I've seen a lot of recent mentions of the
angel of death feline from a Rhode Island nursing home, and couldn't resist posting about it myself. A quote should sum things up nicely.
Like any feline, Oscar gives a hefty portion of his day to sleep. He likes to doze on stacks of patient reports. Or on the desk at the nurses' station. Or in the linen closet.
When awake, however, the mixed-breed cat shows a solemn dedication to duty, making regular "inspection" rounds of the unit, sauntering in and out of patient rooms -- as if checking on the condition of the occupants.
When death is near, Oscar nearly always appears at the last hour or so. Yet he shows no special interest in patients who are simply in poor shape, or even patients who may be dying but who still have a few days. Authorities in animal behaviour have no explanation for Oscar's ability to sense imminent death. They theorise that he might detect some subtle change in metabolism -- felines are as acutely sensitive to smells as dogs -- but are stumped as to why he would show interest.
In any event, when Oscar settles on a patient's bed, caregivers take it as a sign that family members should be summoned immediately.
"We've come to recognise him hopping on the bed as one indicator the end is very near," said Mary Miranda, charge nurse on the surprisingly cheery floor that is home to 41 patients in the final stages of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, a stroke, and other mentally debilitating diseases. "Oscar's been consistently right."
The cat's been written up in an article in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine, and while none of the media coverage touches on it, I hope there are some actual stats and figures in the journal article. Total patients who died, Oscar's attendance %, false positives, etc.
Another issue is the established medical fact
that cats have an
affinity for the human soul. They're notorious for asphyxiating babies, (and who can blame them?) but I've long believed that's largely related to opportunity. Healthy adults can fight off the worming tentacles of a cat's nocturnal predations, but babies are weak and easy prey. The sensation is kind of enjoyable for adults, really. I've awakened many a time to find Jinx and/or Dusty crouching upon me, their sickle pupils gleaming in the ethereal light shed by the soul dust they are eagerly lapping up. It tickles and makes me dream in watercolors.
Oscar here is no maternity ward cat; he's stuck with old people, but that's not entirely unlucky, since the dying old people provide a lovely crop of defenseless, senile delicacies. Granted, their withered souls are leathery and taste faintly of camphor and other astringents, but perhaps Oscar has learned to like it? Besides, no human can ever hope to fully understand the vagaries of the feline palate.
Labels: cats, death, medical
