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Dewey,” he said, checking him over.
    “Do you think this is absolutely necessary, Doctor?”
    “Cats need to be neutered.”
    I looked down at Dewey’s tiny paws, which had finally healed. There were tuffs of fur sticking out from between his toes. “Do you think he’s part Persian?”
    Dr. Esterley looked at Dewey. His regal bearing. The glorious ruff of long orange fur around his neck. He was a lion in alley cat clothing.
    “No. He’s just a good-looking alley cat.”
    I didn’t believe it for a second.
    “Dewey is a product of survival of the fittest,” Dr. Esterly continued. “His ancestors have probably lived in that alley for generations.”
    “So he’s one of us.”
    Dr. Esterly smiled. “I suppose so.” He picked Dewey up and held him under his arm. Dewey was relaxed and purring. The last thing Dr. Esterly said before they disappeared around the corner was, “Dewey is one fine cat.”
    He sure was. And I missed him already.
    When I picked Dewey up the next morning, my heart almost broke in two. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and a little shaved belly. I took him in my arms. He pushed his head against my arm and started purring. He was so happy to see his old pal Vicki.
    Back at the library, the staff dropped everything. “Poor baby. Poor baby.” I gave him over to their care—he was our mutual friend, after all—and went back to work. One more set of hands and he might be crushed. Besides, the trip to the vet’s office had put me behind, and I had a mountain of work. I needed two of me to do this job right, but the city would never have paid for it, so I was stuck with myself.
    But I wasn’t alone. An hour later, as I was hanging up the phone, I looked up to see Dewey hobbling through my office door. I knew he’d been getting love and attention from the rest of the staff, but I could tell from his determined wobbling that he needed something more.
    Sure, cats can be fun, but my relationship with Dewey was already far more complex and intimate. He was so intelligent. He was so playful. He treated people so well. I didn’t yet have a deep bond with him, but even now, near the beginning, I loved him.
    And he loved me back. Not like he loved everyone else, but in a special and deeper way. The look he gave me that first morning meant something. It really did. Never was that more clear than now, as he pushed toward me with such determination. I could almost hear him saying,
Where have you been? I missed you.
    I reached down, scooped him up, and cradled him against my chest. I don’t know if I said it out loud or to myself, but it didn’t matter. Dewey could already read my moods, if not my mind. “I’m your momma, aren’t I?”
    Dewey put his head on my shoulder, right up against my neck, and purred.

Chapter 5
    Catnip and Rubber Bands

    D on’t
get me wrong, everything wasn’t perfect with the Dew. Yes, he was a sweet and beautiful cat, and
yes, he was extraordinarily trusting and generous, but he was still a kitten. He’d streak
maniacally through the staff room. He’d knock your work to the floor out of pure playfulness. He
was too immature to know who really needed him, and he sometimes wouldn’t take no for an answer
when a patron wanted to be left alone. At Story Hour, his presence made the children so
rambunctious and unpredictable that Mary Walk, our children’s librarian, banned him from the
room. Then there was Mark, a large puppet of a child with muscular dystrophy. We used Mark to
teach schoolchildren about disabilities. There was so much cat hair on Mark’s legs that we
finally had to put him in a closet. Dewey worked all night until he figured out how to open that
closet and went right back to sleeping on Mark’s lap. We bought a lock for the closet the next
day.
    But nothing compared to his behavior around catnip. Doris Armstrong was always bringing
Dewey presents, such as little balls or toy mice. Doris had cats of her own, and like the
consummate mother hen she