The next day, there were more rubber band worms in Dewey’s litter. And the next. And the next. At the next staff meeting, I was more direct. “Is anyone giving Dewey rubber bands?”
No. No. No. No. No.
“Then he must be stealing them. From now on, don’t leave rubber bands lying out on your desk.”
Easier said than done. Much, much easier said than done. You would be amazed how many rubber bands there are in a library. We all put our rubber band holders away, but that didn’t even dent the problem. Rubber bands apparently are sneaky critters. They slide under computer keyboards and crawl into your pencil holder. They fall under your desk and hide in the wires. One evening I caught Dewey rummaging through a stack of work on someone’s desk. There was a rubber band lurking every time he pushed a piece of paper aside.
“Even the hidden ones need to go,” I said at the next staff meeting. “Let’s clean up those desks and put them away. Remember, Dewey can smell rubber.” In a few days, the staff area looked neater than it had in years.
So Dewey started raiding the rubber bands left out on the circulation desk for patrons. We stashed them in a drawer. He found the rubber bands by the copier, too. The patrons were just going to have to ask for rubber bands. A small price to pay, I thought, in exchange for a cat who spent most of his day trying to make them happy.
Soon, our counteroperation was showing signs of success. There were still worms in the litter box but not nearly as many. And Dewey was being forced into brazenness. Every time I pulled out a rubber band, he was watching me.
“Getting desperate, are we?”
No, no, just seeing what’s going on.
As soon as I put the rubber band down, Dewey pounced. I pushed him away, and he sat on the desk waiting for his chance. “Not this time, Dewey,” I said with a grin. I admit it, this game was fun.
Dewey became more subtle. He waited for you to turn your back, then pounced on the rubber band left innocently lying on your desk. It had been there five minutes. Humans forget. Not cats. Dewey remembered every drawer left open a crack, then came back that night to wiggle his way inside. He never messed up the contents of the drawer. The next morning, the rubber bands were simply gone.
One afternoon I was walking past our big floor-to-ceiling supply cabinet. I was focused on something else, probably budget numbers, and only noticed the open door out of the corner of my eye. “Did I just see . . .”
I turned around and walked back to the cabinet. Sure enough, there was Dewey, sitting on a shelf at eye level, a huge rubber band hanging out of his mouth.
You can’t stop the Dew! I’m going to be feasting for a week.
I had to laugh. In general, Dewey was the best- behaved kitten I had ever seen. He never knocked books or displays off shelves. If I told him not to do something, he usually stopped. He was unfailingly kind to stranger and staffer alike. For a kitten, he was downright mellow. But he was absolutely incorrigible when it came to rubber bands. The cat would go anywhere and do anything to sink his teeth into a rubber band.
“Hold on, Dewey,” I told him, putting down my pile of work. “I’m going to get a picture of this.” By the time I got back with the camera, the cat and his rubber band were gone.
“Make sure all the cabinets and drawers are completely closed,” I reminded the staff. Dewey was already notorious. He had a habit of getting closed inside cabinets and drawers and then leaping out at the next person to open them. We weren’t sure if it was a game or an accident, but Dewey clearly enjoyed it.
A few mornings later I found file cards sitting suspiciously unbound on the front desk. Dewey had never gone for tight rubber bands before; now, he was biting them off every night. As always, he was delicate even in defiance. He left perfectly neat stacks, not a card out of place. The cards went into the drawers; the drawers were shut tight.
By the fall of 1988, you could spend an entire day in the Spencer Public Library without seeing a rubber band. Oh, they were still there, but they were squirreled away where only those with an opposable thumb could get to them. It was the ultimate cleaning operation. The library looked beautiful, and we were proud of our accomplishment. Except for one problem: Dewey was still chewing rubber bands.
I put together a crack investigative team to follow all leads. It took us two days to find Dewey’s last good source: the coffee mug on Mary Walk’s desk.
“Mary,” I said, flipping a notebook like the police detective in a bad television drama, “we have reason to believe the rubber bands are coming from your mug.”
“That’s impossible. I’ve never seen Dewey around my desk.”
“Evidence suggests the suspect is intentionally avoiding your desk to throw us off the trail. We believe he only approaches the mug at night.”
“What evidence?”
I pointed to several small pieces of chewed rubber band on the floor. “He chews them up and spits them out. He eats them for breakfast. I think you know all the usual clichés.”
Mary shuddered at the thought of the garbage on the floor having passed into and out of the stomach of a cat. Still, it seemed so improbable. . . .
“The mug is six inches deep. It’s full of paper clips, staples, pen, pencils. How could he possibly pluck out rubber bands without knocking everything over?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. And this suspect has proven, in his eight months at the library, that he has the will.”
“But there are hardly any rubber bands in there! Surely this isn’t his only source!”
“How about an experiment? You put the mug in the cabinet, we’ll see if he pukes rubber bands near your desk.”
“But this mug has my children’s pictures on it!”
“Good point. How about we just remove the rubber bands?”
Mary decided to put a lid on the mug. The next morning, the lid was lying on her desk with suspicious teeth marks along one edge. No doubt about it, the mug was the source. The rubber bands went into a drawer. Convenience was sacrificed for the greater good.
We never completely succeeded in wiping out Dewey’s rubber band fixation. He’d lose interest, only to go back on the prowl a few months or even a few years later. In the end, it was more a game than a battle, a contest of wits and guile. While we had the wits, Dewey had the guile. And the will. He was far more intent on eating rubber bands than we were on stopping him. And he had that powerful, rubber-sniffing nose.
But let’s not make too much of it all. Rubber bands were a hobby. Catnip and boxes were mere distractions. Dewey’s true love was people, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his adoring public. I remember standing at the circulation desk one morning talking with Doris when we noticed a toddler wobbling by. She must have recently learned to walk, because her balance was shaky and her steps uneven. It wasn’t helping that her arms were wrapped tightly across her chest, clutching Dewey in a bear hug. His rear and tail were sticking up in her face, and his head was hanging down toward the floor. Doris and I stopped talking and watched in amazement as the little girl toddled in slow motion across the library, a very big smile on her face and a very resigned cat hanging upside down from her arms.
“Amazing,” Doris said.
“I should do something about that,” I said. But I didn’t. I knew that, despite appearances, Dewey was completely in control of the situation. He knew what he was doing and, no matter what happened, he could take care of himself.
We think of a library, or any single building really, as a small place. How can you spend all day, every day, in a 13,000-square-foot room and not get bored? But to Dewey, the Spencer Public Library was a huge world full of drawers, cabinets, bookshelves, display cases, rubber bands, typewriters, copiers, tables, chairs, backpacks, purses, and a steady stream of hands to pet him, legs to rub him, and mouths to sing his praises. And laps. The library was always graciously, gorgeously full of laps.