Dewey: the Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World

by Vicki Myron

  That was always the danger. Start asking for money and sooner or later someone was going to say, “What does the library need money for, anyway? You’ve already got enough books.”

  I told them, “Newly paved roads are nice, but they don’t lift our community’s spirits. Not like a warm, friendly, welcoming library. Wouldn’t it be great for morale to have a library we’re proud of?”

  “I got to be honest. I don’t see how prettier books make a difference.”

  After almost a year of being put on the shelf, I was frustrated, but certainly not defeated. Then a funny thing happened: Dewey started to make my argument for me. By the late summer of 1988, there was a noticeable change at the Spencer Public Library. Our visitor numbers were up. People were staying longer. They were leaving happy, and that happiness was being carried to their homes, their schools, and their places of employment. Even better, people were talking.

  “I was down at the library,” someone would comment while window-shopping on the new, improved Grand Avenue.

  “Was Dewey there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he sit in your lap? He always sits on my daughter’s lap.”

  “Actually, I was reaching for a book on a high shelf, not really paying attention, and instead of a book I grabbed a handful of Dewey. I was so startled I dropped a book right on my toe.”

  “What did Dewey do?”

  “He laughed.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I sure did.”

  The conversation must have reached Sister’s Café, because eventually even the city council started to notice. Slowly their attitude shifted. First they stopped laughing at me. Then they started listening.

  “Vicki,” the city council finally said, “maybe the library does make a difference. There’s a financial crunch right now, as you know, and we don’t have any money. But if you have the funds, you have our support.” It wasn’t much, I admit, but it was the most the library had gotten from the city in a long, long time.

  Chapter 8

  A Cat’s Best Friends

  The whisper the city council heard in the autumn of 1988 wasn’t mine. Or at least not mine alone. It was the voice of the people bubbling up, the voices that were usually never heard: those of the older residents, the mothers, the children. Some patrons came to the library for a purpose—to check out a book, to read the newspaper, to find a magazine. Other patrons considered the library a destination. They enjoyed spending time there; they were sustained and strengthened. Every month there were more of these people. Dewey wasn’t just a novelty; he was a fixture in the community. People came to the library to see him.

  Not that Dewey was an especially fawning animal. He didn’t just rush up to each person who came through the door. He made himself available at the front door if people wanted him; if they didn’t, they could step around and be on their way. That’s the subtle difference between dogs and cats, and especially a cat like Dewey: cats may need you, but they aren’t needy.

  When regular patrons came in and Dewey wasn’t there to greet them, they often walked the library looking for him. First they searched the floor, figuring Dewey was hiding around a corner. Then they checked the top of the bookshelves.

  “Oh, how are you, Dewey? I didn’t see you there,” they would say, reaching up to pet him. Dewey would give them the top of his head to pet, but he wouldn’t follow them. The patrons always looked disappointed.

  But as soon as they forgot about him, Dewey jumped into their laps. That’s when I saw the smiles. It wasn’t just that Dewey sat with them for ten or fifteen minutes; it was that he had singled them out for special attention. By the end of his first year, dozens of patrons were telling me, “I know Dewey likes everyone, but I have a special relationship with him.”

  I smiled and nodded. “That’s right, Judy,” I thought. “You and everyone else who comes into this library.”

  Of course, if Judy Johnson (or Marcy Muckey or Pat Jones or any of Dewey’s other fans) hung around long enough, she was sure to be disappointed. Many times I had that conversation only to see the smile drop half an hour later when, leaving the library, she happened to notice Dewey sitting on someone else’s lap.

  “Oh, Dewey,” Judy would say. “I thought it was all about me.”

  She would look at him for a few seconds, but Dewey wouldn’t look up. Then she would smile. I knew what Judy was thinking. “That’s just his job. He still loves me best.”

  Then there were the children. If you wanted to understand the effect Dewey had on Spencer, all you had to do was look at the children. The smiles when they came into the library, the joy as they searched and called for him, the excitement when they found him. Behind them, their mothers were smiling, too.

  I knew families were suffering, that for many of these children times were hard. The parents never discussed their problems with me or anyone on staff. They probably didn’t discuss them with their closest friends. That’s not the way we are around here; we don’t talk about our personal circumstances, be they good, bad, or indifferent. But you could tell. One boy wore his old coat from the previous winter. His mother stopped wearing her makeup and, eventually, her jewelry. The boy loved Dewey; he clung to Dewey like a true friend; and his mother never stopped smiling when she saw them together. Then, around October, the boy and his mother stopped coming to the library. The family, I found out, had moved away.

  That wasn’t the only boy who wore an old coat that fall, and he certainly wasn’t the only child who loved Dewey. They all wanted, even craved, his attention, so much so that they learned enough control to spend Story Hour with him. Every Tuesday morning, the murmur of excited children in the Round Room, where Story Hour was held, would be suddenly punctuated by a cry of “Dewey’s here!” A mad rush would ensue as every child in the room tried to pet Dewey at the same time.

  “If you don’t settle down,” our children’s librarian, Mary Walk, would tell them, “Dewey has to go.”

  A barely contained hush would fall over the room as the children took their seats, trying their best to contain their excitement. When they were relatively calm, Dewey would begin sliding between them, rubbing against each child and making them all giggle. Soon kids were grabbing at him and whispering, “Sit with me, Dewey. Sit with me.”

  “Children, don’t make me warn you again.”

  “Yes, Mary.” The children always called Mary Walk by her first name. She never got into the habit of Miss Mary.

  Dewey, knowing he had pushed the limit, would stop wandering and curl up in the lap of one lucky child. He didn’t let a child grab him and hold him in her lap; he chose to spend time with her. And every week it was a different child.

  Once he had chosen a lap, Dewey usually sat quietly for the whole hour. Unless a movie was being shown. Then he would jump on a table, curl his legs under his body, and watch the screen intently. When the credits rolled he feigned boredom and jumped down. Before the children could ask, “Where’s Dewey?” he was gone.

  There was only one child Dewey couldn’t win over. She was four years old when Dewey arrived, and she came to the library every week with her mother and older brother. Her brother loved Dewey. The girl hung back as far as possible, looking tense and nervous. Her mother eventually confided in me that the girl was afraid of four-legged animals, especially cats and dogs.

  What an opportunity! I knew Dewey could do for this girl what he had done for the children with cat allergies, who finally had a cat to spend time with. I suggested exposing her gently to Dewey, first by looking through the window at him and then with supervised meetings.

  “This is an ideal job for our gentle, loving Dewey,” I told her mother. I was so enthusiastic, I even researched the best books to help the girl overcome her fear.

  Her mother didn’t want to go that route, so instead of trying to change the girl’s feelings about cats, I accommodated her. When the girl came to the door and waved at the clerk on the front desk, we found Dewey and locked h
im in my office. Dewey hated being locked in my office, especially when patrons were in the library. You don’t have to do this, I could hear him howling. I know who she is! I won’t go near her!

  I hated to lock him away, and I hated to miss the opportunity for Dewey to make this little girl’s life better, but what could I do? “Don’t force it, Vicki,” I told myself. “It will come.”

  With that in mind I planned a low-key celebration for Dewey’s first birthday: just a cake made out of cat food for Dewey, and a normal one for the patrons. We didn’t know exactly when he was born, but Dr. Esterly had estimated he was eight weeks old when we found him, so we counted back to late November and chose the eighteenth. We found Dewey on January 18, so we figured that was his lucky day.

  A week before the celebration, we put out a card for signatures. Within days there were more than a hundred. At the next Story Hour, the children colored pictures of birthday cakes. Four days before the party, we strung the pictures on a clothesline behind the circulation desk. Then the newspaper ran a story, and we started receiving birthday cards in the mail. I couldn’t believe it, people were sending birthday cards to a cat!

  By the time the party rolled around, the kids were jumping up and down with excitement. Another cat would have been frightened, no doubt, but Dewey took it all in with his usual calm. Instead of interacting with the kids, though, he kept his eyes on the prize: his cat-food cake in the shape of a mouse, covered with Jean Hollis Clark’s brand of full-fat yogurt (Dewey hated the diet stuff). As the kids smiled and giggled, I looked out at the adults gathered at the back of the crowd, most of them parents. They were smiling as much as the children. Once again I realized how special Dewey was. Not just any cat would have this kind of fan club. And I realized a few other things, too: that Dewey was having an impact; that he had been accepted as part of the community; and that although I spent all day with him I would never know all the relationships he developed and all the people he touched. Dewey didn’t play favorites; he loved everyone equally.

  But even as I say that, I know it wasn’t true. Dewey did have special relationships, and one I’ll always remember was with Crystal. For decades the library had hosted a special Story Hour every week for local elementary and middle school special education classes. Before Dewey, the kids were poorly behaved. This was their big outing for the week, and they were excited: screaming, yelling, jumping up and down. But Dewey changed that. As they got to know him, the children learned that if they were too noisy or erratic, Dewey left. They would do anything to keep Dewey with them; after a few months, they became so calm you couldn’t believe it was the same group of kids.

  The children couldn’t pet very well, since most were physically disabled. Dewey didn’t care. As long as the children were somewhat quiet, Dewey spent the hour with them. He walked around the room and rubbed their legs. He jumped in their laps. The children became so fixated on him, they didn’t notice anything else. If we had read them the phone book they couldn’t have cared less.

  Crystal was one of the more disabled members of the group. She was a beautiful girl of about eleven, but she had no speech and very little control of her limbs. She was in a wheelchair, and the wheelchair had a wooden tray on the front. When she came into the library, her head was always down and her eyes were staring at that tray. The teacher took off her coat or opened her jacket, and she didn’t move. It was like she wasn’t even there.

  Dewey noticed Crystal right away, but they didn’t form an immediate bond. She didn’t seem interested in him, and there were plenty of children who desperately wanted his attention. Then one week Dewey jumped on Crystal’s wheelchair tray. Crystal squealed. She had been coming to the library for years, and I didn’t even know she could vocalize. That squeal was the first sound I ever heard her make.

  Dewey started visiting Crystal every week. Every time he jumped onto her tray, Crystal squealed with delight. It was a loud, high-pitched squeal, but it never scared Dewey. He knew what it meant. He could feel her excitement, or maybe he could see the change in her face. Whenever she saw Dewey, Crystal glowed. Her eyes had always been blank. Now they were on fire.

  Soon it wasn’t just seeing Dewey on her tray. The moment the teacher pushed her into the library, Crystal was alive. When she saw Dewey, who waited for her at the front door, she immediately started to vocalize. It wasn’t her usual high-pitched squeal but a deeper sound. I believed she was calling to Dewey. Dewey must have thought so, too, because as soon as he heard it, he was at her side. Once her wheelchair was parked, he jumped on her tray, and happiness exploded from within her. She started to squeal, and her smile, you couldn’t believe how big and bright it was. Crystal had the best smile in the world.

  Usually Crystal’s teacher picked up her hand and helped her pet Dewey. That touch, the feel of his fur on her skin, always brought on a round of louder and more delighted squeals. I swear, one day she looked up and made eye contact with me. She was overcome with joy, and she wanted to share the moment with someone, with everyone. This from a girl who for years never lifted her eyes from the floor.

  One week I picked Dewey off Crystal’s tray and put him inside her coat. She didn’t even squeal. She just stared down at him in awe. She was so happy. Dewey was so happy. He had a chest to lean on, and it was warm, and he was with somebody he loved. He wouldn’t come out of her coat. He stayed in there for twenty minutes, maybe more. The other children checked out books. Dewey and Crystal sat together in front of the circulation desk. The bus was idling in front of the library, and all the other children were on it, but Dewey and Crystal were still sitting where we had left them, alone together. That smile, that moment, was worth the world.

  I can’t imagine Crystal’s life. I don’t know how she felt when she was out in the world, or even what she did. But I know that whenever she was in the Spencer Public Library with Dewey, she was happy. And I think she experienced the kind of complete happiness very few of us ever feel. Dewey knew that. He wanted her to experience that happiness, and he loved her for it. Isn’t that a legacy worthy of any cat, or human being?

  The list on the opposite page was written on a big orange piece of poster board and hung at the Spencer Public Library circulation desk for Dewey’s first birthday, November 18, 1988.

  DEWEY’S LIKES AND DISLIKES

  CategoryLovesHates

  Food Purina Special Dinners, Dairy Flavor! Anything else

  Place to sleep Any box or someone’s lap Alone or in his own basket

  Toy Anything with catnip Toys that don’t move

  Time of day 8 a.m. when the staff arrives When everybody leaves

  Body position Stretched out on his back Standing up for very long

  Temperature Warm, warm, warm Cold, cold, cold

  Hiding place Between the Westerns on the bottom shelf The lobby

  Activity Making new friends, watching the copier Going to the vet

  Petting On the head, behind his ears Scratched or touched on stomach

  Equipment Kim’s typewriter, the copier Vacuum cleaner

  Animal Himself!

  Grooming Cleaning his ears Being brushed or combed

  Medicine Felaxin (for hair balls) Anything else

  Game Hide-and-seek, push the pen on the floor Wrestling

  People Almost everyone People who are mean to him

  Noise A snack being opened, paper rustling Loud trucks, construction, dogs barking

  Book The Cat Who Would Be King 101 Uses for a Dead Cat

  Chapter 9

  Dewey and Jodi

  The relationship between Dewey and Crystal is important not just because it changed her life but because it illustrates something about Dewey. It shows his effect on people. His love. His understanding. The extent to which he cared. Take this one person, I’m saying every time I tell that story, multiply it by a thousand, and you’ll begin to see how much Dewey meant to the town of Spencer. It wasn’t everybody, but it was another person every day, one heart at a time. And one of thos
e people, one very close to my own heart, was my daughter, Jodi.

  I was a single mother, so when she was young Jodi and I were inseparable. We walked our cockapoo Brandy. We went window-shopping at the mall. We had sleepovers in the living room, just the two of us. Whenever a movie came on television we wanted to see, we had a picnic on the floor. The Wizard of Oz—over the rainbow where everything is in color and you have the power to do what you’ve always wanted and that power has always been with you if only you knew how to tap into it—came on once a year, and it was our favorite. When Jodi was nine, we went every afternoon, weather permitting, to hike in a nearby wilderness area. At least once a week, we hiked all the way to the top of a limestone cliff, where we sat and looked down on the river, a mother and her daughter, talking together.

  We lived in Mankato, Minnesota, but we spent a lot of time at my parents’ house in Hartley, Iowa. For two hours, as the cornfields of Minnesota turned into the cornfields of Iowa, we sang along to the old eight-track, mostly corny 1970s songs by John Denver and Barry Manilow. And we always played a special game. I would say, “Who’s the biggest man you know?”

  Jodi would answer, and then ask me, “Who’s the strongest woman you know?”

  I would answer and ask, “Who’s the funniest woman you know?”

  We asked questions back and forth until eventually I could think of only one more question, the one I had been waiting to ask. “Who’s the smartest woman you know?”

  Jodi always answered, “You, Mommy.” She had no idea how much I looked forward to hearing that.

  Then Jodi turned ten. At ten, Jodi stopped answering the question. This behavior was typical of a girl that age, but I couldn’t help being disappointed.

  At thirteen, after we had moved to Spencer, she stopped letting me kiss her good night. “I’m too old for that, Mommy,” she said one night.

  “I know,” I told her. “You’re a big girl now.” But it broke my heart.