Making Rounds with Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat - By David Dosa Page 0,6

in the small triumphs, or “little victories,” as she called them.

I remembered running into Kathy and her mother seated on a bench in the nursing home’s rose garden one afternoon. It was a particularly windy October day and I wondered what on earth they were doing outdoors, huddled in their jackets beside their empty lunch trays.

“Aren’t you cold?” I had asked Kathy.

“I prefer to think of it as brisk,” she had joked. “You know, for the next three to four months, my mother is going to be cooped up inside. What’s a little cold? And look how lovely the leaves are at this time of year.”

Kathy had glanced over at her mother and placed an arm around her shoulder.

“Aren’t they beautiful, Mom?” she had asked, pointing to the last of the red and gold leaves on a nearby tree. Her mother said nothing, but there was a hint of a smile on her face.

“Little victories, Dr. Dosa,” Kathy reminded me as I walked quickly out of the cold that day.

Her last statement echoed through my head as I passed the spot where she and her mother had sat. That October day may very well have been Mrs. Sanders’s last time outside.

A sharp winter wind drove me swiftly through the frozen garden and into the nursing home’s first-floor dining area. It was almost lunchtime and an aide was busy setting the table. She moved carefully, polishing the silverware as if she were setting up at one of the finest restaurants in town. This attention to detail is part of what makes Steere House unique, I think. Respect for the residents informs nearly every decision here and can be seen in even the simplest of gestures.

In the corner of the dining room, Ida Poirier was sitting patiently in her wheelchair, waiting for lunch to begin. She quietly studied the aide as she polished and placed each piece of silverware. As I entered the dining room, Ida looked up and smiled.

Ida has been a resident of Steere House for many years now, confined to the nursing home because of her rheumatoid arthritis. After years of inflammation, her legs and hands have become a tangled mess, but her mental faculties are as sharp as they’ve ever been. Despite her predicament, Ida maintained a wry sense of humor that comes from a lifetime of struggling with chronic illness. For the chronically ill the choice seems to be to learn to live with your affliction, and occasionally laugh, or succumb to suffering.

I reached down and gave her a hug.

“What’s for lunch today, Ida?”

“Usual crap, Dr. Dosa. I don’t know, what is today—Monday, Tuesday?”

“It’s Thursday, Ida.”

“I think its potpie day, then. Not that it matters; it all tastes the same.”

I smiled.

“They try their best, Ida. Unfortunately, they’re not working with a budget that allows for filet mignon.”

“Maybe not, Dr. Dosa, but could we at least have lobster once in a while? We are in Rhode Island, after all.”

“I’ll talk with the chef.”

“Yeah, right!” She shook her head in mock disgust and then tried to gauge my expression. It was nice to have Ida to banter with.

“Dr. Dosa, are you going up to see that patient who died?”

“Why do you ask, Ida?”

“I heard the cat was in there with her when she passed.”

I paused before answering. “How did you hear about that?”

“Some of the nurses down here have been talking about Oscar and what he does. Personally, I love cats. I think I’ve had a cat my whole life. Even now, either Billy or Munchie is always in here keeping me company,” she said, referring to the two cats who live on the first floor, “but I don’t know about that cat upstairs.”

“Do you believe the cat knows?” I asked.

“Oh, I believe it. When my husband died years ago, I bought myself a cat to keep me company. I called him Patches because he had little patches of white on his black fur.” She smiled briefly at the memory. “Anyway, Patches always knew whenever I was sick or my arthritis was acting up. He would jump on my bed and just sit with me. Otherwise, I could never seem to find him. He was always hiding somewhere in my apartment—under a bed, in my closet, always somewhere.”

“What happened to the cat?”

Ida’s expression changed and I regretted asking her.

“He died of some kind of cat cancer. I had to put him down.”

“I’m sorry, Ida.”

“No, Dr. Dosa, don’t feel bad about mentioning it. I had to do it. Sometimes I