When my cat Eric passed away from stomach cancer in 2001, I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready to have a pet again. But a few months later I was given another cat, Karl, by an old friend from Camberwell College of Arts in south London, who was moving back to Germany. I had known Karl when I was a student there, where he had been mates with Eric. Karl, an unassuming brown tabby with a judgmental glare, took me back to living in student halls in the 90s.

Karl was perhaps the most average-looking tabby in south London, but on my quiet street he became a legend of sorts. He accompanied my children and me on school runs. He would walk ahead with his belly swinging and take us to the top of the road. There he would wait until I dropped off the children and escort me back home.

During his time at college, Karl had learned how to use the toilet. He would climb on to the seat, lift his tail up and aim directly into the bowl. It was like a party trick he had picked up.

He would sit in the front garden for “chats” with neighbours and passersby he recognised. My apparently moody cat had formed connections with neighbours I didn’t even know. He remembered their routines, so he knew when to be waiting for his daily pats.

In 2008, I was awaiting the birth of my third child – a baby I knew that Karl would only tolerate at best. On the walls of the front garden Karl stood as the neighbourhood watch. It was also where he was killed.

The memorial plaque commissioned by Nadya and her partner Tim. Photograph: Courtesy of Nadya Smith

Karl was sadly mauled by an unruly dog. Neighbours, who had played with him and talked to him all these years, rushed out to my desperate screams. They stood next to me as he died in my arms.

My partner, Tim, had trained as a funeral director before deciding to become a chef and he decided that Karl needed a fitting send-off. We had a funeral that same night. Our neighbours attended and we played music as we lowered Karl and his shoebox coffin into our back garden.

I was so caught up in my grief, I hadn’t realised how many people loved Karl outside my own home. I received more condolence cards for Karl than when my mother died. I could hear people walking past my house asking: “Where’s the cat?”

Tim knew some stonemasons from his funeral director days so we had a plaque commissioned. We put it at cat height so people who had knelt to stroke Karl could see it. When I moved homes in 2019, I offered to remove it for the new tenants. Surprisingly, they refused. Nearly 20 years on, the memory of Karl the cat lives on in a quiet suburban street.

As told to Faisa Mohamed