His name was Garfield, and he was 19. I got him as a kitten when I was 13. I came downstairs this morning to find him on his favourite cushion on the couch; it was the only time that he didn't raise his head to meow/croak back at me.
He had a good life. His last day was spent sunning himself in the back garden; his last meal was his favourite roast chicken; and last night, when I was working at my computer, he came up for a cuddle and a purr.
As the vet said to me a few months ago, "You don't last that long without good bits". Garfield was made with the best.
Goodbye, old man.