts of landlords, and housemates, and responsibility and overall capability long gone from my mind.
“Oh, that’s great!” The woman said. Then she hesitated. “And do you own your home?” she asked tentatively. “No,” I replied, without really thinking about the answer, but rather staring into the lion’s face, transfixed by her beauty. “No, I’m renting right now.”
I made eye contact with the woman long enough to realize that I had just answered incorrectly.
“Oh.” She said. “In that case, we’ll just need some documentation that you can have a pet and…”
That’s when the other woman entered the conversation. She must have been watching the entire interaction, and upon hearing my living status, took it as her cue to enter and begin the scripted diatribe about all the reasons I really shouldn’t do this. As I mentioned before, and has been the case with many similar situations in my life, her words were pointless – muted out by a deep, genetic encoding system within myself that is built upon generations of pure Irish stubbornness and the overwhelming desire to cross the line into all places I have been forbidden to go. As she spoke, my plan to bust the lion out of this joint was forming.
I could have just turned the paperwork that was given to me in after an hour or so of leaving the shelter. I had filled it all in – forging the signature of my landlord, and providing the phone number of a friend to pose as the landlord if he was called. But I thought bringing it back so quickly might be suspicious, so I opted to wait until the next morning. My biggest fear was that someone else would grab the lion between now and then. I called the shelter and told them that my landlord had agreed and that I would be around the next morning to pick Simba up. I spoke to the first woman I had met at the shelter, who kindly assured me that she would inform any prospective adopters that this lion was taken. I found it hard to sleep that night, though. I felt like I had when I was a child and Christmas was coming, or my birthday, or a family trip. Excitement mixed with something else, something that questioned if the experience would be as grand as I had made it in my mind. I had a history of building expectations for such events up so much, that anything less than an epic, once in a lifetime experience seemed disappointing. These expectations most likely came from the other world I liked to live in, and the one I occasionally go back to visit in my mind. My fantasy world. The world where things rarely go wrong, where everyone is enraptured, and happy, and filled with joy by simple, daily experiences. Things are rarely tough, or hard, or painful in this world, but when they are families and friends join together in unity and in the end goodness always wins out over evil. I used to watch a lot of television. And at that time, shows with those themes were still available. Think “The Waltons” or “Little House on the Prairie”. They also had lots of dogs on these shows. And owning a dog would be easy, right? I could just let it run around the field and scare off rapid raccoons and other varmints like the Walton’s dogs did.
The reality of my decision and of the responsibility I had undertaken did not truly hit me until I had successfully bamboozled the shelter staff, had paid the necessary lion adoption fees, had waited while Simba was given a final once over by the shelter veterinarian, and loaded the lion into my car. I opened the back door, and she jumped in. By the time I had come around the car, however, she had decided that the driver’s seat was a far better place to sit, and she really did not like the idea of moving over. After several minutes, she conceded to sitting in the front passenger seat, and that would be her preferred perch in every vehicle we traveled in together for the next 12 years. If left alone in any car, however, she would always move to the driver’s seat shortly after the human driver exited and she would remain there until asked to leave. I have long thought that if left in those situations with a key to a vehicle, she may have just found a way to drive off somewhere, but that thought will remain now always just a theory.
So back to our first ride together. I now had my new companion. My goal had been accomplished. I had shown them all that I could do it. No one had stopped me. And now she was here. Right next to me. In the seat. I wondered suddenly what to do next. I wondered if she was thirsty. Or maybe hungry. I wondered if she needed to go the bathroom, or if she was hot in the car. I had seen other dogs put their heads out of the window of cars – I thought that maybe they do that when they are hot. I pressed the button to roll down the passenger side window. She didn’t move. She didn’t even turn to look at it. In fact, she hadn’t moved much since positioning herself on the seat. She had simply rolled herself into a ball – an almost perfect circle, and kept her eyes directed at me. The look in those eyes was difficult to describe. She seemed almost amused, or reassuring, maybe. Her look suggested that we would get through whatever was to come together. For now, she seemed to be saying, you’ll have to drive, though, because I haven’t quite figured that one out. I had no idea at that time just how much we would go through together, or how much I would draw upon that lion’s strength to go on. For now, I just knew that things had changed in a really significant way in my life.
It is worth mentioning that this impulsive decision to bring an animal into my life came at a time when internally I felt like a complete and utter failure. A loser extraordinaire. My human soul mate, the woman who is now my wife, had finally seen that no amount of love, or coaxing, or tears on her part was going to speed up my maturation process or slow down my addiction to alcohol. She had left. She had been one of the main reasons I came back to the area after rambling around the country as a tour guide and a Colorado ski bum. I returned from those adventures and was once again involved in the family business with my father. The business was seasonal, and it was becoming blatantly obvious that the primary purpose of the business was not to turn any kind of profit, but to feed the insatiable workaholism that my father had inherited from his dad. The voices in my head were screaming that it was time to run – again. To run from this place, and from the business, and from any intimate relationships, and from anything and anyone that might find out that I was weak, and broken, and pathetic to the core.
And then came the lion. Maybe it was the genetic predisposition to pigheadedness I mentioned before, the subconscious and desperate need to do something, anything, right. Maybe it was just serendipitous; an odd twist of fate and an impulsive choice that changed the course and direction of my life. And maybe it was something else, something spiritual, and holy, and indefinable. A priceless gift. A second chance. A guardian angel on four legs and with floppy ears. Whatever happened behind the curtains of what we humans can see, things began to change around me and eventually inside of me when Simba entered my life.
There is neither the space or the time here to do justice to the 12 years that we spent together. Some brief highlights include the hours the two of us hiked, and camped, and explored miles of the Adirondack Mountains; the time I almost lost her for good after she had fallen in an old, poorly covered well and I was franticly searching for her for 10 to 15 minutes; and then there were those endless weeks, months perhaps, immediately following the unexpected death of my father, when I experienced the heaviest bodily and spiritual fatigue I have ever known. I would come home everyday from work, exhausted and drained, and I would lay on the floor, covered with a blanket, using Simba as a pillow. I often woke up 3 or 4 hours later. She never moved, or stirred, or complained in any way about this ritual. She knew something had happened – I just know she knew. Simba was the only “grandchild” that my dad ever got to meet before dying, and he loved her and spoiled her daily. That lion stayed with me and comforted me and gave me a reason to keep going through those days. She was right there beside me the whole time. She was also there when I took my last drink, and when my soul mate returned, and when both of our kids were born into this world. Simba was there as I slowly and stubbornly acquired this wonderful life that I never deserved, or imagined, or dreamed was possible. The lion was there through it all.
There is only one memory with Simba that I wish I could erase. It is the one of her last hours. Her body got old too soon. She couldn’t walk anymore. We spent her last night sleeping on the floor, and I was her pillow. I owed her that. I owed her a lot more than that. She was put to sleep the next day. And I was there, in the room, holding her near. She never roared, or whimpered, or cried out in any way through the pain of those last days. And even in the last minutes of her life, she kept her gaze on me. Her last thoughts are, of course, unknown, but if I had to guess, I would bet that she was thinking “Don’t worry – we’ll get through whatever is to come just fine.”
During her lifetime, I had made countless jokes and quips about having the lion “stuffed” and put in the family room after she died. Sometimes I would switch the scenario up and say that we would just have her head above the fireplace, or make a fuzzy rug of her for the family to lay on. My morbid sense of humor is another inherited family trait, but I think all pet owners can relate to joking about the demise of their beloved friends. It is easy when they are young, and playful, and full of life and love. In truth, I had planned to have her cremated at the veterinarians, and to spread the ashes along one of the many trails we had traveled or at the top of some Adirondack peak. But I simply could not leave her there on that last day. After 12 years together, I needed her around a little longer.
There is a lion in my backyard. But if you come to visit, don’t worry – she won’t attack you. She can’t. And she wouldn’t even if she could.
I knew this blog needed to be written, but I have been avoiding it. I hope that in some small way, anyone who has been sent a pet to help them get through a tough time in their life will be comforted in knowing that guardian angels really do exist – and sometimes they have four legs and floppy ears.
What would we do without our furry friends to get us through? Beautiful story…
This brought tears to my eyes – my little Henrietta is buried in our back yard – there are few things more painful than losing a beloved pet. Thank you for sharing such a wonderful story – you were both lucky to have found each other.
I have had many four legged family members in my time. These stories always bring a smile to my face and tears to my eyes.We all wish our four legged friends could live as long as us. For whatever reason they don’t ,I guess we just have to accept.Duffy, Troubles,Ringo,Zeus, Chante and Tiny. You are all missed. God Bless you and keep you all. I have not forgotten any of you.
She was also there for Pa and me. What joy she gave to him, and what comfort she was to me. She truly was sent to us, and I thank god that she was. What stubbornness???
OK Brian,
You jump started my heart for the day, and I am fully aware that my tear ducts are working just fine. I too have a friend that protected me through recovery and that was an 80 pound dog named Peanut- she lived with me for 15 years and now sleeps next to me every night for eternity- Thanks for bringing back the memories. Noreen