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.
“As for these,” Dr. Franck said, studying Dewey’s clumped back end, “drastic measures are required. I think we better shave.”
When she was done, poor Dewey was fuzzy on one end, bare on the other. He looked like he was wearing a big mink coat and no pants. A few members of the staff laughed when they saw him, because it was a hilarious sight, but they didn’t laugh long. The humiliation on Dewey’s face stopped that. He hated it. Just hated it. He walked away very fast for a few steps, then sat down and tried to hide his rear end. Then he got up, walked quickly away, and sat down again. Start, stop. Start, stop. He finally made it back to his bed, buried his head in his paws, and curled up beneath his favorite toy, Marty Mouse. For days, we found him with his top half sticking out into an aisle and his back end hidden in a bookshelf.
But Dewey’s health was no laughing matter. The staff didn’t talk about it, but I knew they were worried. They were afraid they would come in one morning and find Dewey dead on the floor. It wasn’t his death that worried some of them, I realized, but the thought of having to deal with it themselves. Or even worse, having to make a decision in a health crisis. Between my own health issues and my trips to Des Moines on state library business, I was frequently out of the library. Dewey was my cat, and everyone knew it. The last thing they wanted was to have the life of my cat in their hands.
“Don’t worry,” I told them. “Just do what you think is best for Dewey. You can’t do anything wrong.”
I couldn’t promise the staff nothing would happen while I was away, but I told them, “I know this cat. I know when he is healthy, a little sick, and really sick. If he’s really sick, trust me, he’s going to the vet. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Besides, Dewey wasn’t sick. He still jumped up and down from the circulation desk, so I knew his arthritis wasn’t too bad. His digestion was better than ever. And he still loved the company of patrons. But it took patience to care for an elderly cat, and frankly, some of the staff didn’t think that was their job. Slowly, as Dewey aged, his support peeled away: first those in town with different agendas; then some of the fence-sitters; then a few patrons who wanted only an attractive, active cat; and finally the staff members who didn’t want the burden of geriatric care.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t blindsided by the October 2006 library board meeting. I was expecting a typical discussion of the state of the library, but the meeting soon turned into a referendum on Dewey. A patron had mentioned he wasn’t looking well. Perhaps, the board suggested, we should get him some medical help?
“At his recent checkup,” I told them, “Dr. Franck discovered hyperthyroidism. It’s just another symptom of age, like his arthritis, his dry skin, and the black age spots on his lips and gums. Dr. Franck prescribed a medication that, thank goodness, doesn’t have to be taken orally. I rub it in his ear. Dewey has really perked up. And don’t worry,” I reminded them, “we’re paying for the medicine with donations and my own money. Not a single penny of city money is ever spent on Dewey’s care.”