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

The house was a wreck. Jodi and her friends had spent the morning cleaning, but there were still stains on the carpet . . . and ceiling. The vanity door in the bathroom was ripped off its hinges. The kids threw all my records against the wall and broke them. Someone put beer cans down the heating vents. My pills were gone. A depressed kid had locked himself in the bathroom and tried to overdose—on estrogen. I found out later the police were called twice, but since the football team was at the party and since it was a winning season, they looked the other way. The mess didn’t bother me, not really, but it reminded me once again that Jodi was growing up without me. The only thing I couldn’t whip with more work, I realized, was my relationship with my daughter.

Ironically it was Cleber Meyer who put it all in perspective. He was pumping gas for me at his station one day—yes, he was the mayor, but it was a part-time position—when the subject of Jodi came up. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “When they turn fifteen, you become the dumbest person in the world. But when they turn twenty-two, you get smart again.”

Work, school, home life, petty local politics, I did what I always did in times of stress: I took a deep breath, dug inside, and forced myself to stand up taller than ever before. I had been picking myself up by my bootstraps all my life. There wasn’t anything about this situation, I told myself, that I couldn’t handle. It was only late at night in the library, alone with my thoughts and staring at that blank computer screen, that I began to feel the pressure. It was only then, in my first quiet moment of the day, that I felt my foundation begin to shake.

A library after closing is a lonely place. It is heart-poundingly silent, and the rows of shelves create an almost unfathomable number of dark and creepy corners. Most of the librarians I know won’t stay alone in a library after closing, especially after dark, but I was never nervous or scared. I was strong. I was stubborn. And most of all, I was never alone. I had Dewey. Every night, he sat on top of the computer screen as I worked, lazily swiping his tail back and forth. When I hit a wall, either from writer’s block, fatigue, or stress, he jumped down into my lap or onto the keyboard. No more, he told me.

Let’s play. Dewey had an amazing sense of timing.

“All right, Dewey,” I told him. “You go first.”

Dewey’s game was hide-and-seek, so as soon as I gave the word he would take off around the corner into the main part of the library. Half the time I immediately spotted the back half of a long-haired orange cat. For Dewey, hiding meant sticking your head in a bookshelf; he seemed to forget he had a tail.

“I wonder where Dewey is,” I said out loud as I snuck up on him. “Boo!” I yelled when I got within a few feet, sending Dewey running.

Other times he was better hidden. I would sneak around a few shelves with no luck, then turn the corner to see him prancing toward me with that big Dewey smile.

You couldn’t find me! You couldn’t find me!

“That’s not fair, Dewey. You only gave me twenty seconds.”

Occasionally he curled up in a tight spot and stayed put. I’d look for five minutes, then start calling his name. “Dewey! Dewey!” A dark library can feel empty when you’re bending over between the stacks and looking through rows of books, but I always imagined Dewey somewhere, just a few feet away, laughing at me.

“All right, Dewey, that’s enough. You win!” Nothing. Where could that cat be? I’d turn around and there he was, standing in the middle of the aisle, staring at me.

“Oh, Dewey, you clever boy. Now it’s my turn.”

I’d run and hide behind a bookshelf, and invariably one of two things happened. I’d get to my hiding place, turn around, and Dewey would be standing right there. He had followed me.

Found you. That was easy.

His other favorite thing to do was run around the other side of the shelf and beat me to my hiding spot.

Oh, is this where you’re thinking about hiding? Because, well, I’ve already figured it out.

I’d laugh and pet him behind the ears. “Fine, Dewey. Let’s just run for a while.”

We’d run between the shelves, meeting at the end of the aisles, nobody quite hiding and no one really seeking. After fifteen minutes I would completely forget my research paper, or the most recent budget meeting for the remodeling project, or that unfortunate conversation with Jodi. Whatever had been bothering me, it was gone. The weight, as they say, was lifted.

“Okay, Dewey. Let’s get back to work.”

Dewey never complained. I’d climb back into my chair, and he’d climb back to his perch on top of the computer and start waving his tail in front of the screen. The next time I needed him, he’d be there.