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Features for Senior Citizens
When Oscar the Cat Jumps in Your Bed You Better Say
Your Prayers
Feline Grim Reaper at nursing home has predicted 25
patient deaths
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Feline Grim
Reaper |
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See
more AP photos and story - link below story. |
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July 26, 2007 If Oscar the Cat comes to your
door, you better say your prayers. Since he was adopted as a kitten by
the staff of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in
Providence, Rhode Island, Oscar has had an uncanny ability to predict
when residents are about to die. So far, he has been right 25 times.
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,
according to a report in the New England Journal of Medicine published
today.
Oscar has also provided companionship to those who
would otherwise have died alone, says Dr. David Dosa, in his essay in
NEJM.
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.
The essay describes Oscars actions as he prowls
the third floor of the nursing home, ostensibly checking the health of
each patient.
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,
writes Dosa.
He continues, 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."
 As
the story unfolds, Oscar moves down the hall, checking on patients. He jumps onto
beds and rejects several patients before he arrives at Room 113.
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, the essay
states.
A nurse arrives and spots Oscar in the bed. She
rushes to the phone to call the family. The priest is called to deliver
the last rites. Shortly after the family arrives Mrs. K takes her last
breath.
With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then
departs the room so quietly that the grieving family barely notices.
>> Read more: A Day in the Life of Oscar the Cat
at New England Journal of Medicine
http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/short/357/4/328
>> Read Associated Press story with photos at
TimesUnion.com (Albany NY)
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