Simba

There’s no easy way to explain how a lizard cracked open my heart.

But maybe that’s the point.

Simba came into my life in the most unceremonious way possible: a coworker’s kid was “growing out of him” and asked if I wanted to take him in. I’d lost a bearded dragon about a year earlier and had thought—casually, vaguely—that maybe someday I’d get another. I never did.

Until Simba.

He was a little mangy when we met. Big for a dragon. The guy said he was around two years old, but I could tell he was probably closer to four. He was skittish, constantly on the move, like the ground itself couldn’t be trusted. Later I’d learn a small dog used to chase him around his last house. He didn’t rest. He didn’t bask. He bolted.

But there was something in his eyes—kind, but guarded. Like he knew he’d been passed along not because he wasn’t lovable, but because he wasn’t loved enough. And somehow, despite all of that, he still wanted connection. Or at least didn’t run from it forever.

So we started hanging out.

At first it was chaos. Every time I let him out, he ran laps like he was still being hunted. But gradually, over weeks and months, he started to slow down. He started trusting me. I never expected a lot. He didn’t owe me anything. But he gave me so much.

After a while, we were inseparable. I’d come home and he’d be there—waiting. I’d talk to him like he was a roommate, a therapist, a friend. He didn’t judge my moods. He didn’t offer fixes. He just listened. And somehow that was enough.

It’s wild how a creature that never makes a sound can still take up so much space in your life.

People can do that too, of course. But animals do it without strings. Without needing anything from you except time, care, and presence. And maybe some crickets.

For almost two years, life was good. Simba was thriving. Healthy. Settled. Happy.

And then… something changed.

He started straining when he tried to go to the bathroom. At first, I wasn’t sure. One day, then two. Then a week. I made a vet appointment.

Let me say this plainly: exotic vets are a mixed bag. I’ve owned iguanas, dragons, a uromastyx—years of experience—and while I respect the profession, I’ve rarely found a vet who really gets reptiles. They don’t have the training. Not the way they do for cats or dogs. It’s not their fault. It’s just the truth.

They said it was an infection. Prescribed aggressive meds.

Too aggressive.

There was no improvement. He shed the lining of his intestines. And eight days after that visit, he died. On my chest.

Later, we’d learn it was a tumor in his digestive tract.

I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t ready. You never are. I kept looking for him—weeks after he was gone. In the window. On his hammock. In the room that used to be his.

And every time, he wasn’t there.

There was just… emptiness.

I didn’t know what to do with that feeling at first.
It felt enormous. Unbearable. Constant.
Like a low hum in the background that wasn’t going to shut off.

So I started putting words on paper.

Not because I had something to say.
Because I needed somewhere for the silence to go.

I wasn’t trying to write anything meaningful. I just wrote a quiet scene where someone shows up for someone else. That was it. No plan. No outline. Just presence.

It turns out grief makes you honest.
And honesty makes things move.

It’s been ten months.

The days are easier now. I function. I laugh. I move through the world without constantly catching my breath. And still, I think about him. I still look for him without realizing I’m doing it.

His enclosure is still here. His bed. His pillow. The room still feels like his in certain light.

That doesn’t feel strange. It feels honest.

Simba was my four-legged buddy. My scaly friend.

He didn’t ask anything from me. He didn’t need improvement or explanations. When I came home, he was there. Not at the door. In the window. Basking exactly where he always was at that time of day.

That was his way of meeting me.
Being where the light was.
Being where I would see him.

You hear a lot about bad pets. The loud ones. The disasters.

You don’t hear as much about the quiet ones.
The steady ones.
The ones who give more than they ever demand.

Simba was one of those.

Animals don’t love you for your potential.
They love you for your presence.

That kind of love is quiet. And we’re not always good at valuing quiet things.

I didn’t plan to become a writer.
I wasn’t one before him.

But somewhere in the middle of missing him, I realized I wasn’t just grieving. I was paying attention. I was learning how to sit still long enough to notice what hurts and what heals.

Writing became the place I put that attention.

It gave shape to the silence.
It gave language to the ache.
It gave me something to hold while I learned how to let go.

Life does move on. It’s supposed to.

But grief doesn’t mean I’m stuck.
It means I loved well.

Simba mattered.
He was loved.
He is missed.

He changed the shape of my days.
And that doesn’t evaporate just because time passes.

Ten months later, I still miss him terribly.
And that’s allowed.

RIP my friend. 💙