I LOST A VERY DEAR FRIEND the other day. When he came into my life several years ago, I could not have imagined I’d come to regard him as such, or that I could possibly feel such an ache at his passing. But he won my heart, big time.

My friend was named Buddy. He was a very handsome fellow, orange with white paws, white breast and a white nose. He was just a cat, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like him.

Buddy — short for Jethro “Buddy” Bodine, the rather odd name given him by one of his early owners — came into our lives by virtue of my stepdaughter, Lisa. She was then studying at Columbia University, and asked if my wife and I could watch him for a little while. When she moved to San Francisco, we kept Buddy, fearing that he was too old and set in his ways to make another move.

I didn’t want him at first. I even argued against taking him. I’ve always favored dogs — nature’s noble beasts, loving and loyal. Cats struck me as petulant, indifferent, finicky creatures. I didn’t want the hassle.

But I was promised: “You won’t know he’s here.”

We still laugh about that one. If Buddy did anything, it was make himself known.

Buddy cried. He crooned. He called out with an inflection that sounded as if he was asking a question. If you talked to him, he made a croaking noise back that seemed almost empathic.

He had had a series of owners. At some point, when he was very young, he suffered a terrible ear infection. For the rest of his life, his ears gave him problems. You had to pat his head just right, or he would give a fierce shake, to ward off an itch. Every several months or so, he would need goopy medication squirted down his ear canals, something he hated with a passion.

He had had his front claws removed, so he could not climb trees or defend himself outdoors. That made him an indoor cat for life.

Most tabbies I’ve met love people. They will fearlessly seek a pat, rub against a leg.

Buddy was wary. If a stranger moved toward him, he sped from the room. He defined the term “scaredy cat.”

But he glommed onto me — the one who didn’t want him.

When I got up in the morning to take a shower, he stood outside the bathroom door, crying, until I emerged. Then he followed me, doglike, to my room while I got dressed, and followed me downstairs to the kitchen.

He might be silent all day, even when other people were in the house. But when I came home from work and he heard my voice, he would set up a loud howling from the second floor. That meant, “Come upstairs and pat me.”

If we ignored him, he would slink downstairs and madly race through the kitchen. “Look, it’s me!” was the message. After a couple of passes of that, he would climb back upstairs and howl.

Embarrassingly, he behaved the same way during dinner parties. Around 11 p.m., he would stand at the top of the stairs and keen at the top of his lungs, announcing to everyone that it was time to go home.

At night, he’d jump up on the bed and lean against my legs. And if I snored like a sailor, or turned over in my sleep and inadvertently clomped him on the head, he didn’t seem to mind.

This kind of neurotic love could be trying. When I was at my home computer, racing to meet some deadline for a writing project, he would come in, stare at me and call out in a questioning voice.

“No, Buddy, you go take a nap.”

He’d look at me with a blank face, almost shrug, walk away and jump on the bed. But a few minutes later he would be back, until I’d let him leap onto my lap. While I wrote, he’d purr and head-butt my chin. The head butt was big with Buddy.

He showed love in other ways, some deeply affecting.

When a loved one came home from the hospital to recover from an operation, he — for the first and only time — insisted on going under the covers and resting against her for hours, giving her comfort. It was as if he knew his affection would help her heal.

One memorable Sunday morning, he exploited an open first-floor window to embark on an adventure. When he did not return that afternoon, I walked around the neighborhood and called his name. Hours later, I heard the muted sound of his crying in our garage. But when I opened the door, the defenseless cat sped into the night and disappeared. As the hours passed, I could hear the feral noise of animals fighting in the dark. Finally, at 4:30 a.m., I awoke to Buddy’s cries, went grumbling into the back yard, and let him in. He was fine.

“You won’t know he’s here,” my yawning wife joked when I got back into bed. Soon, Buddy was slumped against my legs, purring.

For the last few months, he seemed to be getting sluggish. A couple of weeks ago, he suddenly stopped eating, then could barely drag himself around the house. He hid in the basement behind some dusty pipes, no longer cleaning himself fastidiously. He still wanted to be comforted, but his purr was raspy and wheezy. He was seriously ill, and we could not save him.

Most of us know the feeling of loving a pet. The gentle, reassuring spirit of these wonderful animals is one of those little miracles that lend life its sweetness. But it hurts when they go.

Wherever your spirit has flown, my friend, I’m glad I got the chance to know you.

Edward Achorn is The Journal’s deputy editorial-pages editor ( eachorn@projo.com).