Papa Bear,
Several years back, I lost a good friend: my 16-year-old altered male Maine Coon, big, shaggy, and red-coated, who went by the name of "Arizona." I adopted him from the SPCA in 1983, and he enriched my life in many ways. Cancer finally got him after he survived my frequent moves, including one to Colorado, and his liver and diabetes problems. I was with him, of course, and as the vet began to give him the final shot, he turned his head and growled at her. Courage to the end.
I think he always believed he should have been born a bobcat, so his ashes are up in the Colorado mountains, in bobcat territory near Winter Park.
Silly? I don't know. I recall the time he scooped litter from his clean box into his nearby food bowl to show his opinion of his dinner. He was never a finicky eater, so I'm inclined to believe that particular can had gone bad. (Actually that's not silly, it's a very appropriate gesture. I've had meals I wished I could cover up, too.)
-- Paul