I can’t imagine Crystal’s life. I don’t know how she felt when she was out in the world, or even what she did. But I know that whenever she was in the Spencer Public Library with Dewey, she was happy. And I think she experienced the kind of complete happiness very few of us ever feel. Dewey knew that. He wanted her to experience that happiness, and he loved her for it. Isn’t that a legacy worthy of any cat, or human being?
The list on the opposite page was written on a big orange piece of poster board and hung at the Spencer Public Library circulation desk for Dewey’s first birthday, November 18, 1988.
DEWEY’S LIKES AND DISLIKES
CategoryLovesHatesFoodPurina Special Dinners, Dairy Flavor!Anything elsePlace to sleepAny box or someone’s lapAlone or in his own basketToyAnything with catnipToys that don’t move Time of day8 a.m. when the staff arrivesWhen everybody leavesBody positionStretched out on his backStanding up for very longTemperatureWarm, warm, warmCold, cold, coldHiding placeBetween the Westerns on the bottom shelfThe lobby ActivityMaking new friends, watching the copier Going to the vetPetting On the head, behind his earsScratched or touched on stomachEquipmentKim’s typewriter, the copierVacuum cleaner AnimalHimself!GroomingCleaning his earsBeing brushed or combedMedicineFelaxin (for hair balls)Anything elseGameHide-and-seek, push the pen on the floorWrestlingPeopleAlmost everyonePeople who are mean to himNoiseA snack being opened, paper rustling Loud trucks, construction, dogs barkingBookThe Cat Who Would Be King101 Uses for a Dead Cat
Chapter 9
Dewey and Jodi
The relationship between Dewey and Crystal is important not just because it changed her life but because it illustrates something about Dewey. It shows his effect on people. His love. His understanding. The extent to which he cared. Take this one person, I’m saying every time I tell that story, multiply it by a thousand, and you’ll begin to see how much Dewey meant to the town of Spencer. It wasn’t everybody, but it was another person every day, one heart at a time. And one of those people, one very close to my own heart, was my daughter, Jodi.
I was a single mother, so when she was young Jodi and I were inseparable. We walked our cockapoo Brandy. We went window-shopping at the mall. We had sleepovers in the living room, just the two of us. Whenever a movie came on television we wanted to see, we had a picnic on the floor. The Wizard of Oz—over the rainbow where everything is in color and you have the power to do what you’ve always wanted and that power has always been with you if only you knew how to tap into it—came on once a year, and it was our favorite. When Jodi was nine, we went every afternoon, weather permitting, to hike in a nearby wilderness area. At least once a week, we hiked all the way to the top of a limestone cliff, where we sat and looked down on the river, a mother and her daughter, talking together.
We lived in Mankato, Minnesota, but we spent a lot of time at my parents’ house in Hartley, Iowa. For two hours, as the cornfields of Minnesota turned into the cornfields of Iowa, we sang along to the old eight-track, mostly corny 1970s songs by John Denver and Barry Manilow. And we always played a special game. I would say, “Who’s the biggest man you know?”
Jodi would answer, and then ask me, “Who’s the strongest woman you know?”
I would answer and ask, “Who’s the funniest woman you know?”
We asked questions back and forth until eventually I could think of only one more question, the one I had been waiting to ask. “Who’s the smartest woman you know?”
Jodi always answered, “You, Mommy.” She had no idea how much I looked forward to hearing that.
Then Jodi turned ten. At ten, Jodi stopped answering the question. This behavior was typical of a girl that age, but I couldn’t help being disappointed.
At thirteen, after we had moved to Spencer, she stopped letting me kiss her good night. “I’m too old for that, Mommy,” she said one night.
“I know,” I told her. “You’re a big girl now.” But it broke my heart.
I remember walking out into the living room of our two-bedroom, 1,200-square-foot bungalow, which was only a mile from the library. Of course, half of Spencer was only a mile from the library. I looked out the window at the quiet, square houses on their nice square lawns. As in the rest of Iowa, most of the roads in Spencer were perfectly straight. Why wasn’t life like that?
Brandy tottered up and nuzzled my hand. Brandy had been with me since I was pregnant with Jodi, and the dog was clearly feeling her age. She was lethargic, and for the first time in her life she was having accidents on the floor. Poor Brandy. Not you, too. I held out as long as I could, but eventually I took her to see Dr. Esterly, who diagnosed an advanced stage of kidney failure.
“She’s fourteen years old. It’s not unexpected.”
“What should we do?”
“I can treat it, Vicki, but there’s no hope for recovery.”
I looked down at the poor, tired dog. She had always been there for me; she had given me everything. I took her head in my hands and scratched behind her ears. “I can’t afford much, girl, but I’ll do what I can.”
Several weeks of pills later, I was sitting in my living room with Brandy on my lap when I felt something warm. Then I realized it was wet. Brandy was peeing all over me. I could tell she was not just embarrassed; she was in pain.
“It’s time,” Dr. Esterly said.
I didn’t tell Jodi, at least not everything. Partly to protect her. Partly because I didn’t want to acknowledge it myself. I felt as if Brandy had been with me my whole life. I loved her; I needed her. I couldn’t bring myself to put her down.
I called my sister, Val, and told her husband, Don, “Please come by the house and pick her up. Don’t tell me when, just do it.”
A few days later I came home for lunch and Brandy wasn’t there. I knew what that meant. She was gone. I called Val and asked her to pick Jodi up from school and take her to dinner. I needed time to compose myself. At dinner Jodi could tell something was wrong. Eventually Val broke down and told her Brandy had been put to sleep.
I had done so many things wrong by this point. I had tried to treat Brandy’s pain. I had left her to die with my brother-in-law. I hadn’t been completely honest with Jodi. And I had allowed my sister to tell my daughter about the death of the dog she loved. But my biggest mistake was what I did when Jodi came home. I didn’t cry. I didn’t show any emotion. I told myself that I needed to be strong for her. I didn’t want her to see how much I hurt. When Jodi went to school the next day, I broke down. I cried so hard I made myself sick. I was so distraught I couldn’t even drive to work until the afternoon. But Jodi didn’t see that. To her thirteen-year-old mind, I was the woman who killed her dog and didn’t even care.
Brandy’s death wasn’t a turning point in our relationship. It was more a symptom of the gulf developing between us. Jodi wasn’t a little child anymore, but part of me still treated her like one. She also wasn’t an adult, but part of her thought she was all grown up and didn’t need me any longer. Even as I realized, for the first time, the distance between us, Brandy’s death pushed us further apart.