stamps out a place next to her and then looks at us with this satisfied expression on his face. Then he sits down next to her, curls up in a ball, and goes to sleep."
"We both just kept looking at each other," Annette recalled, "totally bewildered by what we were seeing."
"So, was he there when she died?"
Rita held up her hand to interrupt me. I can tell she's told this story before.
"It gets better, Dr. Dosa," she said. "The same aide came back a little later to change the bed linens. She walks up to the bed to shoo Oscar away so she can change the sheets. Oscar just looks at her, stubbornly refusing to budge. When she tried to pick him up, he hissed and swatted at her with his paw."
I thought back on my first encounter with Oscar and unconsciously rubbed my hand where he had scratched me.
"So, who won?" I asked with a smile, knowing full well how it turned out.
"Oh, Oscar did," Rita said. "The aide finally gave up. Oscar didn't leave my mother's side until she passed. In fact, he didn't leave until the undertaker arrived."
"The strangest thing," Annette recalled, "was after the undertaker came, and they were wheeling her out, Oscar stood up, like he was at attention."
"Sort of like a sentry," her sister said.
"Yeah," Annette agreed, "like a sentry."
IT'S FUNNY , but until that day I had imagined that Rita and Annette would run from the nursing home the way you might flee the scene of an accident. If anything, they seemed reluctant to go. As Rita had said, "Steere House was like our second home." While some of the affection was no doubt due to the friends they had made there over time (it was like old home week that afternoon), I also knew that some of that love came courtesy of Oscar and his four-footed friends.
"Like a bridge between the mother and daughter," Mary had said, after my visit with Donna, and I was starting to think of Oscar in that way, as a sort of gentle guide who could take people from someplace scary to one more forgiving.
I think it's one of the reasons we've kept cats at Steere House all these years. The patients like them, for the most part, either because they hark back to some forgotten relationship they may have had with a pet, or maybe because they are nonjudgmental. A cat doesn't care what you do for a living or whether you're rich or poor. A cat doesn't care if you're able to remember its name or if you're up to date with the latest news. But we were beginning to realize that cats mean something to the families, too, long before Oscar started his vigils. They seem to help reassure family members who enter into the nursing home with some trepidation. For a lot of visitors, the reality of nursing home existence can be a rather harsh wake-up call. All the more reason to take comfort in something familiar. Even if it is a cat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."
ALBERT SCHWEITZER
THE FERRETTI HOUSE LOOKED LIKE ONE OF THOSE spreads you'd see in Architectural Digest. Situated on one of North Providence's many hills, the townhouse faced south, with a commanding view of the city through large picture windows. The layout was open and airy as one room flowed seamlessly into another. The home was decorated with modern furniture, with every surface spotless, every corner clean and well lit. Bookshelves and artwork adorned every wall.
"This was where my husband and I were going to retire," Jeanne Ferretti said to me as she gave me the tour that winter afternoon. "He loved it here."
She escorted me to the kitchen table and we sat down.
"I want you to look at this," she told me, placing a three-ringed binder in front of me on the table. "My husband was a very open person. We didn't have many secrets, but he did have a drawer where he kept his work journals. That was his private place and I respected it. It was six months after his death before I got up the nerve to look through them."
I opened the front cover of the binder and looked at
"We both just kept looking at each other," Annette recalled, "totally bewildered by what we were seeing."
"So, was he there when she died?"
Rita held up her hand to interrupt me. I can tell she's told this story before.
"It gets better, Dr. Dosa," she said. "The same aide came back a little later to change the bed linens. She walks up to the bed to shoo Oscar away so she can change the sheets. Oscar just looks at her, stubbornly refusing to budge. When she tried to pick him up, he hissed and swatted at her with his paw."
I thought back on my first encounter with Oscar and unconsciously rubbed my hand where he had scratched me.
"So, who won?" I asked with a smile, knowing full well how it turned out.
"Oh, Oscar did," Rita said. "The aide finally gave up. Oscar didn't leave my mother's side until she passed. In fact, he didn't leave until the undertaker arrived."
"The strangest thing," Annette recalled, "was after the undertaker came, and they were wheeling her out, Oscar stood up, like he was at attention."
"Sort of like a sentry," her sister said.
"Yeah," Annette agreed, "like a sentry."
IT'S FUNNY , but until that day I had imagined that Rita and Annette would run from the nursing home the way you might flee the scene of an accident. If anything, they seemed reluctant to go. As Rita had said, "Steere House was like our second home." While some of the affection was no doubt due to the friends they had made there over time (it was like old home week that afternoon), I also knew that some of that love came courtesy of Oscar and his four-footed friends.
"Like a bridge between the mother and daughter," Mary had said, after my visit with Donna, and I was starting to think of Oscar in that way, as a sort of gentle guide who could take people from someplace scary to one more forgiving.
I think it's one of the reasons we've kept cats at Steere House all these years. The patients like them, for the most part, either because they hark back to some forgotten relationship they may have had with a pet, or maybe because they are nonjudgmental. A cat doesn't care what you do for a living or whether you're rich or poor. A cat doesn't care if you're able to remember its name or if you're up to date with the latest news. But we were beginning to realize that cats mean something to the families, too, long before Oscar started his vigils. They seem to help reassure family members who enter into the nursing home with some trepidation. For a lot of visitors, the reality of nursing home existence can be a rather harsh wake-up call. All the more reason to take comfort in something familiar. Even if it is a cat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."
ALBERT SCHWEITZER
THE FERRETTI HOUSE LOOKED LIKE ONE OF THOSE spreads you'd see in Architectural Digest. Situated on one of North Providence's many hills, the townhouse faced south, with a commanding view of the city through large picture windows. The layout was open and airy as one room flowed seamlessly into another. The home was decorated with modern furniture, with every surface spotless, every corner clean and well lit. Bookshelves and artwork adorned every wall.
"This was where my husband and I were going to retire," Jeanne Ferretti said to me as she gave me the tour that winter afternoon. "He loved it here."
She escorted me to the kitchen table and we sat down.
"I want you to look at this," she told me, placing a three-ringed binder in front of me on the table. "My husband was a very open person. We didn't have many secrets, but he did have a drawer where he kept his work journals. That was his private place and I respected it. It was six months after his death before I got up the nerve to look through them."
I opened the front cover of the binder and looked at
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