Making Rounds with Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat - By David Dosa Page 0,68

paws, licking them in slow, deliberate circles.

“Well, are you coming?” Mary asked him, standing up. “It’s ten o’clock, time to pass out our bedtime meds.”

Oscar blinked but did not move. Was he considering her request? He was a cat, after all, and his hard-to-get attitude came naturally to him. After a moment, perhaps after Mary’s request had been recognized and processed, he leaped onto the medicine cart, sat down, and looked back at her as if to say, What’s taking you?

“Okay, Oscar, we’ll start on the west side.”

The squeaky rear wheel cut through the silence, but no one was awake to notice. It was just Mary and Oscar, who peered over the cart, surveying the hallway like the captain of a ship gazing out at a familiar but darkened sea.

The door to room 316 was open and Mary entered, pushing the cart. Louise Chambers was in her bed, snoring peacefully. Oscar was disinterested. Mary paused to look over her medication list and then opened a drawer. She pulled out an anti-seizure medication, popped the pill out of its wrapper, and filled a cup with water. She then leaned over and gently stroked her patient’s hand to wake her. Louise started awake and Mary waited a few moments, allowing her time to get her bearings before helping her to a seated position. Louise swallowed the pill easily and almost immediately fell back to sleep.

Mary stopped for a moment and picked up the silver Tiffany frame on her bedside table. A man in uniform was standing next to a World War II fighter plane. He held his helmet to his thigh with one arm and smiled proudly into the camera. He was tall. Studying his facial features, Mary immediately noticed the familiarity of his tall frame, his wavy brown hair and prominent brown eyes, and his clean-shaven, oval-shaped face.

Mary chuckled and carefully replaced the picture frame.

“At least now I know why you like Dr. Dosa.”

Without a further word to her co-pilot, Mary headed next door, and to the next room, and the next, checking each resident, dispensing medicine where needed. Through each visit Oscar remained on the medicine cart, seemingly uninterested in his surroundings. At last they arrived at the room of Ruth Rubenstein, who appeared to be fast asleep. Here Oscar sat up, tall in the prow of his ship. He looked around and sniffed the air.

Something was not right in room 315.

In one swift motion, Oscar leaped off the cart and onto the bed, carefully avoiding Ruth’s slumbering body. He gazed at his patient and considered the situation. He did not ask for a second opinion but circled—once, twice—carefully preparing a place to curl up next to her. Oscar looked back at Mary, blinking once as if to dismiss her.

“Are you sticking around?”

Oscar put his head on his front paws and pulled his body close to Mrs. Rubenstein. Gently he nuzzled her arm.

Mary stopped what she was doing and approached the bed. She assessed the patient, who was resting comfortably. Medically, there was nothing to do there, so she sat down on the bed next to Oscar and considered the family situation. Ruth had received no visitors since Frank died of a heart attack a few months back. She had outlived her immediate family, she had no children, and her lawyer was the closest thing she had to next of kin. There was no one left to call.

Mary reached over and lovingly stroked Ruth’s hair. She looked over at the empty armchair across the room. A knit blanket was draped over the back; it had sat there unused for months. Mary was sad for a moment as she thought about how often she’d found Frank asleep there, long after every other visitor had left for the evening. Sometimes she would have to send him home. Grudgingly, he would collect his things, kiss his wife good night, and trudge off to his car only to return early the following morning. But Frank had never returned to the floor after the day of their last anniversary. He continued his daily phone calls but no longer visited. One day there was no call. A friend found Frank a few days later, laying peacefully in his bed.

Looking down at her patient, Mary perceived the faintest hint of a smile across Ruth’s face. Maybe she was dreaming about her husband. Maybe she knew they would be together soon. Mary thought of the Rubensteins’ half century–long relationship and Frank’s stubborn dedication to his wife in the