Our cat Ejnar died March 30th. He'd had kitty cancer, then surgery last fall. He seemed to have fully recovered but we knew there was a good chance it'd come back. And so it did.
Ejnar came to us as a stray young adult in 2001, knocking on our third floor porch door looking hungry. Ken took pity and was cutting up a hot dog for him. I said "you know if you feed him, he'll end up being our cat." And so we did, and he did, coming a little more into our house every day. We put a collar on him with a note saying "your cat? call us!" but no one ever did. So after a couple of weeks we decided he was ours. We named him after a random bishop's name we saw on a church in Denmark. (Pronounced Eye-nar, not that he ever knew that.)
He was a good cat. He'd clearly been someone's pet, affectionate, social, good with the litter box. He even knew not to jump on tables, although if we left our plates with chicken bones on the dining table they'd be gnawed clean on the floor in the morning. Polite cat, but perfectly happy to help himself when unseen.
His favourite things were rabbit fur mouse toys, fish and shrimp feast, the warm air from the heater vent in the morning, and sitting snuggled between Ken and I on the sofa. He was a chatty cat, I still hear his inquisitive "mrowr?" in my mind when I come downstairs in the morning. We miss him.