Вики Майрон - Dewey - The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched The World

Christmas at the library, like Christmas on Grand Avenue, was a time to put away other concerns and focus on the here and now. After a stressful fall, I was happy to stop thinking about school and remodeling and, for a change, focus on decorations. The Monday after the Grand Meander, we took the boxes down from the top shelves of the storage room to prepare for the holiday season. The centerpiece was our big artificial Christmas tree next to the circulation desk. The first Monday in December, Cynthia Behrends and I always arrived early to set up and decorate the tree. Cynthia was the hardest worker on staff and eagerly volunteered for every job. But she didn’t know what she was getting into because this year, when we slid the long thin Christmas tree box off its high shelf, we had company.

“Dewey’s excited this morning. He must like the looks of this box.”

“Or the smell of all that plastic.” I could see his nose sniffing ninety odors a minute and his mind racing. Could it be? All this time, could Mom have been hiding the world’s largest, most spectacular, most deliciously smelly rubber band?

When we pulled the Christmas tree out of the box, I could almost see Dewey’s jaw drop.

It’s not a rubber band, it’s . . . it’s . . . better.

As we pulled each branch out of the box, Dewey lunged at it. He wanted to sniff and chew every green piece of plastic sticking out of every green wire branch. He pulled a few plastic needles off the tree and started working them around in his mouth.

“Give me those, Dewey!”

He coughed a few pieces of plastic onto the floor. Then he leaped forward and thrust his head into the box just as Cynthia was pulling out the next branch.

“Back off, Dewey.”

Cynthia pulled him out, but a second later he was back, a green needle stuck to the moist tip of his nose. This time, his whole head disappeared inside the box. “This isn’t going to work, Dewey. Do you want me to get the rest of the tree out or not?”

Apparently the answer was not, because Dewey wasn’t moving.

“All right, Dewey, out you go. I’d hate for you to lose an eye.” Cynthia wasn’t scolding him, she was laughing. Dewey got the message and jumped back, only to start burrowing into the pile of branches on the floor.

“This is going to take all day,” Cynthia said.

“I sure hope so.”

As Cynthia pulled the last branches out of the box, I started to assemble the tree. Dewey was prancing and grinning, watching my every move. He came in for a sniff and a taste, then bounced back a few feet for perspective. The poor cat looked like he was about to explode with excitement. Hurry up, hurry up. I want my turn. This was the happiest I’d seen him all year.

“Oh, no, Dewey, not again.”

I looked over to find Dewey buried in the Christmas tree box, no doubt sniffing and pawing at the scents clinging to the cardboard. He disappeared completely inside, and a few seconds later the box was rolling back and forth across the floor. He stopped, poked his head out, and looked around. He spotted the half-assembled tree and bolted back to chew on the lower branches.

“I think he’s found a new toy.”

“I think he’s found a new love ,” I said as I put the top branches into the notches on the green pole that comprised the trunk of our tree.

It was true. Dewey loved the Christmas tree. He loved the smell of it. The feel of it. The taste of it. Once I had it assembled and set up next to the circulation desk, he loved to sit under it. Mine now , he said as he rounded the base a few times. Just leave us be, thanks.

“Sorry, Dewey. Still work to do. We don’t even have it decorated yet.”

Out came the ornaments, the new tinsel in this year’s color, the pictures and special embellishments for this year’s theme. Angels on strings. Santa Clauses. Shiny balls with glitter all over them. Ribbons, ornaments, cards, and dolls. Dewey rushed up to each box, but he had little interest in cloth and metal, hooks and lights. He was distracted by our wreath, which I had made out of worn-out pieces of the library’s previous Christmas tree, but old plastic was no match for the new, shiny stuff. Soon it was back to his spot under the tree.

We started hanging ornaments. One minute Dewey was in the boxes, finding out which ornaments came next. The next minute he was at our feet, playing with our shoelaces. Then he was stretching into the tree for another whiff of plastic. A few seconds later he was gone.

“What’s that rustling sound?”

Suddenly Dewey came tearing by us with his head through the strap of one of the plastic grocery bags we used for storage. He ran all the way to the far side of the library, then came careening back toward us.

“Catch him!”

Dewey dodged and kept running. Soon he was on his way back again. Cynthia blocked the area near the front door. I took the circulation desk. Dewey sprinted right between us. I could see from the look in his eyes he was in a frenzy. He had no idea how to get the plastic bag from around his neck. His only thought was, Keep running. Maybe I can lose this monster.

Soon there were four or five of us chasing him, but he wouldn’t stop dodging and sprinting away. It didn’t help that we were all laughing at him.

“Sorry, Dewey, but you’ve got to admit this is funny.”

I finally cornered him and, despite his terrified squirming, managed to free him from the bag. Dewey immediately went over to his new best friend, the Christmas tree, and lay down under the branches for a nice, comforting tongue bath, complete with his customary fist in the ears. There would be a hair ball, no doubt, either later today or tomorrow morning. But at least one lesson had been learned. From then on, Dewey hated plastic bags.

That first day with the library Christmas tree was one of our best. The staff spent the entire day laughing, and Dewey spent the entire day—plastic bag run excluded, of course—in a state of gooey, romantic bliss. His love for the Christmas tree never diminished. Every year when the box came off the shelf, he pranced.

The librarians usually received a few gifts from grateful patrons, but that year our small trove of chocolates and cookies was dwarfed by Dewey’s enormous stack of balls, treats, and toy mice. It seemed that everyone in town wanted Dewey—and us—to know just how much he meant to them. There were some fancy toys in that stash, even some nice homemade items, but Dewey’s favorite toy from that holiday season wasn’t a gift at all; it was a skein of red yarn he found in a decorating box. That yarn skein was Dewey’s constant companion, not just for the holiday season but for years to come. He batted it around the library until a few feet of yarn stuck out, which he then pounced on, wrestled, and, very soon, got wrapped around his body. More than once, I was almost run down by an orange cat streaking across the staff area, red yarn in mouth, dragging the bundle behind him. An hour later he’d be sacked out under the Christmas tree, all four feet clutching his red buddy.

The library was closed for a few days at Christmas, so Dewey came home with me. He spent much of his time alone, though, because Christmas in Hartley was a Jipson family tradition. Everyone came to Mom and Dad’s house for Christmas; you might be disowned if you didn’t. You weren’t allowed to miss any of the holiday activities, and there were a lot of them: extravagant meals; decorating parties; games for children; holiday carols; desserts and cookies; games for adults; relatives dropping by with a plate of cookies or nothing much, just a little something I saw in Sioux City and thought you’d love; a year’s worth of stories, told and retold. There was always a story to tell around the family tree. The presents weren’t extravagant, but every Jipson got to spend a week in the arms of a large extended family, and that’s the best gift of all.