Making Rounds and Oscar (2010) by David Dosa Read Free Book Online Page A

black-and-white cat appeared and jumped into my lap. Billy turned twice before curling up in a ball. Then he looked at me as if to say, "You didn't think you were going to get away without petting me, too, did you?" My pager rang, and I frowned. How do cats always seem to know when you have to be somewhere else?
    "Sorry, guys," I said as I stood up. "Mary's paging me and I suspect that I've got to check in on Mrs. Rubenstein upstairs." Munchie scurried away and Billy leaped off my lap and looked at me with that air of disdain only cats can muster. Feeling guilty for having shortchanged him, I leaned over and gave him some gentle petting. But he lost interest after only a few seconds and wandered off to find his friend. Calling a cat fickle is like saying snow's wet.
    As I left the lobby I looked back at the cats in the atrium; they were already engaged in chasing each other, like two kids playing tag. My comings and goings were of no concern to them. They were truly in the now. My life is made of pagers, deadlines, appointments, and responsibilities. At that moment the existence of a cat looked pretty good to me.
    I got on the elevator and, as if by reflex, found myself looking to the back corner, half expecting to see Steere House's very first cat, Henry, curled up on the floor. It's Henry and his successors that make Steere House so different from other nursing homes; it's a menagerie of cats, rabbits, and birds.
    It wasn't always this way, though. Before the 1980s there was no such thing as pet therapy. Animals didn't have a place in health care institutions. Why bring a "dirty animal" into a sterile environment? Then some scientists began to espouse the human-animal bond theory--the belief that animals can have a beneficial effect on human health and psychology. Research increasingly began to back up this belief. Nursing home patients in particular--with or without memory loss--were less depressed and lonely with animal companions. I suppose intuitively this makes sense. Most people love animals. Why wouldn't they want them in their last home?
    I'd like to tell you that Steere House's acceptance of animals came about as a result of this research, but truth to tell, I think it was all due to a little guy named Henry. He was literally Steere House's first occupant--and the one the nursing home tried hardest to get rid of.
    Since its foundation over a century ago, Steere House has gone through several incarnations, growing to suit the needs of the community. As the current structure was being built, workers noticed that a stray cat had wandered onto the construction site and was living in the unfinished building. The cat was even known to steal from an unattended lunchbox or two. By the time the building was completed, the cat had seemingly moved on and was forgotten. Shortly after the dedication ceremony for the modern Steere House, however, the cat returned to give the building his own inspection. Early one morning he strolled back into the facility, liked what he saw, and sat down in an easy chair. At first the staff tried to shoo the animal away, to no avail. Each day the cat returned, undaunted, through the lobby's sliding glass doors. His attitude was one of entitlement. "I was here first," he seemed to suggest with each wave of his tail.
    Like my earlier run-in with Oscar over desk space, the administrator at the time also failed to win his argument with a cat. Eventually the cat's persistence paid off and the staff gave up on chasing him out of the building. A meeting was held and the leadership at Steere House decided to accept their unwanted guest. But he needed a name. It seemed only fitting that he be named after the building's benefactor, Henry Steere, whose likeness looked down upon the very chair that our Henry favored during those early days.
    So Henry stayed, and for the next ten years he became a favorite of staff and residents alike. Until his final days he was known to ride the elevators up and down,