My wife Honey awoke in the middle of the night last Sunday morning with a horrible, heartbreaking realization: “I didn’t see Henry all day Saturday.” When she told me in the morning I couldn’t remember seeing him either.

“It’s not like him,” Honey said. We live out in the country, a quarter-mile from other homes, and have always let our cats roam outdoors. (We used to have a cat door but closed it when possums and roving tomcats learned to come in.) Our cats like the freedom, don’t typically go far, and keep the rodent populations in check.

Our beloved Henry, however, was not in the habit of staying long outdoors. Sometimes he was ready to come back in 10 minutes, only to want out again soon after.

“In again out again Finnegan,” we’d comment, reciting an old saying learned from my mother, Ol’ Food. (That comes from an old children’s song, the internet says.)

Trying to discourage Henry from scratching up the kitchen door frame, Honey hung a string of sleigh bells on the door handle. Henry quickly learned he’d get it opened when he made the bells jingle. He was the smartest cat we ever had.

He was also my wife’s cat, the only cat who favored her over me or the grandsons or anyone else. He followed Honey around when she worked, whether organizing or cleaning in the basement or potting flower plants outside. He watched her, trying to understand what she was up to. He was curious about everything.

When Honey rested in her recliner, Henry would jump up and install himself on the right arm, ready to be petted. He was not a lap cat, however, though we tried to make him one. He had his standards. Being a lap cat was too familiar for him. His idea of closeness with Honey was to place a single paw on her leg, a gesture of affection he gave only to her.

He was very social and open to anyone who came through the door, however, on his terms. Just don’t pick him up or try to put him on your lap. If you cared to come down to his level on the floor, he had hinges on his paws and was always ready to flop on his back for petting and scratching. That trait earned him the pseudonym “Flop” when I wrote about him in this column.

I once wrote an “interview” with Henry in my column to show his intelligence and playful, although superior, personality. When he was one of three young, unrelated kittens we adopted, I created a picture book about them. He of course was the star; I titled the book “I am Henry.” The best line in it was this comment about his “brother” kittens. “They’re adopted,” said Henry. “I’m not.”

What made Henry’s sudden disappearance more painful is that we are almost certain something killed him. About 10:30 Saturday morning, Honey let in Fanny, one of our three cats (aka “Snit” because of her attitude.) Snit acted spooked and was breathing very heavily, as if she had been chased. Snit, not much more that a kitten, initially antagonized the much older Henry but they became playmates. Honey likes to think that Henry went out a hero, giving his life so Snit could escape.

From her experience as a longtime cat owner and retired veterinarian, Honey knows that kittens can be a salve for the pain of losing a beloved cat. (Same as puppies for the loss of a dog.) They don’t fill the raw, aching hole in your heart, but they can help. Honey isn’t sure she wants or is ready for a kitten, but thought that fostering a newborn litter would both distract her and help make the decision. The animal shelter is always looking for foster families.

When the shelter called to say come on in, we arrived to find a litter of four kittens, which are, however, still inside the mother cat. The cat, an affectionate, beautiful calico named Pinky, is presently installed in our bathroom, awaiting the imminent blessed event. We let her out in the house now and then, a freedom she uses to search for a safe place to have her kittens. When the usually bellicose Snit ever so tentatively tried to observe this intruder, the gentle Pinky turned into a screaming hellcat and sent Snit flying, as if to say, “I’m in a strange house with people I don’t know and I’m pregnant and overdue and you get outta my face now!”

The consensus is that Pinky won’t be staying after raising her litter, but if there is a suitable male kitten, he might.

No kitten will or ever could replace Henry. He was a once in a lifetime cat, and my wife will carry the grief of his loss always.