When I was a little girl I had a floof cat. He was a huge gray and white long haired male. His notion of exercise was a brisk waddle from wherever he was napping to his dish, then back to wherever I was for some serous snuggling.
He was my best buddy.

When I was 13, we were told he had a tumor on his liver and he might live six months.

He did indeed live six months. He then lived another 11 years, napping, eating and snuggling. He died at not quite 18, of a gum infection.

There are two morals to that story 1: Don't take doctors' diagnoses too seriously. 2: Floss every day.