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

I don’t want to take anything away from the cat who falls out of the Winnebago, then spends five months trudging home through snowdrifts and scorching heat. That cat is an inspiration: never give up, always remember the importance of home. In his quiet way, Dewey taught those lessons, too. He never gave up during his long night in the box, and he was devoted to the library that became his home. Dewey didn’t do one heroic thing; he did something heroic every day. He spent his time changing lives right here in Spencer, Iowa, one lap at a time.

You’ve no doubt noticed the strings on a fresh ear of corn. Those are the silks. Each one is connected to a particular spot on the ear. The spot grows a kernel only if that particular string is fertilized by pollen. The ear is made piece by piece, one kernel at a time. For an ear of corn to be whole, every silk must be fertilized. That’s the way Dewey operated. He won hearts day by day, one person at a time. He never left anyone out or took anyone for granted. If you were receptive, he was there for you. If you weren’t receptive, he worked to bring you around. Surely you know Wilbur, the pig in Charlotte’s Web. Dewey had that personality: enthusiastic, honest, charming, radiant, humble (for a cat), and above all, a friend to anyone and everyone. It wasn’t just beauty. It wasn’t just a great story. Dewey had charisma, like Elvis or any of the other people who will live in our minds forever. There are dozens of library cats in the United States, but none come close to accomplishing what Dewey accomplished. He wasn’t just another cat for people to pet and smile about. Every regular user of the library, every single one, felt they had a unique relationship with Dewey. He made everyone feel special.

Sharon often brought her daughter Emmy, who had Down syndrome, to see Dewey, especially on Sunday when it was her turn to feed him. Every Saturday night Emmy asked her, “Is tomorrow a Dewey day?” The first thing Emmy did every “Dewey day” was search for Dewey. When he was younger, he would usually be waiting by the door, but as he aged Emmy often found him lying in the sun by a window. She would pick him up and bring him to Mommy so they could pet him together. “Hi, Dewey. I love you,” Emmy would say in a soft, kind voice, the way her own mother talked to her. For Emmy, that was the voice of love. Sharon was always afraid Emmy would pet him too hard, but Emmy and Dewey were friends, and she understood him as well as any of us. She was always wonderfully gentle.

Yvonne Berry, a single woman in her late thirties, came to the library three or four times a week. Every time, Dewey sought her out and spent fifteen minutes on her lap. Then he tried to coax her to open the bathroom door so he could play with the water. It was their ritual. But on the day Yvonne had to put her own cat to sleep, Dewey sat with her for more than two hours. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew something was wrong. Years later, when she told me that story, I could tell it was still important to her.

The century was turning, changing over, and Dewey was mellowing. He spent more time in his cat bed, and strenuous play was replaced by quiet book cart rides with Joy. Instead of jumping onto the cart, he would meow for Joy to pick him up so he could ride at the front of the cart like the captain of a ship. He stopped jumping to the ceiling lights, more out of boredom, I believe, than physical necessity. He couldn’t abide rough handling, but he loved a gentle touch, like that of the homeless man who became one of his best friends. It is difficult to be invisible in a town like Spencer, but this man came close. He simply appeared at the library every day, unshaven, uncombed, and unwashed. He never said a word to anyone. He never looked at anyone. He wanted only Dewey. He would pick Dewey up and drape him over his shoulder; Dewey would lie there, purring, for twenty minutes while the man unburdened himself of secrets.

When Dewey gave up walking the top of the wall shelves, Kay took his old cat bed and put it on top of her desk hutch. Dewey would snuggle up in that bed and watch Kay work. Kay was attentive to Dewey’s needs, changing his food, brushing his tangles, giving him Vaseline for fur balls, helping me with his bath. She wasn’t as patient or gentle as I was, but even her roughest handling ended with a tender moment and a soft chuck on the head. One day not too long after Kay set up the new arrangement, Dewey jumped up to the bed and the shelf collapsed. The cat flew one way, four legs flailing. Notepads and paper clips flew the other. Before the last paper clip had hit the floor, Dewey was back to survey the damage.

“Not scared of too much in this library, are you?” Kay joked, a smile that I could tell reached all the way down to her heart curling the corners of her mouth.