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

This was the solace he gave:

Leaning on my doorknob, he said,

“Honey, do you want to come and watch me shave?”

But I couldn’t write a silly poem for Mom. She had done too much for me; there was too much to say. Would I get another chance? I broke down and wrote the kind of poem Dad was famous for, the awkwardly sentimental kind.

MEMORIES OF MOM

When I began to pick a memory,

One day, one incident, one chat,

I realized my fondest memory

Had more substance than that.

The 70s lost my marriage—lost everything,

I could feel my life unwind.

I was depressed and struggling,

Quite literally losing my mind.

Friends and family got me through,

But with a daughter under five,

Jodi paid for all my pain

As I struggled to survive.

Thank God for Mom.

Her strength showed I could recover,

But her most important role

Back then was Jodi’s second mother.

When I had no more to give,

When I fought to get out of bed,

Mom took Jodi in her arms

And kept her soul fed.

Unconditional love and stability

In that Hartley home;

Swimming lessons, silly games,

Jodi didn’t have to be alone.

While I built my life back,

Studied, worked, and found my way,

Mom gave Jodi what I missed,

Special attention every day.

I was a mess while raising Jodi,

But when she fell, you caught her.

So, thank you, Mom, most of all

For helping shape our daughter.

Two days after the party, Mom woke Dad in the middle of the night and told him to drive her to the hospital. She couldn’t take the pain anymore. A few days later, after she had been stabilized and sent to Sioux City for tests, we discovered Mom had colorectal cancer. Her only chance for survival, and it was no guarantee, was to remove almost her entire colon. She’d have to spend the rest of her life with a colostomy bag.

Mom had known something was seriously wrong. We found out later she had been taking suppositories and laxatives for more than a year, and she had been in almost constant pain. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know. For the first time in her life, Mom didn’t want to face down her enemy. She said, “I’m not going to have the surgery. I’m tired of fighting.”

My sister was distraught. I told her, “Val, this is Mom. Give her time.”

Sure enough, five days later Mom said, “I don’t want to go this way. Let’s have the surgery.”

Mom survived the surgery and lived another eight months. They were not easy months. We brought Mom home, and Val and Dad took care of her around the clock. Val was the only one who learned to manage the colostomy bag; even the nurse couldn’t change it as well. I came over every night and cooked dinner for them. Difficult times, but also some of the best of my life. Mom and I talked about everything. There was nothing left unsaid. There was no laugh we didn’t share. She slipped into a coma near the end, but even then I knew she heard me. She heard all of us. She was never too far away. She died as she had lived, on her own terms, with her family at her side.

In the summer of 2006, a few months after she died, I placed a small statue outside the window of the children’s library in my mother’s honor. The statue is of a woman holding a book, ready to read to the child clamoring around her. To me, that statue is Mom. She always had something to give.

Chapter 24

Dewey’s Diet

Dad says Max II, his beloved Himalayan, will outlive him. He finds comfort in that certainty. But for most of us, living with an animal means understanding we will experience our pet’s death. Animals are not children; rarely do they outlive us.

I had been mentally preparing for Dewey’s death since he was fourteen years old. His colon condition and public living arrangement, according to Dr. Esterly, made it unlikely Dewey would live longer than a dozen years. But Dewey had a rare combination of genetics and attitude. By the time Dewey was seventeen, I had nearly stopped thinking about his death. I accepted it not so much as inevitable but as another milestone down the road. Since I didn’t know the location of the marker, or what it would look like when we got there, why spend time worrying about it? That is to say, I enjoyed our days together, and during our evenings apart I looked no further than the next morning.

I realized Dewey was losing his hearing when he stopped responding to the word bath. For years, that word had sent him into a scamper. The staff would be talking, and someone would say, “I had to clean my bathtub last night.”

Bam, Dewey was gone. Every time.

“That isn’t about you, Dewey!”