Simkhaw wasn't your average cat...
She had tom cats looking for her--from miles away.
Once they found her, she'd kick their butts and then romance them. Atta girl!
She liked to play chicken with cars.
I watched on several different occasions as cars raced down the street. Simkhaw would saunter into the road, wait in the cars' paths, calmly knowing the vehicles would have to stop. And shockingly the cars always did! They'd slowly swerve around her. After they were long gone, Simkhaw would strut back to my side and bask in the sun. My heart would've been racing, 'til I knew she was okay! After getting over the shock, I'd just shake my head and continue drinking my coffee. That's how Simkhaw got things done!
She understood English.
Cade told Simkhaw she couldn't come in and she gave him a full-on crusty face. (Cade should've known WE didn't own the house, SHE did!) Simkhaw walked away until she was a quarter of the way down the block. "Come back, ya stinker shit!" Cade had said. Simkhaw's ears perked. She turned, and without ever looking at Cade, she went right up to the front door and gracefully stepped inside. Home, sweet home!
She could kick a dog's ass!
Once--when Simkhaw was over ninety years old in cat years--she lounged on the stairs, looking quite weak and lethargic.
Simkhaw (at the human age of seventeen)
Me (still in my PJ's sorry) and Luna (when we still owned her)
I panicked, thinking Simkhaw might die. But instead of lying there like a wimp, Simkhaw jumped right onto Luna's back and stayed there rodeo-style for the longest time, as Luna bucked around the house!
She'd mastered the art of deception.
Simkhaw got very ill in her 18th year. I brought her to a vet who peered down at her sadly. "Yes, she's ready to go. Look how weak she is." He lifted up her limp front paw. "All right, Janice. I won't need help with this one," he yelled back to his assistant. "I'll be back, Ms. Hirsch," he said to me, "we just need to take some blood so you'll know, without a doubt, that you're making the right choice."
That gem of a doctor--that vet, who apparently couldn't read animals very well--decided to take Simkhaw into the back room ALONE. I think the whole state of Utah heard him scream as Simkhaw clawed him over and over.
About fifteen minutes later, the vet limped back into the room.
(Well, maybe not completely limping, but pretty close!) Scratches lined his arms and even face! "She's pretty . . . spry . . . for being eighteen years old. It took all six of us to finally get her under control."
So this is my tribute to Simkhaw. She's now buried under her favorite tree in my backyard. I've had her since I was twelve years old; now I'm thirty! I'm gonna miss that character--she taught me a lot about life. I love you, Sim. I hope you'll keep Zeke company in Heaven.
If you don't know who Zeke is, and would like to, please visit this link: