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

There was another message from the board, too, and it came through loud and clear: Dewey is not your cat. He’s the town’s cat. We speak for the town, so it’s our decision. We know what’s best.

I won’t argue one fact. Dewey was Spencer’s cat. Nothing has ever been truer. But he was also my cat. And finally, in the end, Dewey was a cat. At that meeting, I realized that in many people’s minds, Dewey had gone from being a flesh-and-blood animal with thoughts and feelings, to being a symbol, a metaphor, an object that could be owned. Library board members loved Dewey as a cat—Kathy Greiner, the president, always carried treats in her pocket for Dewey—but they still couldn’t separate the animal from the legacy.

And I have to admit, there was another thought going through my mind. “I’m getting older, too. My health isn’t the best. Are these people going to throw me out on my ear, too?”

“I know I am close to Dewey,” I told the board. “I know I’ve been through a hard year with the death of my mother and with my health, and that you’re trying to protect me. But I don’t need protecting.” I stopped. That wasn’t what I was trying to say at all.

“Maybe you think I love Dewey too much,” I told them. “Maybe you think my love clouds my judgment. But trust me. I’ll know when it’s time. I’ve had animals all my life. I’ve put them down. It’s hard, but I can do it. The very last thing I want, the very last thing, is for Dewey to suffer.”

A board meeting can be a freight train, and this one pushed me off to the side like a cow on the tracks. Someone suggested a committee to make decisions about Dewey’s future. I knew the people on that committee would mean well. I knew they would take their duty seriously and do what they thought best. But I couldn’t let that happen. I just couldn’t.

The board was discussing how many people should be on this Dewey Death Watch Committee when one member, Sue Hitchcock, spoke up. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. Vicki has been at the library for twenty-five years. She’s been with Dewey for nineteen years. She knows what she’s doing. We should all trust Vicki’s judgment.”

Thank God for Sue Hitchcock. As soon as she spoke, the train jumped the tracks and the board backed off. “Yes, yes,” they muttered, “you’re right . . . too soon, too much . . . if his condition worsens . . .”

I was devastated. It stung me to the heart that these people had even suggested taking Dewey away from me. And they could have done it. They had the power. But they didn’t. Somehow, we had won a victory: for Dewey, for the library, for the town. For me.

Chapter 26

Dewey’s Love

I’ll always remember Christmas 2005, the year before that horrible meeting, when Dewey was eighteen. Jodi and Scott stayed at my house. They had twins now, Nathan and Hannah, a year and a half old. Mom was still alive, and she put on her best lounging outfit to watch the twins open presents. Dewey sprawled on the sofa, pressed against Jodi’s hip. It was the end of one thing, the beginning of the next. But for that week, we were all together.

Dewey’s love for Jodi had never diminished. She was still his great romantic affair. Whenever he got a chance that Christmas, Dewey stuck by her side. But with so many people around, especially the children, and with so much going on, he was more content than ever to just watch. He got along well with Scott, not a hint of jealousy. And he loved the twins. I replaced my glass coffee table with a cushioned ottoman when my grandchildren were born, and Dewey spent most of Christmas week sitting on that ottoman. Hannah and Nathan would toddle up and pet him all over. Dewey was cautious around toddlers now. In the library, he slunk away when they tried to approach him. But he sat with the twins, even when they petted him the wrong way and messed up his fur. Hannah kissed him a hundred times a day; Nathan accidentally knocked him on the head. One afternoon, Hannah poked Dewey in the face while trying to pet him. Dewey didn’t even react. This was my grandchild, Jodi’s child. Dewey loved us, so he loved Hannah, too.

Dewey was so calm that year. That was the biggest difference in old man Dewey. He knew how to avoid trouble. He still attended meetings, but he knew how far to push and which lap to choose. In September 2006, just a few weeks before the board meeting, a program at the library brought in almost a hundred people. I figured Dewey would hide in the staff area, but there he was, mingling as always. He was like a shadow moving among the guests, often unnoticed but somehow there at the end of a patron’s hand each time someone reached to pet him. There was a rhythm to his interactions that seemed the most natural and beautiful thing in the world.

After the program, Dewey climbed into his bed above Kay’s desk, clearly exhausted. Kay came over and gave him a gentle scratch on the chin. I knew that touch, that quiet look. It was a thank-you, the one you give an old friend or a spouse after you’ve watched them across a crowded room and realized how wonderful they are, and how lucky you are to have them in your life. I half expected her to say, “That’ll do, cat, that’ll do,” like the farmer in the movie Babe , but this time Kay left all the words unsaid.

Two months later, in early November, Dewey’s gait became a bit unsteady. He started peeing excessively, sometimes on the paper outside his litter box, which he had never done before. But he wasn’t hiding. He was still jumping up and down from the circulation desk. He still interacted with patrons. He didn’t seem to be in pain. I called Dr. Franck, and she advised me not to bring him in but to watch him closely.

One morning near the end of the month, Dewey wasn’t waving. All those years, and I could count on one hand the number of times Dewey wasn’t waving when I arrived in the morning. Instead he was standing at the front door, just waiting for me. I ushered him to the litter box and gave him his can of cat food. He ate a few bites, then walked with me on our morning rounds. I was busy preparing for a trip to Florida—my brother Mike’s daughter Natalie was getting married and the whole family was going to be there—so I left Dewey with the staff for the rest of the morning. As always, he came in while I was working to sniff my office vent and make sure I was safe. The older he got, the more he protected the ones he loved.

At nine thirty I went out for Dewey’s breakfast of the moment, a Hardee’s bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. When I returned, Dewey didn’t come running. I figured the deaf old boy didn’t hear the door. I found him sleeping on a chair by the circulation desk, so I swung the bag a few times, floating the smell of eggs his way. He flew out of that chair into my office. I put the egg-and-cheese mush on a paper plate, and he ate three or four bites before curling up on my lap.

At ten thirty, Dewey attended Story Hour. As usual, he greeted every child. An eight-year-old girl was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, in the position we used to call Indian-style. Dewey curled up on her legs and went to sleep. She petted him, the other children took turns petting him, everyone was happy. After Story Hour, Dewey crawled into his fur-lined bed in front of the heater, which was running full blast, and that’s where he was when I left the library at noon. I was going home for lunch, then picking up Dad and driving to Omaha to catch a flight the next morning.

Ten minutes after I got home, the phone rang. It was Jann, one of our clerks. “Dewey’s acting funny.”