Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched 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

CategoryLovesHatesFoodPurina Special Dinners, Dairy Flavor!Anything elsePlace to sleepAny box or someone’s lapAlone or in his own basketToyAnything with catnipToys that don’t move Time of day8 a.m. when the staff arrivesWhen everybody leavesBody positionStretched out on his backStanding up for very longTemperatureWarm, warm, warmCold, cold, coldHiding placeBetween the Westerns on the bottom shelfThe lobby ActivityMaking new friends, watching the copier Going to the vetPetting On the head, behind his earsScratched or touched on stomachEquipmentKim’s typewriter, the copierVacuum cleaner AnimalHimself!GroomingCleaning his earsBeing brushed or combedMedicineFelaxin (for hair balls)Anything elseGameHide-and-seek, push the pen on the floorWrestlingPeopleAlmost everyonePeople who are mean to himNoiseA snack being opened, paper rustling Loud trucks, construction, dogs barkingBookThe Cat Who Would Be King101 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 those 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.