We lost him this past Sunday - he was 15 years old and insulin-dependent. He was a BIG Maine Coon, but with bright blue eyes, and we think he was the sweetest cat in the whole wide world. Things got bad for him about a week ago; his behavior had changed; he was sleeping in weird places and was subdued. The vet found that he had a heart murmur and, worse, bleeding in his belly from a source they could not identify without surgery. Given his age and his obvious distress, we didn't do it. Instead, on Sunday, we put him down. I held him in my lap while the medications were administered. I'll never forget the sight of his beautiful head sinking down on my knee as she gave the first shot. Then, the Pentobarbital. As sad as we are, we know we did the right thing for him in his time of need. But it hurts so bad.