Skimble
Skimble, my family's cat, was euthanised this morning after a pre-existing condition took a turn for the worse. He was 18.
When we bought him the woman in the pet shop told me that in her opinion he was the smartest there. We soon had reason to doubt her judgement, however, when we discovered his method for asking to be let inside. Obviously deciding that meowing was for lesser creatures, Skimble's preferred technique was to charge full-pelt at the front door and bash into it with his skull, generating a dull "boom" that could be heard throughout the house.
When inside, he gravitated to laps, completely oblivious to any pre-existing lap contents. I have many memories of sitting at my desk, typing, with a lap full of cat and his jackhammer-level purring filling the room. He never liked strangers, so it always made me smile to visit my mum's house and realise he still recognised me -- not bad for an old cat.
He is missed by Robyn, Charles, and me.