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

Along with the pills, Dr. Franck gave me a pill shooter which, theoretically, shot the pills far enough down Dewey’s throat that he couldn’t spit them out. But Dewey was smart. He took his pill so calmly I thought, “Good, we made it. That was easy.” That’s when he snuck behind a shelf somewhere and coughed it back up. I found little white pills all over the library.

I didn’t force Dewey’s medicine on him. He was eighteen; if he didn’t want medicine, he didn’t have to take it. Instead, I bought him a container of yogurt and started giving him a lick every day. That opened the floodgates. Kay started giving him bites of cold cuts out of her sandwiches. Joy started sharing her ham sandwich, and pretty soon Dewey was following her to the kitchen whenever he saw her walk through the door with a bag in her hand. One day Sharon left a sandwich unwrapped on her desk. When she came back a minute later, the top slice of bread had been carefully turned over and placed to the side. The bottom slice of bread was sitting exactly where it had been, untouched. But all the meat was gone.

After Thanksgiving of 2005, we discovered Dewey loved turkey, so the staff loaded up on holiday scraps. We tried to freeze them, but he could always tell when the turkey wasn’t fresh. Dewey never lost his keen sense of smell. That’s one reason I scoffed when Sharon offered Dewey a bite of garlic chicken, her favorite microwavable lunch. I told her, “No way Dewey is going to eat garlic.”

He ate every bite. Who was this cat? For eighteen years, Dewey ate nothing but specific brands and flavors of cat food. Now, it seemed, he’d eat anything.

I thought, “If we can fatten Dewey up on human food, why not? Isn’t that better than a pill?”

I bought him braunschweiger, a cold loaf of sliced liver sausage many people around here consider a delicacy. Braunschweiger is about 80 percent pure fat. If anything would fatten Dewey up, it was braunschweiger. He wouldn’t touch it.

What Dewey really wanted, we discovered accidentally, was Arby’s Beef ’n Cheddar sandwiches. He gobbled them down. Inhaled them. He didn’t even chew the beef; he just sucked it in. I don’t know what was in those sandwiches, but once he started on Arby’s Beef ’n Cheddar, Dewey’s digestion improved. His constipation decreased dramatically. He started eating two cans of cat food a day, and because the fast food was so salty, he was slurping down a full dish of water as well. He even started using the litter box on his own.

But Dewey didn’t have a couple owners, he had hundreds, and most of them couldn’t see the improvements. All they saw was the cat they loved getting thinner and thinner. Dewey never hesitated to play up his condition. He would sit on the circulation desk and whenever someone approached to pet him, he would whine. They always fell for it.

“What’s the matter, Dewey?”

He led them to the entrance to the staff area, where they could see his food dish. He’d look forlornly at the food, then back at them, and with his big eyes full of sorrow, drop his head.

“Vicki! Dewey’s hungry!”

“He has a can of food in the bowl.”

“But he doesn’t like it.”

“That’s his second flavor this morning. I threw the first can away an hour ago.”

“But he’s crying. Look at him. He just flopped down on the floor.”

“We can’t just give him cans of food all day.”

“What about something else?”

“He ate an Arby’s sandwich this morning.”

“Look at him. He’s so thin. You guys have to be feed him more.”

“We’re taking good care of him.”

“But he’s so thin. Can’t you give him something for me?”

I could, except Dewey did the same thing yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. In fact, you’re the fifth person he’s hit with the starving-cat routine today.

Now, how was I going to tell a patron that? I always gave in, which of course just encouraged more bad behavior. I think Dewey enjoyed the taste of food more when he knew I didn’t want to give it to him. Let’s call it the taste of victory.

Chapter 25

The Meeting

As Dewey entered old age, the kindness of Spencer Public Library patrons really began to show. Friends and visitors alike were gentler around him. They talked to him more and were attentive to his needs, much as you would be to an older relative at a family reunion. Occasionally someone would comment that he looked weak, or thin, or dirty, but I knew their concern was a manifestation of their love.

“What’s wrong with his fur?” was probably the most common question.

“Nothing,” I told them. “He’s just old.”

It’s true, Dewey’s fur had lost much of its luster. It was no longer radiant orange, but a dull copper. It was also increasingly matted, so much so I couldn’t keep up with a simple brushing. I took Dewey to Dr. Franck, who explained that as cats aged, the barbs on their tongues wore down. Even if they licked themselves regularly, they couldn’t do an efficient job grooming because there was nothing to separate the fur. Tangles and mats were just another symptom of old age.