by Vicki Myron
In our society, people believe you have to do something to be recognized, by which we mean something “in your face,” and preferably caught on camera. We expect a famous town to survive a tsunami and a forest fire or produce a president or cover up some horrible crime. We expect a famous cat to save a child from a burning building, find his way home after being left behind on the other side of the country, or meow “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And that cat better be not just heroic and talented, but media savvy, attractive, and have a good press agent, too, or he’s never going to make it ontothe Today show.
Dewey wasn’t like that. He didn’t perform spectacular feats. There was nobody pushing him to success. We didn’t want him to be anything more than the beloved library cat of Spencer, Iowa. And that’s all he wanted, too. He ran away only once, and he went only two blocks, and even that was too far.
Dewey wasn’t special because he did something extraordinary but because he was extraordinary. He was like one of those seemingly ordinary people who, once you get to know them, stand out from the crowd. They are the ones who never miss a day of work, who never complain, who never ask for more than their share. They are those rare librarians, car salesmen, and waitresses who provide excellent service on principle, who go beyond the job because they have a passion for the job. They know what they are meant to do in life, and they do it exceptionally well. Some win awards; some make a lot of money; most are taken for granted. The store clerks. The bank tellers. The auto mechanics. The mothers. The world tends to recognize the unique and the loud, the rich and the self-serving, not those who do ordinary things extraordinarily well. Dewey came from humble beginnings (an Iowa alley); he survived tragedy (a freezing drop box); he found his place (a small-town library). Maybe that’s the answer. He found his place. His passion, his purpose, was to make that place, no matter how small and out of the way it may have seemed, a better place for everyone.
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.
Only the brush and the bath, Dewey would have said if he was being honest. The older Dewey got, the more he hated being groomed.
He also didn’t have as much patience for preschool children, who tended to poke and pull at him. He was stiffening up, and he could no longer tolerate the small knocks and bruises. He never lashed out at children, and he rarely ran from them. He simply began to scoot away and hide when certain children came looking for him, avoiding a situation before it began.
Babies were a different story. One day I watched Dewey plop himself down a few feet from an infant girl who was on the floor in a baby carrier. I had often seen Dewey interact with infants, so I wasn’t apprehensive. But babies are delicate, and new moms even more so. Especially this one. Dewey just sat with a bored expression, looking off into the distance as if to say, Just happened to be walking by. Then, when he thought I wasn’t looking, he squirmed an inch closer. Just adjusting my position, his body language said, nothing to see here. A minute later, he did it again. Then again. Slowly, inch by inch, he crept closer, until finally he was pressed right up against the carrier. He popped his head over the edge, as if to confirm the child was inside, then settled down with his head on his paws. The infant reached her little hand over the edge and snatched his ear. Dewey adjusted his head so she could get a better grip. She laughed, kicking her legs and squeezing his ear. Dewey sat quietly, a contented look on his face.
We hired a new assistant children’s librarian, Donna Stanford, in 2002. Donna had been around the world as a Peace Corps recruiter, and she had recently returned to northwest Iowa to care for h
er mother, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Donna was quiet and conscientious, which I thought at first was the reason Dewey spent a few hours every day with her over in the children’s section. It took me a long time to realize that Donna didn’t know anyone in town besides her mother, and that even a place like Spencer—or maybe especially a close-knit place like Spencer—could seem cold and intimidating to an outsider. The only local resident who reached out to Donna was Dewey, who would ride on her shoulder while she rolled around in her office chair shelving books. When he tired of that, he would climb down onto her lap so Donna could pet him. Sometimes she read him children’s books. I caught them by surprise one day, Dewey resting with his eyes closed, Donna deep in thought. I could tell she was startled.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It is part of your job description to hold the kitty.”
Then there was Jodi’s boyfriend, Scott. Poor Scott was thrown right into the fire on his first trip to Spencer: my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. And this wasn’t just a family party. The event was held at the Spencer Convention Center, which had a seating capacity of 450 people. Even the convention center couldn’t contain the crowd. When the Jipson children descended on the stage to perform—in this case “You Are My Sunshine” with family-themed lyrics and Vince Gill’s “Look at Us,” complete with my brother Doug’s flat, off-key warbling—there were still more than a hundred people lined up outside, waiting to congratulate Mom and Dad. All their lives they had treated the whole world as their family; now the world had come to honor them.
As soon as she left home, my relationship with Jodi improved dramatically. We were great friends, we realized, and terrible roommates. But while we laughed about the present, we still didn’t talk about the past. Maybe mothers and daughters never do. That didn’t mean I couldn’t try.
“I know we’ve had some hard times, Jodi.”
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
Where should I start? My health. My absences. Her messy room. Brandy. “In Mankato. Remember? We would walk by a store and you’d say ‘I really want that shirt, Mommy, but I know we don’t have any money, so that’s okay.’ You didn’t want it, you needed it, but you never wanted me to feel bad.” I sighed. “You were only five years old.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s just life.”
And right then I realized that she was right. The good, the bad, that’s just life. Let it go. There’s no need to fret about the past. The question is: who are you going to share it with tomorrow?
That night, after the party, Jodi and I took Scott to the library to meet Dewey. That’s when I knew this relationship was serious; Jodi had never introduced Dewey to one of her boyfriends before, and none of her other boyfriends, as far as I knew, had ever been interested in meeting him. Dewey was, of course, overjoyed to see Jodi. She was forever his love. Scott gave the two of them time together, then gently picked Dewey up and petted him. Not on the stomach, which Dewey hated, but along the back. He walked him around the empty library in the Dewey Carry. He pulled out his camera and took a snapshot for his mother. She had heard the Dewey stories, and she was a big fan. My heart warmed to see the two of them together. Scott was so loving and tender. And how could I not fall for a guy thoughtful enough to take a photograph for his mom?
It never occurred to me there was anything unusual about taking a grown woman’s boyfriend to a library to meet her mother’s cat. Dewey was part of the family; his opinion mattered. How could anyone seriously consider being a part of this family without knowing him? And I trusted Dewey to sniff out a rat; he was my sentry, always protecting the ones he loved. Seeing Scott with Dewey, and Dewey with Scott, told me everything I needed to know.
It also never crossed my mind, at this point, to think of Dewey as the library’s cat. Dewey was my cat. I was the person he came to for love. I was the person he came to for comfort. And I went to him for love and comfort, too. He wasn’t a substitute husband or a substitute child. I wasn’t lonely; I had plenty of friends. I wasn’t unfulfilled; I loved my job. I wasn’t looking for someone special. It wasn’t even that I saw him every day. We lived apart. We could spend whole days in the library together and hardly see each other. But even when I didn’t see him, I knew he was there. We had chosen, I realized, to share our lives, not just tomorrow, but forever.
Dewey was more special to me than any animal I had ever known. He was more special to me than I ever believed an animal could be. However, that didn’t change a fundamental truth. He was my cat, but he belonged in the library. His place was with the public. Dewey was happy at my house for a day or two, but as soon as we got in the car and headed downtown to the library, he put his front feet on the dashboard and stared excitedly out the window. I had to take the turns slowly, or he’d slide right off. When he smelled Sister’s Café, Dewey knew we were a few blocks away. That’s when he got really excited. He’d move to the armrest and put his paws on the side window, practically willing the door to open. We’re here! We’re here! He’d look over his shoulder and practically yell it to me when we entered the alley. As soon as the door opened, he jumped into my arms and I carried him across the threshold. And then . . . bliss.
There was nothing Dewey loved more than being home.
Chapter 22
Dewey Goes to Japan
We received the e-mail from Japan in early 2003. Actually, the e-mail came from Washington, D.C., on behalf of people in Tokyo. Tomoko Kawasumi represented Japanese Public Television, which wanted to film Dewey. The company was making a documentary to introduce some new high- definition technology, and they wanted as wide an audience as possible. They decided first on a documentary about animals, then narrowed the focus to cats. They discovered Dewey through a feature in the Japanese magazine Nekobiyori. Would we mind if a film crew came to Spencer for a day?
That’s funny, we had no idea Dewey had appeared in a Japanese magazine.
A few months later, in May, six people from Tokyo arrived at the Spencer Public Library. They had flown to Des Moines, rented a van, and driven to Spencer. Iowa in May is beautiful. The corn is just below eye level, three or four feet tall, so you can see the fields spreading into the distance. Of course, it’s two hundred miles from Des Moines to Spencer, and that’s all you can see, mile after mile. What were six people from Tokyo thinking after three and a half hours of looking at Iowa corn? We’d have to ask them, because they were probably the only people from Tokyo ever to make that drive.
The crew had one day to film, so they asked me to arrive at the library before seven. It was a miserably rainy morning. The interpreter, the only woman in the group, asked me to open the first set of doors so they could set up their cameras in the lobby. As they were carting equipment, around the corner came Dewey. He was half asleep, stretching his back legs as cats often do when they first wake up. When he saw me, he trotted over and gave me a wave. Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here so early? I wasn’t expecting you for twenty minutes. You could have set your watch by that cat.
Once the crew set up the cameras, the interpreter said, “We’d like him to wave again.”
Oh, brother. I tried to explain, as best I could, that Dewey waved only once, when he saw me first thing in the morning. The director, Mr. Hoshi, wouldn’t hear of it. He was used not only to giving orders but to having them obeyed. He was definitely the man in charge. And right now, he wanted that wave.
So I went back to my car and approached the library again, pretending I hadn’t been in that morning. Dewey just stared at me.
What? You were just here five minutes ago.
I entered the library, turned on the lights, turned off the lights, went back to the car, waited five minutes, and approached the library again. Mr. Hoshi thought this might fool Dewey into thinking it was the next day.
It didn’t.
We tried for an hour to get footage of Dewey waving. Finally I said, “Look, the poor cat has been sitting there this whole time waiting for his food. I have to feed him.” Mr. Hoshi ag
reed. I scooped Dewey up and rushed to the litter box. The last thing I wanted the Japanese to get on film was flying poop. Dewey relieved himself, then ate a leisurely breakfast. By the time he was finished, the camera crew was set up inside. They had come halfway around the world, and they never got their wave.
But they got everything else. Dewey was almost fifteen years old and he was slowing down, but he hadn’t lost his enthusiasm for strangers. Especially strangers with cameras. He approached each member of the crew and greeted him with a rub on the leg. They were petting him, horsing around, and one cameraman lay down on the floor for a Dewey-eye view. The interpreter politely asked me to put Dewey on a bookshelf. He sat there and let them film. He jumped from shelf to shelf. Then she said, “Have him walk down the shelf between the books and jump off the end.”
I thought, “Wait a second. He’s a cat, not a trained animal in the circus, and that’s a pretty specific request. I hope you didn’t come all this way expecting a show because there’s no way he’s going to walk that shelf, slalom between the display books, and jump off at command.”
I trudged down to the far end of the shelf and called, “Come here, Dewey. Come here.” Dewey walked down the shelf, slalomed between the books, and jumped down to my feet.
For five hours Mr. Hoshi gave orders and Dewey complied. He sat on a computer. He sat on a table. He sat on the floor with his feet crossed and stared into the camera. He rode on his favorite book cart with his feet hanging down through the openings in the metal grill, completely relaxed. No time to dally; move, move, move. A three-year-old girl and her mother agreed to appear in the film, so I put Dewey on the glider chair with them. The girl was nervous, grabbing and pulling at Dewey. Dewey didn’t mind. He sat through the whole five-minute ordeal and never forgot to stare sweetly at the camera.
