Trigger Warning
The elevator door opened on the third floor and Bootsy walked out. The gray feline with the baby blue eyes made a sharp left and headed down the long hall. Several residents gathered across from the nurse’s station, having their afternoon smoke in the lounge area. “Hit the Road, Jack” by Ray Charles, played over the intercom.
“I wonder which room Bootsy is headed for now?” growled Vince.
“It better not be my room,” replied Liz, “I like my roommate.”
“I’ll bet you a cigarette he goes into old man Thomas’ room,” Hank said. “He’s the next one.”
Sure enough, Bootsy stopped at 306, hesitated for a moment, then entered the room.
“See? I was right!” Hank boasted. “Somebody owes me a cigarette.”
“I never took that bet,” Liz replied. “Poor Chester.”
Bootsy jumped on Mr. Thomas’ bed, nimbly walking from the foot of the bed and curling up in a ball by the sleeping elderly man’s side. Less than two hours later, Chester Thomas was dead, his long battle with Dementia mercifully coming to an end.
“Another winner by Bootsy,” the nurse later commented.
Georgia Sanders was the Activities Director at Restless Heart Convalescent and Rehabilitation Center. She found Bootsy investigating the trash cans outside of the employee entrance one morning before she got to work. No collar. No identification. Georgia got a saucer of milk from the Dietary department. Bootsy tried following Georgia into the facility until she shooed the kitten away.
The next day Bootsy was back. This time Georgia asked for a little bit of tuna fish which the cat wolfed down. Poor thing was starving. Again, the feline attempted to follow Georgia inside without success.
It was pouring rain that Wednesday, yet Bootsy was camped out at 7:30 am, waiting for Georgia. She didn’t have the heart to leave the little creature in the rain, so she borrowed a towel from Laundry and snuck the cat into the nursing home. The intent was to get the cat warm and dry, feed it, then put it back outside after the rain. Surely, it belonged to someone in the neighborhood who would take care of it. Cats prowl, especially at night, so chances were that this cat would venture back home once given the chance.
“Cute little thing,” she said adoringly.
That morning at the daily stand-up Department Head meeting, Georgia took a gamble: “Mrs. Clover, what do you think of the idea of a facility pet?”
“Oh, I love dogs!” the Administrator said. “Great idea!”
“Well…” Georgia stammered.
“We need a therapy dog. What kind of dog are you thinking about? A smaller breed, something they can hold, pet, play with,” continued Mrs. Clover. “I saw a story on the local news not long ago about a three-legged therapy dog that visits hospitals in Philly…”
“Well, I was thinking more about a cat,” Georgia said.
“CATS! I’m deathly afraid of cats. Deathly afraid,” the Administrator repeated.
“I was just thinking a kitten would be easier to take care of. Just change the litter box and make sure it has milk and cat food. A soft, cuddly fluff ball of fur. And I know just the kitten to fill the bill,” Georgia said.
“Well, I don’t know,” the boss mumbled, staring holes through Georgia. Mrs. Clover crinkled her nose in that funny way of hers whenever she was assessing a situation.
“Many of our residents owned pets…especially cats,” Georgia reminded. “Please? For the residents?”
“Well…”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” Georgia committed.
“Let me think about it” was the final answer.
It was a start.
Once the Administrator gave her reluctant approval, Georgia started to set up headquarters in the Activities Room. She spread the word that there was a new facility pet.
“Come on down! Get off your unit and visit our new kitty for a while!” she announced over the intercom system.
It worked- the kitty was a huge hit.
For many residents, visiting Bootsy brought back fond memories of old times. It also gave them new meaning and purpose, especially for those who saved a bite from their lunch for the cat. Feeding Bootsy scraps from lunch had become a daily ritual. The name “Bootsy” was a group decision based on the cat’s four white paws. Bootsy the cat was swiftly becoming a fixture at the nursing home.
For the most part, Bootsy stayed near his comfy bed, lounging most of the day. But you know what they say about curiosity and cats; soon the cat began to explore the halls, prowling the rooms and even getting on and off the elevators. Before anyone knew it, Bootsy was acting like the place was his.
And then it happened.
The staff noticed how Bootsy would visit the sicker residents, especially those confined to bed. Bootsy seemed unusually compassionate, knowing those residents were too sick to get out of bed; Many were lonely and needed company, consolation and comfort, so the feline would come to them. How Bootsy knew where to find the sicker residents was anyone’s guess.
A pattern soon emerged. When a resident died the nurses began to connect the dots. Wasn’t Bootsy visiting earlier? Sometimes staff would find the cat snuggled next to the deceased resident. Bootsy only seemed to pay a special, personal visit to those residents about to die.
It became so much of a “coincidence” that Nursing began to keep score: Mrs. Smith passed away this morning. Yep, Bootsy was present. Mr. Jones succumbed to cancer overnight. Yep, Bootsy had visited just a few hours before the gentleman was pronounced. And so, the odd trend continued.
The doctors on staff could not explain it. What did the cat know that they didn’t? Did the resident emit some sort of odor from dying cells in the body when death was near, which the cat picked up on? Was Bootsy attracted to the heating pads, often used to keep dying patients warm?
Another incident baffled the medical staff: two people shared Room 108- One woman was extremely ill from end stage Emphysema; her roommate was at the facility for rehab and therapy after a broken hip. When Bootsy paid a visit to 108 one afternoon, the first- floor nurses were sure the demise of the Emphysema patient was at hand. So much so that they called the family, in case they wanted to visit to say their final farewells.
Instead, Bootsy cuddled with the rehab resident, Mrs. Findley. She stroked the cat’s silky fur. “Listen to it purr!” she said to the nurse’s aide.
Well, not everyone can hit a home run, thought the nurses. After a lengthy visit, the cat scampered out of 108 and boarded the next elevator heading upstairs.
That same aide, checking on Mrs. Findley before changing shift, found the patient unresponsive in bed. She had choked on a piece of hard candy and died. And she was not using a heating pad.
Somehow the local papers caught wind of the unusual circumstances at Restless Heart Nursing Center. A reporter came out to interview Georgia and Mrs. Clover.
The cat, to no one’s surprise, did not comment.
At first Mrs. Clover thought this media attention might prove to be beneficial to the facility. She could envision “Cat Gives Comfort to Dying Residents” headlines. But there was also trepidation within the walls of the nursing home. The residents themselves stopped visiting Bootsy, not wanting to become too attached for fear of Bootsy following them upstairs. Many still adored sweet Bootsy, thinking the pattern of death was merely coincidence or bad luck. After all, why would a precious little kitty have anything to do with anyone dying?
The therapy room was always busy every weekday morning with residents exercising, walking laps around the room or relearning basic grooming skills. One morning, in strolled Bootsy. He stopped at the door, peering inside at all the hustle and bustle of a typically hectic morning, looking for a particular resident. When he spotted Mrs. Fairview, the cat slowly sauntered across the therapy room to the woman. All eyes followed him. A hushed silence filled the air. Where would he stop?
“Bootsy!” she cried. ‘We meet again! How was your breakfast? What do you have to tell me, sweet boy?”
Bootsy replied with a soft meow. Everyone nervously smiled.
Nah, not Mrs. Fairview, they all thought. She’s scheduled to go home tomorrow.
Mrs. Fairview was discharged, as planned, the next day. After a month of intense therapy, she had accomplished all her goals. The staff let out a big sigh of relief.
Bootsy missed the boat on this one. Thankfully, Mrs. Fairview made it home, safe and sound. It wasn’t until a week later when one of the nurses brought the local newspaper in and showed the rest of the staff the news: Mrs. Fairview’s obituary.
More articles appeared in the newspapers. One of the television stations in Philadelphia did a report. The headlines this time weren’t so kind:
“Angel of Death in Local Nursing Home.”
“Bootsy, the Furry Grim Reaper.”
“When Bootsy Comes to Call.”
Families at the local hospital were offered a transfer for their loved one to nearby Restless Heart. “Thanks,” was the common reply, “but no thanks. We read the papers. We saw the news report. We are not taking any chances.”
Referrals started slowing down. Money was lost every day a bed remained empty. Mrs. Clover and her bosses at corporate weren’t so pleased anymore. A cat was costing the corporation tons of money.
Mrs. Clover called Georgia down to her office, never a good thing, especially when she shut the door.
“We need to get rid of the cat,” the Administrator stated. “Like NOW! I’m getting pressure from the resident’s families and from corporate. I knew I never should’ve allowed a cat into the facility.”
“The residents are going to miss not having a pet,” Georgia sighed. “They love Bootsy.”
“We’ll get a parrot,” Mrs. Clover firmly said. “The cat must go. I’ll give it until the end of the day to find it a home. Don’t tell the residents – I don’t want them upset. They will get over it.”
Georgia had a different perspective on the Bootsy mystery: maybe Bootsy wasn’t the harbinger of death after all. Maybe Bootsy was a furry little guardian of the afterlife. Maybe he was making sure no one left this world alone. Maybe Bootsy was an angel in disguise, helping the lonely and the dying transition in a calm, soothing, loving way. She was going to make sure that when it was time for Bootsy to depart to that Great Kitty Litter Box in the Sky, he wouldn’t be alone either. That’s when Georgia officially adopted Bootsy.
It was Friday afternoon and Mrs. Clover was returning to her office after conducting a tour with a perspective family. She thought nothing of leaving her office door open for fifteen minutes. As she walked into her office there, perched on a pile of scattered papers on top of her desk, was Bootsy, hissing when he saw the boss.
“BOOTSY!!!!!” she screamed. “Now, there’s a good kitty! Get off my desk! Shoo!!”
The hissing turned into growling; Bootsy made stern eye contact with the boss. Who would back down first?
“Bootsy, it’s either you or me,” said the administrator, turning pale with fright. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave my office now…”
The hissing and growling turned into very intense meowing, almost as if Bootsy was trying to speak, standing its ground, sharp claws digging into the desk calendar. Bootsy’s gray fur stood on edge; it was high noon and there was a stand-off in the administrator’s office.
The Business Office staff heard the screams and came running.
“Get it out! Get it out!” yelled Mrs. Clover.
This only made poor Bootsy even more agitated, especially when Mrs. Clover grabbed a flyswatter and frantically began to flail at the feline. Bootsy hissed again, batting at the flyswatter. Then with a loud screech, the cat jumped straight up in the air, back arched, gray fur standing on end, a sight right out of a Halloween decoration. Bootsy jumped at the boss, landing on her fine tweed suit jacket, before being pried off by the business office staff. The cat scampered out of the office to the elevator in the lobby, the door magically opening at the precise time. Bootsy was whisked upstairs with a perplexed visitor.
That’s when Mrs. Clover grabbed her chest and keeled over, face first into the papers on her desk, dead from a massive heart attack.
Bootsy had struck again.
In total, Bootsy provided comfort to over one hundred dying residents. His job done well, Bootsy and Georgia enjoyed spending more time together after they were forced to retire. The nursing home hired a new administrator, and things got back to normal. A new policy was adopted: Absolutely No Pets Allowed!
Bootsy may have been put out to pasture, but his legacy would live on.