The doctor who recommended "humane euthanasia" said that is 106 in human years.
I got Mr. Fuzz & Miss Willow as kittens, around the same time. Miss Willow died two and a half years ago at age 15 and it was a little easier because she died in her sleep. I had to give the go-ahead to the vet to poison Mr. Fuzz. He had gone rapidly downhill after his birthday and the vet said he had probably had a stroke which is why his hind legs had become useless in the past few days.
This morning he was listless, would not eat anything and broke my heart when he tried to get himself to his litter box by using his front legs, his hind ones dragging on the ground, the sound of his toenails scrapping the tile floor.
I knew it was coming. I had already had a couple of false alarms during the past week, when I thought he was dead. But it was still horrible when it happened, to see his furry little body, his lifeless head on that metal table, never to look at me, or pester me for treats or go for a walk or nibble on the plants or just be there when I came home, ever again. I cried for hours. I'm crying again as I write this.
If I wanted him to lie down on the pillow next to me while I was watching TV, I would pat the pillow and promise him I would say "he's a very nice man." He came to know that phrase, and it always got him to come and lie down. He would lie down on the pillow and I would pet him and say "he's a very nice maaaaaan... everybody loves him cause he's a very nice maaaaan..." until he got tired of it and decided to do something else.
In the killing room, right before the vet came in with the poison, I held him tight in his blanket and said to him over and over "he's a very nice man."
Good-night Mr. Fuzz, you were and always will be a very nice man.