Dewey - The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World

The title may be somewhat hyperbolic, but nonetheless. tenderness drips from each and every page.  I committed to disliking this book from the moment book group #1 selected it as our January title.  Really?  A book about a cat?  A book about a cat with a most precious photo on the cover?  That can only mean one thing - a devastating ending which is something I object to with fire and fury when it comes to books about dogs.  Now I have to add cats to that rule.

If you were missed all the Dewey hype several years back - here's the scoop:  Someone deposited the scrawny, obviously sick kitty in the returns box at Vicki Myron's  library in Spencer Iowa.  After considerable campaigning with the library board and several hard to manage locals, Dewey was granted access to the entire library where he lived, lounged, entertained and ruled for a good many years.

Vicki Myron is a librarian, and as such, she deals in minutia.  She also fills her book with minutia.  She is not a writer; he is not even a very good story teller.  Despite that, she has filled this book with so much  undeniable love, respect, and dignity for that darn cat that she broke my resistance.  I like this book.  Of course it's flawed, but it works the way it is supposed to work.  It charms, and that makes all the difference.

My cat interactions have been slim, most of them being at the vet's office.   Luna, the original clinic cat, hated by dog, GB.  I would have to hold G on my lap as we waited to be called.  There was nothing sneaky about Luna's attack.  He would jump right up on the bench by us, stand on his hind legs and start punching her like a kangaroo.  Of course, my dog - who I swear is part chicken - would freeze and do nothing to defend herself.  Luna is gone.  Now there are twin cats.  I call them Pinky and Stinky and that is probably why they don't like me.  Pink and Stink are beautiful, long-haired cats.  They are generally lolly gagging about atop a piles of files or relaxing on the reception desk.  When they seen us come in, they both sit up proudly, wag their tails, and (I swear) they smile.  That's an invitation to pet them, right?  Wrong.  I get within scratching range, they both stand, turn on me, and expose their puckery cat butts at me.

Those cats I do not like.  But there was Hoops, my neighborhood cat.  Golden,  Laid back Hoops.  In summer, Hoops liked to sleep on the warm blacktop, right in the middle of the road.  I live on a cul-de-sac and a couple fast driving boys live on the curve.  They would never spot Hoops in time to stop, so whenever I saw him sunbathing, I'd yell out my front door, " Hoops, you idiot, go home."  And he did.  Long before Hoops and I were formally introduced, he appeared on my front porch one wintry day.  He returned several days in a row; he resisted coming inside, so I began putting bowls of milk out for him each day, along with dog treats - cuz that's what I had on hand.  This ritual went on for months.  One day, the neighbor who had moved in across the street in early winter came over in a panic.  Her car wouldn't start and her cat had a vet appointment. He was gaining so much weight that she was worried he had a tumor.  OOPS.  Must have been the extra meal ticket he was punching at my house.

Peaches and Punkin, my friend's cats, adore me.  This is a problem.  They shed like mad.  I hate shed;  I always opt for non-shedding models when it comes to dogs.  The two P's always make a bee line for my lap. They crawl onto my shoulders and down my back, depositing enough fur to knit a small sweater..  When they finish that greeting ritual, they lay upon my jacket, my purse or whatever else I have set down in what I thought was a cat free zone.

I guess everyone has a cat story - even those of us on the cat fence.  I hate to admit it, but Dewey was a fun book for me.

Thanks for stopping by.