Read Online Dewey by Vicki Myron - Free Book Online Page A

soon as I was made director in 1987, I started pressing for money to remodel the library. There was no city manager, and even mayor was a part-time, largely ceremonial position. The city council made all the decisions. So that’s where I went, again and again and again.
    The Spencer city council was a classic good ole boy network, an extension of the power brokers who met at Sister’s Café. Sister’s was only twenty feet from the library, but I don’t think a single member of that crowd had ever stepped foot in our building. Of course, I never frequented Sister’s Café, so the problem cut both ways.
    “Money for the library? What’s that going to do? We need jobs, not books.”
    “The library isn’t a warehouse,” I told the council. “It’s a vital community center. We have job placement resources, meeting rooms, computers.”
    “Computers! How much are we spending on computers?”
    That was always the danger. Start asking for money and sooner or later someone was going to say, “What does the library need money for, anyway? You’ve already got enough books.”
    I told them, “Newly paved roads are nice, but they don’t lift our community’s spirits. Not like a warm, friendly, welcoming library. Wouldn’t it be great for morale to have a library we’re proud of?”
    “I got to be honest. I don’t see how prettier books make a difference.”
    After almost a year of being put on the shelf, I was frustrated, but certainly not defeated. Then a funny thing happened: Dewey started to make my argument for me. By the late summer of 1988, there was a noticeable change at the Spencer Public Library. Our visitor numbers were up. People were staying longer. They were leaving happy, and that happiness was being carried to their homes, their schools, and their places of employment. Even better, people were talking.
    “I was down at the library,” someone would comment while window-shopping on the new, improved Grand Avenue.
    “Was Dewey there?”
    “Of course.”
    “Did he sit in your lap? He always sits on my daughter’s lap.”
    “Actually, I was reaching for a book on a high shelf, not really paying attention, and instead of a book I grabbed a handful of Dewey. I was so startled I dropped a book right on my toe.”
    “What did Dewey do?”
    “He laughed.”
    “Really?”
    “No, but I sure did.”
    The conversation must have reached Sister’s Café, because eventually even the city council started to notice. Slowly their attitude shifted. First they stopped laughing at me. Then they started listening.
    “Vicki,” the city council finally said, “maybe the library does make a difference. There’s a financial crunch right now, as you know, and we don’t have any money. But if you have the funds, you have our support.” It wasn’t much, I admit, but it was the most the library had gotten from the city in a long, long time.

Chapter 8
    A Cat’s Best Friends

    T he whisper the city council heard in the autumn of 1988 wasn’t mine. Or at least not mine alone. It was the voice of the people bubbling up, the voices that were usually never heard: those of the older residents, the mothers, the children. Some patrons came to the library for a purpose—to check out a book, to read the newspaper, to find a magazine. Other patrons considered the library a destination. They enjoyed spending time there; they were sustained and strengthened. Every month there were more of these people. Dewey wasn’t just a novelty; he was a fixture in the community. People came to the library to see him.
    Not that Dewey was an especially fawning animal. He didn’t just rush up to each person who came through the door. He made himself available at the front door if people wanted him; if they didn’t, they could step around and be on their way. That’s the subtle difference between dogs and cats, and especially a cat like Dewey: cats may need you, but they aren’t needy.
    When regular patrons came in and Dewey wasn’t