Dewey's story starts in the worst possible way. Only a few weeks old, on the coldest night of the year, he was stuffed into the returned book slot at the Spencer Public Library. He was found the next morning by library director, Vicki Myron, a single mother who had survived the loss of her family farm, a breast cancer scare, and an alcoholic husband. Dewey won her heart, and the hearts of the staff, by pulling himself up and hobbling on frostbitten feet to nudge each of them in a gesture of thanks and love. For the next nineteen years, he never stopped charming the people of Spencer with his enthusiasm, warmth, humility, (for a cat) and, above all, his sixth sense about who needed him most.
As his fame grew from town to town, then state to state, and finally, amazingly, worldwide, Dewey became more than just a friend; he became a source of pride for an extraordinary Heartland farming town pulling its way slowly back from the greatest crisis in its long history.
Publishers Weekly® Reviews
- Reviewed in: Publishers Weekly, page 65.
- Review Date: 2008-07-28
- Reviewer: Staff
One frigid Midwestern winter night in 1988, a ginger kitten was shoved into the after-hours book-return slot at the public library in Spencer, Iowa. And in this tender story, Myron, the library director, tells of the impact the cat, named DeweyReadmore Books, had on the library and its patrons, and on Myron herself. Through her developing relationship with the feline, Myron recounts the economic and social history of Spencer as well as her own success story—despite an alcoholic husband, living on welfare, and health problems ranging from the difficult birth of her daughter, Jodi, to breast cancer. After her divorce, Myron graduated college (the first in her family) and stumbled into a library job. She quickly rose to become director, realizing early on that this “was a job I could love for the rest of my life.” Dewey, meanwhile, brings disabled children out of their shells, invites businessmen to pet him with one hand while holding the Wall Street Journal with the other, eats rubber bands and becomes a media darling. The book is not only a tribute to a cat—anthropomorphized to a degree that can strain credulity (Dewey plays hide and seek with Myron, can read her thoughts, is mortified by his hair balls)—it's a love letter to libraries. (Sept.)
BEHIND THE BOOK
Memories of a magical cat
at home in a small-town library
Why was Dewey written? Because I was asked to write it. Not just by one person, but by hundreds, for years. Locals, visitors, book agents, professional writers (they wanted to help), people who had read about him in magazines or seen him in a documentary. There was something magical about this lovable orange cat named Dewey Readmore Books and the small-town library where he lived.
So, after years of saying no, I finally said yes. Dewey had recently died, and part of me must have known writing a book would keep him in my life. Not that he could ever go away. I loved him for almost 20 years; everything in the library reminded me of him: the copier where he warmed himself, the front desk where he perched, the Western section where he hid, the book cart he used to ride on. Every morning, he sat at the door waiting for me. When he saw me coming, he'd wave. No matter how bad I felt, that wave made me believe the world was wonderful and everything would be all right. How could I ever forget that?
With the help of a writer (one finally got to me!), I started putting down on paper all those memories: how Dewey wouldn't come down from the overhead lights no matter how we begged, lounged in front of the heater until his fur was too hot to touch, slept in the box so the patrons couldn't get their tax forms, tortured us over his food and litter, enticed us to play hide-and-seek with him, attended every children's Story Hour, ran every meeting and generally turned a cold library into a warm, inviting, friendly place.
I wrote about how he sought out those in need: the elderly man who had just lost his wife; an unemployed farmhand; the homeless man. I told how whenever I wanted to give up, because I was a single mother working full-time and going to school, Dewey sensed it and jumped on my lap. And how when I agonized over a double mastectomy or a less invasive treatment (I chose the mastectomy, but never told anyone until this book), he sat beside me while I cried. He was my best friend; he was always there for me. Always. I hope I've honored his life by capturing some of his magic.
I hope I've also captured something else: the magic of libraries. Libraries aren't warehouses for books; they are meeting houses for human beings. A good library is less an institution than a home. It has comfortable seats, desks, computers, friendly people and, yes, sometimes even a cat. Libraries are society's great leveling agent: they offer job listings, financial information, technology, entertainment, any book you want. For free. I hate it when people tiptoe through a library. "This isn't a graveyard," I want to shout. "It's alive. So live a little!"
Librarians aren't little old ladies who spend all day stamping books and shushing people. We love to have fun, for one thing. But we also have interesting jobs that entail, among other things, planning community events; adopting new technologies; battling censorship; and reaching out to underprivileged groups. We provide job banks in tough times, free childcare for working parents, and, in Spencer at least, translators for errands and doctors visits, the town's only Spanish-language outreach. Be warned: librarians are studying you, and they know what you need. That's their job.
I will never forget Dewey's friend Crystal, a severely mentally and physically handicapped girl so withdrawn that everyone thought she was dead inside. But Dewey sensed something, and he started following her wheelchair. Then he started climbing up and sitting on her wooden tray. She couldn't control her muscles, so she couldn't pet him, but she would squeal with delight. One day, I placed him inside her jacket. Dewey put his head on her chest and purred, and Crystalshe just exploded. She was alive with joy. That, to me, is a Dewey story; that's the kind of cat he was. And that's what libraries do. They change lives. Everywhere in this country. Every day.
I have been surprised by the reaction to Dewey. People love the portrayal of Iowa. They are awed by Spencer, a small town that has overcome adversity by pulling together and resisting simple answers (a slaughterhouse, a casino). I agree with them; I love Iowa and Spencer too, but I never thought this was a book about a place. I thought it was a book about an extraordinary cat, and the deep bond that developed between that cat and a woman, and how the two of them dedicated their lives to the last great free enterprise in American society: the library.
Vicki Myron worked at the Spencer Public Library for 25 years, the last 20 years as its director. Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, written with Bret Witter, is her account of the unforgettable cat who became a fixture at the library.