The moment he reached his little paw through the age
bars at the humane society, I was a goner. I wasn’t looking for another
cat – I already had two – but was just stopping by to give the animals some
attention. When the shelter volunteer, apparently knowing a sucker when
she saw one, asked if I would like to hold him, there was no longer any
doubt. He came home with me that day.
He was a gorgeous cat, a five-month-old blue-point Siamese
with eyes like blue laser beams: thus, his name. Right from the
beginning, it was obvious that Laser was an exceptional cat. He loved
everyone – the other cats, visitors to the house, even the dog who later joined
the household.
I first heard about animal-assisted therapy several months
after we adopted Laser. While most of what I heard was about dogs, it
occurred to me that Laser would be perfect for this type of work. I
signed up for the training class, and, after completing the preliminary requirements,
Laser and I passed the test to become registered Delta Society Pet Partners.
While he had always been a little lovebug at home, Laser
found his true calling when we began to go on visits. Whether it was with
sick kids at the children’s hospital, seniors with Alzheimer’s disea se, or
teens in a psychiatric unit, Laser always knew just what to do. He curled
up on laps or beside bed-bound patients and happily snuggled close. He
never tried to get up until I moved him to the next person. People often
commented that they’d never seen a cat so calm and friendly. Even people who
didn’t like cats liked him!
One young man, who had been badly burned in a fire,
smiled for the first time since his accident when Laser nestled under his lap
blanket. A little boy, tired and lethargic from terminal leukemia,
rallied to smile, hug Laser and kiss his head, and then talked endlessly about
Laser after the visits. Several geriatric patients with dementia, who
were agitated and uncommunicative prior to Laser’s appearance, calmed down and
became talkative with each other and the staff after a visit from my therapeutic
feline partner. It has been our hospice visits, though, that I consider
the most challenging and rewarding of all our Pet Partner experiences.
One day, I got a phone call telling me about a hospice
patient at a nearby nursing home who had requested a visit by a cat. At
the time, only one cat – Laser – actively participated in the local
program. Even so, my first inclination was to make some excuse not to do
it. I have always had issues with death and dying, and a hard time
talking about it to anyone, but I quickly realized how selfish I was being –
the poor woman was dying, and all she asked was that I bring my cat to
visit. I said yes.
A few days later, we made our first visit. Mrs. P.
was ninety-one years old, and although her body was weak, her mind was still
very sharp. It was a little awkward at first (what do you say to a
perfect stranger who knows she’s dying?), but Laser was a great conversation
catalyst. He crawled into bed with her and curled up right next to her
hip – exactly where her hand could rest on his back. She told me stories
about the cat she and her husband had years ago.
“See you next week,” she said as we got up to
leave.
We visited every Sunday during the three months that
followed, and a real friendship developed between us. Mrs. P. would
excitedly exclaim, “Laser!” every time we appeared at her door and
“See you next week!” every time we left. She had been gradually
getting weaker, but, one week when we arrived to see her, I was distressed to
see that her condition had deteriorated significantly. Still, she smiled
and said, “Laser!” when we walked into the room.
She complained of being cold, even though the room was
warm, and when Laser cuddled up close to her, she said, “Oh, he’s so warm
– it feels so good.” ; We had a nice visit, even though Mrs. P.
wasn’t feeling very well. Her hand never left Laser’s back. As we
left, she said her usual, “See you next week,” and I hoped that was
true.
The next Saturday, a phone call informed me that Mrs. P.
was going downhill rapidly, and that she probably wouldn’t live more than
another few days. I asked if we should still come for our visit, and the
nurse told me that she thought that would be wonderful.
When we arrived, it was obvious that Mrs. P. was
dying. She was fading in and out of consciousness, but when she noticed
that Laser and I were beside her bed, she smiled and whispered,
“Laser.”
She was having a very hard time breathing, so I told her
not to try to talk; we would just sit quietly and keep her company. Laser
took his spot on the bed next to her hip, and Mrs. P. res ted her hand on his
soft back. Neither of them moved from that position for the entire length
of our visit. This time, when we got up to leave, Mrs. P. whispered,
“Thank you.” She knew that there would be no “next
week” for us.
A couple of days later, I got the phone call telling me
that Mrs. P. had died. I was sad – our weekly visits had been so
wonderful – but I was glad that she was no longer in pain. I remembered
how I had considered declining to make the hospice visits and was so grateful
that I had not.
In our seventh year as a Pet Partner team, Laser and I
still make visits to several facilities. Laser, the little cat that
nobody wanted, is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside, and he
continues to brighten the lives of everyone he meets.
By Nancy Kucik (from Chicken Soup for the Soul)
