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As I walked out of Penn Station this morning, the proverbial country mouse blinking in the early morning city sunshine, the homesick hole in my heart was filled with a glorious and familiar sight--Borders Bookstore! Oh thank god, finally somewhere I can navigate with familiar ease. And familiarity is an understatement. Every table and shelf looked exactly the same as every table and shelf in the bookstore back home--Cormac McCarthy alongside Love in the Time of Cholera. Jane Green sidling up to Jodi Picoult. And over there, wouldn't you know it? An entire tower dedicated to the Twilight series and associated chachkis. Yep, Borders is ironically unbound by American geography.

Except for one thing--Dewey. Dewey doesn't grace our Carolina shelves as abundantly as he does in the Big Apple. This little Iowa pussy has, in fact, made himself quite the cosy home on Seventh Avenue. And I just couldn't resist. Prejudjed as a comely mini-tome for housecoated grannies (regardless of the fact that our own well-respected marketing team has been giving us hairballs for weeks on end), good ol' Dewey is exactly the knitted cardigan type of book you'd expect. The only exception (and not a minor one, in this cat-lover's opinion) is that Dewey the Cat is a fucking awesome, caring, and cuddly kitty. And, true to life, he's not nearly so annoying as the narrator, the library patrons, or the townspeople featured in this quaint feline biography. Granted, I only skimmed this little novel cover to cover, but the cat is heartwarming, even if the humans are conservative lameasses. It was just like being at home... :)