I am not certain where these rumors started about my connection to cats. Honestly, those creatures are nothing but a nuisance. I guess all service people run into issues with pets at some point. Mailman must deal with dogs and I am stuck with the cats.
It started simply enough with a routine stop. One that I’m very accustomed to making. I thought nothing of it. As I walked down the sad hallway, I focused on the pale mauve color of the walls. The walls looked sick themselves. Is it any wonder that the elderly lining the hall in their wheelchairs and cocooned in their beds seemed to welcome me so warmly. I’m not here for them - a least not today – soon perhaps. I turn right and find myself on a chartreuse hall. The new nurse walking down the hall calls it puke green. Not a bad description.
The third room on the left is my final destination and it is the same disastrous color as the hallway, but some attempt to dull the color with a true piece of art. A bright yellow sun and azure waves sloppily drawn on with some toddler’s fingers with an abstract signature of Sam at the bottom. I stare at the bright colors across the bed and I lean in to lift the tiny frail soul from the woman in the bed. It seems ready to come but a sudden resistance pulls my attention from the painting. I stare is returned by a ball of fur who adds a hiss to the stare.
Such hatred from something that actually looks cuddly and cute. The gray color of the cat is a nice color to focus on or the bright lime of its eyes. I stare back at it as I try once again to lift out the lady’s soul. Her soul is practically sitting up ready to leave, but the cat hisses again and stretches out one paw and pushed down on the soul forcing it back down into the elderly body.
It stares back at me with a look of triumph and a smugness that looks human. I reach for a third try, but I am interrupted by a nurse.
“Whiskers,” she admonishes taking my place as I step back and she replaces me at the bedside, “You shouldn’t be bothering Mrs. Smith. She hasn’t been doing so well lately.”
She pulls a blood pressure cuff from the wall and turns back to this Whiskers. “Go on now,” she says waving her hand at the cat. Whiskers stares back at her and remains immobile. She pushes at him to move, but he digs in his claws and hisses.
“Fine,” the nurse throws up her hands, “I don’t have time for this.” She returns to the blood pressure cuff and all those other steps that nurses take to determine a person’s ability to continue breathing.
“Hang in there Mrs. Smith,” the nurse concludes her check with a pat on the limp hand on the blanket. “Whiskers,” she nods to the cat and makes her way out the door to her next appointment.
Whiskers stands, stretches, takes a few steps, and curls up directly on Mrs. Smith’s chest. The lime eyes narrow to slits and watch me cautiously.
“At ease Whiskers,” I say floating toward the door after the nurse, “I’ll see you another day.” The cat twitches its tail like a rattlesnake as it watches me leave.
A week later, I do focus on sloppy green letters on a new painting proclaiming, “I love you Grandma. Sam” as I lift Mrs. Smith’s soul from her body and catch a glimpse of Whiskers ensconced on an elderly man’s bed. The man’s soul floats lightly in his body beginning to strain toward freedom, but a small gray cat guards him from me. At least for now. Silly cat. Impediment to my job. Not a predictor of death but a charm to keep me at bay at least temporarily.
