Oscar the Cat awakens from his nap, opening a single eye to
survey his kingdom. From atop the desk in the doctor's charting
area, the cat peers down the two wings of the nursing home's
advanced dementia unit. All quiet on the western and eastern
fronts. Slowly, he rises and extravagantly stretches his 2-year-old
frame, first backward and then forward. He sits up and considers
his next move.
In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has
been living on the dementia unit's third floor for 3 years now. She
has long forgotten her family, even though they visit her almost
daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which
she now wears on her shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many
aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her
walker and muttering to herself with complete disregard for her
surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully and, as she
walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that
says “leave me alone.” She passes him without a glance and
continues down the hallway. Oscar is relieved. It is not yet Mrs.
P.'s time, and he wants nothing to do with her.
Oscar jumps down off the desk, relieved to be once more alone
and in control of his domain. He takes a few moments to drink from
his water bowl and grab a quick bite. Satisfied, he enjoys another
stretch and sets out on his rounds. Oscar decides to head down the
west wing first, along the way sidestepping Mr. S., who is slumped
over on a couch in the hallway. With lips slightly pursed, he
snores peacefully — perhaps blissfully unaware of where he is now
living. Oscar continues down the hallway until he reaches its end
and Room 310. The door is closed, so Oscar sits and waits. He has
important business here.
Twenty-five minutes later, the door finally opens, and out walks
a nurse's aide carrying dirty linens. “Hello, Oscar,” she says.
“Are you going inside?” Oscar lets her pass, then makes his way
into the room, where there are two people. Lying in a corner bed
and facing the wall, Mrs. T. is asleep in a fetal position. Her
body is thin and wasted from the breast cancer that has been eating
away at her organs. She is mildly jaundiced and has not spoken in
several days. Sitting next to her is her daughter, who glances up
from her novel to warmly greet the visitor. “Hello, Oscar. How are
you today?”
Oscar takes no notice of the woman and leaps up onto the bed. He
surveys Mrs. T. She is clearly in the terminal phase of illness,
and her breathing is labored. Oscar's examination is interrupted by
a nurse, who walks in to ask the daughter whether Mrs. T. is
uncomfortable and needs more morphine. The daughter shakes her
head, and the nurse retreats. Oscar returns to his work. He sniffs
the air, gives Mrs. T. one final look, then jumps off the bed and
quickly leaves the room. Not today.
Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313.
The door is open, and he proceeds inside. Mrs. K. is resting
peacefully in her bed, her breathing steady but shallow. She is
surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her
wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar jumps
onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the
situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside
Mrs. K.
One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to
check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar's presence.
Concerned, she hurriedly leaves the room and returns to her desk.
She grabs Mrs. K.'s chart off the medical-records rack and begins
to make phone calls.
Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are
brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The
priest is called to deliver last rites. And still, Oscar has not
budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A young
grandson asks his mother, “What is the cat doing here?” The mother,
fighting back tears, tells him, “He is here to help Grandma get to
heaven.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly
breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the
room so quietly that the grieving family barely notices.
On his way back to the charting area, Oscar passes a plaque
mounted on the wall. On it is engraved a commendation from a local
hospice agency: “For his compassionate hospice care, this plaque is
awarded to Oscar the Cat.” Oscar takes a quick drink of water and
returns to his desk to curl up for a long rest. His day's work is
done. There will be no more deaths today, not in Room 310 or in any
other room for that matter. After all, no one dies on the third
floor unless Oscar pays a visit and stays awhile.
Note: Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten,
Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny ability to predict when residents
are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more
than 25 residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and
Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere
presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home
staff as an almost absolute indicator of impending death, allowing
staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also
provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died
alone. For his work, he is highly regarded by the physicians and
staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he
serves.