Pet Forum / Miscellaneous / Animal Health / July 2007

Okay, you have got to read this if you are a cat lover.

A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
New England Journal of Medicine, Volume 357:328-329, July 26, 2007

David M. Dosa, M.D., M.P.H.

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 f
loor 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.

Dr. Dosa is a geriatrician at Rhode Island Hospital and an assistant
professor of medicine at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown
University - both in Providence.
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Sorry I forgot to tell you to grab a box of tissues!