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

“What do you mean funny?”

“He’s crying and walking funny. And he’s trying to hide in the cupboards.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Dewey was hiding under a chair. I picked him up, and he was shaking like the morning I found him. His eyes were big, and I could tell he was in pain. I called the veterinary office. Dr. Franck was out, but her husband, Dr. Beall, was in. He said, “Come right down.” I wrapped Dewey in his towel. It was a cold day, end of November. Dewey snuggled against me immediately.

By the time we arrived at the vet’s office, Dewey was down on the floor of my car by the heater, shaking with fear. I cradled him in my arms and held him against my chest. That’s when I noticed poop sticking out of his behind.

What a relief! It wasn’t serious. It was constipation.

I told Dr. Beall the problem. He took Dewey into the back room to clean out his colon and intestines. He also washed his back end, so Dewey came back wet and cold. He crawled from Dr. Beall’s arms into mine and looked up at me with pleading eyes. Help me. I could tell something still wasn’t right.

Dr. Beall said, “I can feel a mass. It’s not feces.”

“What is it?”

“He needs an X-ray.”

Ten minutes later, Dr. Beall was back with the results. There was a large tumor in Dewey’s stomach, and it was pushing on his kidneys and intestines. That’s why he had been peeing more, and it probably accounted for his peeing outside the litter box.

“It wasn’t there in September,” Dr. Beall said, “which means it’s probably an aggressive cancer. But we’d have to do invasive tests to find out for sure.”

We stood silently, looking at Dewey. I never suspected the tumor. Never. I knew everything about Dewey, all his thoughts and feelings, but he had kept this one thing hidden from me.

“Is he in pain?”

“Yes, I suspect he is. The mass is growing very fast, so it will only get worse.”

“Is there anything you can give him for the pain?”

“No, not really.”

I was holding Dewey in my arms, cradling him like a baby. He hadn’t let me carry him that way in sixteen years. Now he wasn’t even fighting it. He was just looking at me.

“Do you think he’s in constant pain?”

“I can’t imagine that he’s not.”

The conversation was crushing me, flattening me out, making me feel drawn, deflated, tired. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Somehow I had believed Dewey was going to live forever.

I called the library staff and told them Dewey wasn’t coming home. Kay was out of town. Joy was off duty. They reached her at Sears, but too late. Several others came down to say their good-byes. Instead of going to Dewey, though, Sharon walked right up and hugged me. Thank you, Sharon, I needed that. Then I hugged Donna and thanked her for loving Dewey so much. Donna was the last to say her good-byes.

Someone said, “I don’t know if I want to be here when they put him to sleep.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’d rather be alone with him.”

Dr. Beall took Dewey into the back room to insert the IV, then brought him back in a fresh blanket and put him in my arms. I talked to Dewey for a few minutes. I told him how much I loved him, how much he meant to me, how much I didn’t want him to suffer. I explained what was happening and why. I rewrapped his blanket to make sure he was comfortable. What more could I offer him than comfort? I cradled him in my arms and rocked back and forth from foot to foot, a habit started when he was a kitten. Dr. Beall gave him the first shot, followed closely by the second.

He said, “I’ll check for a heartbeat.”

I said, “You don’t need to. I can see it in his eyes.”

Dewey was gone.

Chapter 27

Loving Dewey

I was in Florida for eight days. I didn’t read the newspaper. I didn’t watch television. I didn’t take any phone calls. It was the best possible time to be away because Dewey’s death was hard. Very hard. I broke down on the flight from Omaha and cried all the way to Houston. In Florida, I thought often of Dewey, alone, quietly, but also surrounded by the family that had always sustained me.

I had no idea how far word of Dewey’s death had spread. The next morning, while I sat crying on an airplane to Houston, the local radio station devoted their morning show to memories of Dewey. The Sioux City Journal ran a lengthy story and obituary. I don’t know if that was the source, but the AP wire picked up the story and sent it around the world. Within hours, news of Dewey’s death appeared on the CBS afternoon newsbreak and on MSNBC. The library started getting calls. If I had been in the library, I would have been stuck answering questions from reporters for days, but nobody else on staff felt comfortable speaking to the media. The library secretary, Kim, gave a brief statement, which ended up in what I now think of as Dewey’s public obituary, but that was all. It was enough. Over the next few days, that obituary ran in more than 270 newspapers.

The response from individuals touched by Dewey was equally overwhelming. People in town received calls from friends and relatives all over the country who read about Dewey’s death in the local newspaper or heard it on a local radio show. One local couple was out of the country and learned the news from a friend in San Francisco, who read about his passing in the San Francisco Chronicle . Admirers set up a vigil in the library. Local businesses sent flowers and gifts. Sharon and Tony’s daughter, Emmy, gave me a picture she had drawn of Dewey. It was two green circles in the middle of the page with lines sticking out in all directions. It was beautiful, and Emmy beamed as I taped it to my office door. That picture was the perfect way for both of us to remember him.

Gary Roma, director of the documentary about library cats, wrote me a long letter. It said, in part: “I don’t know if I ever told you, but of all the many library cats I’ve met across the country, Dewey Readmore Books was my favorite. His beauty, charm, and playfulness were unique.”

Tomoko from Japanese Public Television wrote to tell us Dewey’s death had been announced in Japan, and that many were sad to hear he was gone.

Marti Attoun, who wrote the article for American Profile , wrote to say the Dewey story was still her favorite. It had been years, and Marti was now a contributing editor. It seemed so unlikely, given the hundreds of stories she had written, that Marti would remember a cat, much less still think of him fondly. But that was Dewey. He touched people so deeply.

By the time I returned to my office, there were letters and cards stacked four feet high on my desk. I had more than six hundred e-mails about Dewey waiting in my inbox. Many were from people who met him only once but never forgot him. Hundreds of others were from people who never met him. In the month after his death, I received more than a thousand e-mails about Dewey from all around the world. We heard from a soldier in Iraq who had been touched by Dewey’s death despite what he saw there every day—or perhaps because of it. We received a letter from a couple in Connecticut whose son was turning eleven; his birthday wish was to release a balloon to heaven in Dewey’s honor. We received numerous gifts and donations. A librarian at the Naval History Museum, for instance, donated four books in his memory. She had followed Dewey’s story in library publications and read his obituary in the Washington Post . Our Web site, www.spencerlibrary.com, went from 25,000 hits a month to 189,922 in December, and the traffic didn’t let up for most of the next year.