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

by Vicki Myron

  “There’s been quite a bit of unfortunate peeing. I had to throw away a sheet. I sanitize everything, of course, but to an animal like Dewey it must smell like a zoo.”

  “He’s not used to other animals,” I said, but I knew that wasn’t quite right. Dewey never cared about other animals. He always ignored the Seeing Eye dog who came into the library. He even ignored the Dalmatian. This wasn’t fear; it was confusion. “He knows what’s expected of him in the library, but he doesn’t understand this place.”

  “Take your time.”

  A thought. “May I show Dewey the camera?”

  “If you think it will help.”

  Dewey posed for photographs at the library all the time, but those were personal cameras. Rick’s camera was a large, boxy, professional model. Dewey had never seen one of those before, but he was a fast learner.

  “It’s a camera, Dewey. Camera. We’re here to get your picture taken.”

  Dewey sniffed the lens. He leaned back and looked at it, then sniffed it again. I could feel him getting less tense, and I knew he understood.

  I pointed. “Chair. Sit in the chair.”

  I put him down. He sniffed up and down every leg, and twice on the seat. Then he jumped into the chair and stared right at the camera. Rick hurried over and snapped six photos.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said as Dewey climbed down off the chair.

  I didn’t want to tell Rick, but this happened all the time. Dewey and I had a means of communicating even I didn’t understand. He always seemed to know what I wanted, but unfortunately that didn’t mean he was always going to obey. I didn’t even have to say brush or bath; all I had to do was think about them, and Dewey disappeared. I remember passing him in the library one afternoon. He looked up at me with his usual lazy indifference. Hi, how you doing?

  I thought, “Oh, there are two knots of fur on his neck. I should get the scissors and cut them off.” As soon as the idea formed in my mind, whoosh, Dewey was gone.

  But since his escape, Dewey had been using his powers for good, not mischief. He not only anticipated what I wanted, he did it. Not when a brushing or a bath was involved, of course, but for library business. That was one reason he was so willing to have his photograph taken. He wanted to do what was best for the library.

  “He knows it’s for the library,” I told Rick, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it. Why, after all, would a cat care about a library? And how could he connect a library with a photo studio a block away? But it was the truth, and I knew it.

  I picked Dewey up and petted his favorite spot, the top of his head between the ears. “He knows what a camera is. He’s not afraid of it.”

  “Has he ever posed before?”

  “At least two or three times a week. For visitors. He loves it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a cat.”

  I wanted to tell him Dewey wasn’t just any cat, but Rick had been taking pet photographs for the past week. He’d probably heard it a hundred times already.

  And yet if you see Dewey’s official photograph, which Rick shot that day (it’s on the cover of this book), you can tell immediately he’s not just another cat. He’s beautiful, yes, but more than that, he’s relaxed. He has no fear of the camera, no confusion about what’s going on. His eyes are wide and clear. His fur is perfectly groomed. He doesn’t look like a kitten, but he doesn’t look like a grown cat, either. He’s a young man getting his college graduation photograph taken, or a sailor getting a memento for his girl back home before shipping off on his first tour. His posture is remarkably straight, his head cocked, his eyes staring calmly into the camera. I smile every time I see that photo because he looks so serious. He looks like he’s trying to be strong and handsome but can’t quite pull it off because he’s so darn cute.

  A few days after receiving the finished photographs, I noticed the local Shopko, a large general merchandise chain like Wal-Mart or Kmart, was holding a pet photo contest to raise money for charity. You paid a dollar to vote, and the money was used to fight muscular dystrophy. This was typical of Spencer. There was always a fund-raiser, and it was always supported by local citizens. Our radio station, KCID, promoted these efforts. The paper often ran a story. The turnout was usually overwhelming. We don’t have a ton of money in Spencer, but if someone needs a hand, we’re happy to provide it. That’s civic pride.

  On a whim, I entered Dewey in the contest. The photo was for library promotion purposes, after all, and wasn’t this a perfect opportunity to promote this special aspect of the library? A few weeks later, Shopko strung a dozen photos, all of cats and dogs, on a wire in the front of the store. The town voted, and Dewey won by a landslide. He got more than 80 percent of the votes, seven times as many as the runner-up. It was ridiculous. When the store called to tell me the results, I was almost embarrassed.

  Part of the reason Dewey won so overwhelmingly was the photograph. Dewey is staring at you, asking you to look back at him. He makes a personal connection, even if there is a touch of stateliness in his pose.

  Part of the reason was Dewey’s looks. He’s a 1950s matinee idol, suave and cool. He’s so handsome you have to love him.

  Part of the reason was Dewey’s personality. Most cats in photographs look scared to death, desperate to sniff the camera, or disgusted by the whole process—or often all three. Most dogs look like they are about to go absolutely bonkers, knock over everything in the room, get themselves wound up in an electrical cord, and then eat the camera. Dewey looks calm.

  But mostly, Dewey trounced the competition because the town had adopted him. Not just the regular library patrons, I realized for the first time, but the whole town. While I wasn’t watching, while I was preoccupied with school and remodeling and Jodi, Dewey was quietly working his magic. The stories, not just about his rescue but about his life and relationships, were seeping down into the cracks and sprouting new life. He wasn’t just the library’s cat, not anymore. He was Spencer’s cat. He was our inspiration, our friend, our survivor. He was one of us. And at the same time, he was ours.

  Was he a mascot? No. Did he make a difference in the way the town thought about itself? Absolutely. Not to everyone, of course, but to enough. Dewey reminded us, once again, that we were a different kind of town. We cared. We valued the small things. We understood life wasn’t about quantity but quality. Dewey was one more reason to love this hardy little town on the Iowa plains. The love of Spencer, the love of Dewey, it was all intermingled in the public mind.

  Chapter 16

  Iowa’s Famous Library Cat

  I can see now, in hindsight, that Dewey’s escape was a turning point, a last fling at the end of youth. After that, he was content with his lot in life: to be the cat in residence at the Spencer Public Library, a friend, a confidant, and a goodwill ambassador to all. He greeted people with new enthusiasm. He perfected the fine art of lounging in the middle of adult nonfiction, where he could be seen from the whole library, but where there was plenty of room for people to walk without stepping on him. If he was in a contemplative mood, he would lie on his stomach with his head up and his front paws crossed casually in front. We called this his Buddha pose. Dewey could zone out in that pose for an hour like a fat little man at peace with the world. His other favorite position was to sprawl out full on his back, wide open, his paws sticking out in four directions. He went completely slack, letting it all hang out.

  It’s amazing how, when you stop running and start sprawling, the world comes to you. Or if not the world, then at least Iowa. Soon after the Shopko contest, Dewey was the subject of Chuck Offenburger’s Iowa Boy column in the Des Moines Register. Iowa Boy was one of those columns that said things like, “It was the most shocking piece of news I’d come across since the time a few years ago I found out the Cleghorn Public Library, just down the road a ways, had started checking out cake pans to its patrons.” In fact, that’s exactly what the column said, and yes, the Cleghorn Public Library, just down the road, does check out cake
pans to patrons. I know at least a dozen libraries in Iowa with extensive cake pan collections. The librarians hang them on the walls. If you want to bake a special cake, for instance, a Winnie the Pooh cake for a child’s birthday party, you go to the library. Now, those are librarians who serve their communities!

  When I read the article, I thought, “Wow, Dewey’s really made it.” It was one thing for a town to adopt a cat. It was even better for a region to adopt that cat, as northwest Iowa had with Dewey. The library received visitors every day from small towns and farms in surrounding counties. Summer residents of the Iowa lake country drove down to meet him, then spread the word to their neighbors and guests, who would drive down the following week. He appeared frequently in the newspapers of nearby towns. But the Des Moines Register! That was the daily newspaper in the state capital, which had a population of almost 500,000. The Des Moines Register was read all over the state. More than half a million people were probably reading about Dewey right now. That was more people than attend the Clay County Fair!

  After Iowa Boy, Dewey started making regular appearances on our local television newscasts, which originated out of Sioux City, Iowa, and Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Soon he began appearing on stations in other nearby cities and states. Every segment started the same way, with a voice-over: The Spencer Library wasn’t expecting anything more in their drop box than books on a freezing January morning. . . . No matter how they framed it, the picture was the same. A poor feeble kitten, almost frozen to death, begging for help. The story of Dewey’s arrival at the library was irresistible.

  But so was his personality. Most news crews weren’t used to filming cats—there were thousands of cats in northwest Iowa, no doubt, but none ever made it on camera—so they always started out with what seemed like a good idea: “Just have him act natural.”

  “Well, there he is, sleeping in a box with his tail hanging out and his stomach oozing over the side. That’s as natural as it gets.”

  Five seconds later: “Maybe he can jump or something?”

  Dewey always gave them what they wanted. He jumped over the camera for a flying action shot. He walked between two displays to show his dexterity. He ran and jumped off the end of a shelf. He played with a child. He played with his red yarn. He sat quietly on top of the computer and stared into the camera, the model of decorum. He wasn’t showing off. Posing for the camera was part of Dewey’s job as publicity director for the library, so he did it. Enthusiastically.

  Dewey’s appearance on Living in Iowa, an Iowa Public Television series that focuses on issues, events, and people in the state of Iowa, was typical. The Living in Iowa crew met me at the library at seven thirty in the morning. Dewey was ready. He rolled. He jumped between the shelves. He walked up and put his nose on the camera. He stuck right by the side of the host, a beautiful young woman, winning her over.

  “Can I hold him?” she asked.

  I showed her the Dewey Carry—over the left shoulder, with his behind in the crook of your arm, head over your back. If you wanted to hold him for any length of time, you had to use the Dewey Carry.

  “He’s doing it!” the host whispered excitedly as Dewey draped over her shoulder.

  Dewey’s head popped up. What did she say?

  “How do I get him to calm down?”

  “Just pet him.”

  The host stroked his back. Dewey lay his head on her shoulder and cuddled against her neck. “He’s doing it! He’s really doing it! I can feel him purring.” She smiled at her cameraman and whispered, “Are you getting this?”

  I was tempted to tell her, “Of course he’s doing it. He does it for everyone,” but why spoil her excitement?

  Dewey’s episode aired a few months later. It was called “A Tale of Two Kitties.” (Yes, it’s a pun on Charles Dickens.) The other kitty was Tom, who lived in Kibby’s Hardware in Conrad, Iowa, a small town in the middle of the state. Like Dewey, Tom was found on the coldest night of the year. Store owner Ralph Kibby took the frozen stray to the vet’s office. “They gave him sixty dollars’ worth of shots,” he said on the program, “and said if he’s still alive in the morning he may have a chance.” As I watched the show, I realized why the host was so happy that morning. There were at least thirty seconds of footage of Dewey lying on her shoulder; the best she could get from Tom was a sniff of her finger.

  Dewey wasn’t the only one expanding his horizons. During my master’s program I had become very active in state library circles, and after graduation I was elected president of the Iowa Small Library Association, an advocacy group for libraries in towns of less than 10,000 people. Advocacy, at least when I joined, was a stretch. The group had a serious inferiority complex. “We’re small,” they thought. “Who cares about us? Let’s just stick with milk, cookies, and a little gossip. That’s all we’re good for.”

  But I had seen firsthand that small didn’t mean irrelevant, and I was inspired. “You don’t think small towns matter?” I asked them. “You don’t think your library can make a difference? Look at Dewey. Every librarian in the state knows Dewey Readmore Books. He’s appeared on the cover of the Iowa library newsletter twice. He appeared twice in the National Library Cat Society newsletter, and he gets fan mail from England and Belgium. He was featured in the state library newsletter . . . of Illinois. I get calls every week from librarians wondering how they can convince their board to let them have a cat. Does that sound irrelevant to you?”

  “So we should all get cats?”

  “No. You should believe in yourselves.”

  And they did. Two years later, the Iowa Small Library Association was one of the most active and respected advocacy groups in the state.

  Dewey’s breakthrough, though, came not through my efforts but through the mail. One afternoon the library received a package containing twenty copies of the June/July 1990 issue of Country, a national magazine with a circulation of more than five million. It wasn’t unusual for us to receive magazines from publishers hoping to drum up library subscriptions, but twenty copies? I had never read Country, and I had never spoken to anyone from Country, but I liked its slogan: For Those Who Live In or Long For The Country. I decided to flip through it. Right there, on page 57, was a two-page, full-color article about Dewey Readmore Books of the Spencer Public Library, complete with photographs sent in by a local woman I didn’t even know but whose daughter frequented the library. Clearly she had been going home and telling her mother about the Dew.

  It was just a small article, but its impact was extraordinary. For years, visitors told me how much it inspired them. Writers, calling for information for other articles about Dewey, often cited it. More than a decade later, I opened the mail to find a perfectly preserved copy of the article, neatly torn out of the magazine near the fold. The woman wanted me to know how much Dewey’s story meant to her.

  In Spencer, people who had forgotten about Dewey or who had never shown any interest in him took notice. Even the crowd at Sister’s Café perked up. The worst of the farm crisis had passed, and our leaders were looking for a way to attract new business. Dewey was getting the kind of national exposure they could only dream of, and of course that energy and excitement was rubbing off on the town. Sure, nobody has ever built a factory because of a cat, but nobody has ever built a factory in a town they’d never heard of, either. Once again, Dewey was doing his part, not just in Spencer this time but out there in the larger world, beyond the cornfields of Iowa.

  The biggest change, though, was pride. Dewey’s friends were proud of him, and everyone was proud to have him in town. One man, back for his twentieth high school reunion, stopped by the library to flip through newspapers from that year. Dewey, of course, won him over immediately. But once he heard about Dewey’s friends and saw the articles about him, he became truly impressed. He wrote later to thank us and say he’d been telling everyone in New York about his wonderful hometown and its beloved library cat.

  He wasn’t the only one. We had three or four people a week c
oming into the library to show Dewey off. “We’re here to see the famous cat,” an older man said, approaching the desk.

  “He’s sleeping in the back. I’ll go get him.”

  “Thanks,” he said, motioning to a younger woman with a little blond girl hiding behind her leg. “I wanted my granddaughter Lydia to meet him. She’s in town from Kentucky.”

  When Lydia saw Dewey, she smiled and looked up at her grandfather as if for permission. “Go ahead, sweetie. Dewey won’t bite.” The girl tentatively stretched out her hand to Dewey; two minutes later she was stretched out on the floor, petting him.

  “See?” her grandfather said to the little girl’s mother. “I told you it was worth the trip.” I suppose he could have meant Dewey or the library, but I suspect he was referring to something more.

  Later, while the mother was petting Dewey with her daughter, the grandfather came up to me and said, “Thanks so much for adopting Dewey.” It seemed he wanted to say more, but I think we both understood he had already said enough. Thirty minutes later, as they were leaving, I heard the young woman tell the older man, “You were right, Dad. That was great. I wish we had come by sooner.”

  “Don’t worry, Mommy,” the little girl said. “We’ll see him next year, too.”

  Pride. Confidence. Assurance that this cat, this library, this experience, maybe even this town, really was special. Dewey wasn’t any more beautiful or friendly after the Country article; in fact, fame never changed him. All Dewey ever wanted was a warm place to nap, a fresh can of food, and love and attention from every person who ever stepped foot in the Spencer Public Library. But at the same time, Dewey had changed, because now people looked at him differently.

  The proof? Before the Country article, nobody took the blame for shoving poor Dewey into our book return. Everybody knew the story, but nobody confessed. After Dewey hit the media, eleven different people came up to me confidentially and swore on their mother’s grave (or their mother’s eye, if Mom was alive) that they had shoved Dewey down that hole. They weren’t taking blame; they were taking credit. “I always knew it would turn out well,” they said.