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

I told them, “Newly paved roads are nice, but they don’t lift our community’s spirits. Not like a warm, friendly, welcoming library. Wouldn’t it be great for morale to have a library we’re proud of?”

“I got to be honest. I don’t see how prettier books make a difference.”

After almost a year of being put on the shelf, I was frustrated, but certainly not defeated. Then a funny thing happened: Dewey started to make my argument for me. By the late summer of 1988, there was a noticeable change at the Spencer Public Library. Our visitor numbers were up. People were staying longer. They were leaving happy, and that happiness was being carried to their homes, their schools, and their places of employment. Even better, people were talking.

“I was down at the library,” someone would comment while window-shopping on the new, improved Grand Avenue.

“Was Dewey there?”

“Of course.”

“Did he sit in your lap? He always sits on my daughter’s lap.”

“Actually, I was reaching for a book on a high shelf, not really paying attention, and instead of a book I grabbed a handful of Dewey. I was so startled I dropped a book right on my toe.”

“What did Dewey do?”

“He laughed.”

“Really?”

“No, but I sure did.”

The conversation must have reached Sister’s Café, because eventually even the city council started to notice. Slowly their attitude shifted. First they stopped laughing at me. Then they started listening.

“Vicki,” the city council finally said, “maybe the library does make a difference. There’s a financial crunch right now, as you know, and we don’t have any money. But if you have the funds, you have our support.” It wasn’t much, I admit, but it was the most the library had gotten from the city in a long, long time.

Chapter 8

A Cat’s Best Friends

The whisper the city council heard in the autumn of 1988 wasn’t mine. Or at least not mine alone. It was the voice of the people bubbling up, the voices that were usually never heard: those of the older residents, the mothers, the children. Some patrons came to the library for a purpose—to check out a book, to read the newspaper, to find a magazine. Other patrons considered the library a destination. They enjoyed spending time there; they were sustained and strengthened. Every month there were more of these people. Dewey wasn’t just a novelty; he was a fixture in the community. People came to the library to see him.

Not that Dewey was an especially fawning animal. He didn’t just rush up to each person who came through the door. He made himself available at the front door if people wanted him; if they didn’t, they could step around and be on their way. That’s the subtle difference between dogs and cats, and especially a cat like Dewey: cats may need you, but they aren’t needy.

When regular patrons came in and Dewey wasn’t there to greet them, they often walked the library looking for him. First they searched the floor, figuring Dewey was hiding around a corner. Then they checked the top of the bookshelves.

“Oh, how are you, Dewey? I didn’t see you there,” they would say, reaching up to pet him. Dewey would give them the top of his head to pet, but he wouldn’t follow them. The patrons always looked disappointed.

But as soon as they forgot about him, Dewey jumped into their laps. That’s when I saw the smiles. It wasn’t just that Dewey sat with them for ten or fifteen minutes; it was that he had singled them out for special attention. By the end of his first year, dozens of patrons were telling me, “I know Dewey likes everyone, but I have a special relationship with him.”

I smiled and nodded. “That’s right, Judy,” I thought. “You and everyone else who comes into this library.”

Of course, if Judy Johnson (or Marcy Muckey or Pat Jones or any of Dewey’s other fans) hung around long enough, she was sure to be disappointed. Many times I had that conversation only to see the smile drop half an hour later when, leaving the library, she happened to notice Dewey sitting on someone else’s lap.

“Oh, Dewey,” Judy would say. “I thought it was all about me.”

She would look at him for a few seconds, but Dewey wouldn’t look up. Then she would smile. I knew what Judy was thinking. “That’s just his job. He still loves me best.”

Then there were the children. If you wanted to understand the effect Dewey had on Spencer, all you had to do was look at the children. The smiles when they came into the library, the joy as they searched and called for him, the excitement when they found him. Behind them, their mothers were smiling, too.