This is Smokey, the cat I grew up with.
When I was ten years old, I decided that it would be wonderful to have a pet cat. I asked my parents, and they said, "No. Your older brother and sister asked for a pet dog or cat when they were younger and we said no to them, too. We don't want to have to take care of a pet." I decided that this was an unacceptable answer, so I pestered them continually for two years until they broke down and said okay. Smokey was born of a neighbor's cat in March of 1983, and we adopted him a month later. He is a wonderful cat (and my parents are glad I convinced them to adopt him).
Smokey has always been a clever cat. When I was younger, I had fun teaching him how to open doors and cabinets and how to climb up and down ladders. He was a great hunter - he's caught mice, birds, lizards, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and gophers. When we lived in New Mexico, he would climb up on the roof at night and hide under the solar collectors, where he was safe from coyotes and protected from the weather. To get up on the roof, he would either climb up a tree next to the roof and jump from the overhanging branches, or run up the ladder (if it was up by the side of the house). I've also seen him run quickly around the house, take a flying leap at the corner of the house, and run straight up to the roof. (Our house was a "fake adobe" style, covered in stucco, so he had something to get a grip on).
Smokey was diagnosed as being diabetic when he was fifteen years old, not too long after Cinders was diagnosed. When my parents told me that Smokey was eating and drinking more than normal, but losing weight, I argued them into taking him to the vet for a checkup. (They thought that he was probably okay and they were just being paranoid.)
Smokey died in January of 2001, just a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday.