Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (21 page)

Afterward, Ryan got off his chair and Katie jumped up on it. When I came back into the room a few minutes later, there was
Katie, pushing her paws up and down on the keys, “typing” away while staring at the monitor and watching the parade of letters,
imitating Ryan as she always did.

“Maybe she can write your next book!” giggled Ryan.

Later that day, when Pearl heard about Katie’s latest caper, she laughed, “Between changing channels on the TV and typing,
maybe you can get her on
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
.”

It was during these years that John and I became closer to Pearl than ever as we sat around “home base,” her dining table,
savoring the lively conversation and good food that could always be found in 3C.

Although forty years separated us, “Pa-Re-El” was a complete contemporary. She was up-to-date on tennis, golf, and baseball;
current on showbiz gossip and the stock market; avidly listened to radio and TV news; and liked to talk about the wonders
of the Internet and the “magic” of faxes.

She was also our resident critic, as good as anyone. “Oprah gets it right every time,” she pronounced, “but Geraldo should
retire.” Although modern in her thinking, she wasn’t necessarily interested in adopting technology foreign to her, so she
had no cell phone and drew the line on computers as well.

Since John was such a computer whiz, he tried to talk Granny into learning how to use one, but she just waved him away with
her hand. “What do I need it for? I keep all my recipes in this index box, and when I want to talk to somebody I use the phone
or write a letter.” Case closed.

She was, however, much more interested in a before-dinner drink. “I love beer,” she told us, swigging one back, “which is
why I bought lots of Anheuser-Busch stock. It’s always a good bet and I’m never going to lose on it.”

“She has opinions on everything,” John would tell me, “and you can’t stop her from offering them.”

“We’d better not try it,” I replied.

One interest that brought me closer to Pearl was an activity
that I always had enjoyed (and one she fought me on)—planning at-home parties, the more complicated the better.

We’d sit for hours at her dining table, creating the guest lists, menus, and themes. “I think you’re crazy going to all this
trouble,” she’d reply, though she wound up being energized by the prospect of what I had in mind. Secretly, I always thought
my party schemes were therapeutic for Pearl, a great way to keep her feeling useful and fully engaged.

One of the most creative was a Halloween dinner for sixteen, complete with towering goblin figures on the table, spooky background
music, and scary-looking desserts that tasted better than they looked. Katie came dressed as Cleopatra, with a golden crown
on her head and a multicolored doggie caftan.

Ryan loved this party too and raced around the living room in a Batman cape, attempting to scare the crowd while stealing
as many orange-frosted cookies as possible. He reveled in all the party action up and down the hall as much as anyone. He
may not have had a brother or sister, but he sure had lots of friends of all ages, including many of mine.

One of his favorites was my decorator friend Michael, who had, years before, helped me purchase Baby, the pug that I returned
the very next day. Michael had a very wide smile with perfect teeth—and I had always jokingly asked him to “Give me your biggest!”—meaning
his exuberant smile.

Ryan caught right onto that, and it became a running joke. When Michael was visiting, he’d playfully goad the little boy,
telling him, “Give me
your
biggest”—and Ryan would break out into a huge smile, mimicking Michael, the two of them grinning at each other like chimpanzees.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty funny—and Ryan was always slaphappy to see Michael.

“When’s the next party?” Ryan would ask me eagerly, sometimes helping with the name cards or party favors, even when he wasn’t
invited.

Granny and I brainstormed for days about a surprise birthday party for fourteen magazine editors honoring my longtime friend
Susan Ungaro, then the editor in chief of
Family Circle
. The owner chef from a local restaurant came on-site to cook the lunch, and Marie Osmond, whom I had interviewed previously,
generously supplied the party favors—hand-painted porcelain dolls. “I think you’ve completely lost it,” Granny surmised, delighted
nonetheless by the chocolate-raspberry cake, her idea.

The year’s biggest sugar high was Pearl’s annual Valentine’s Day luncheon, where Katie, dressed in a red hat, sat on a chair
at the table with her favorite group of eighty-year-olds. She ate a special heart-shaped dog bone while the others had chocolate
hearts, all of us on our way to becoming diabetics.

And each year, I hosted a birthday party for my close friend Bud, debonair and movie-star handsome in his eighties. A Broadway-show
fanatic, Bud loved it when Pearl would bring over her vintage collection of Broadway programs, reminiscing about productions
dating back to the 1920s and 1930s. (Pearl would shoo Katie away when she tried to “peruse” one with her teeth.)

“It was great meeting someone even older than me who could present something from the past,” Bud reflected, “and we always
played a little quiz about our favorite shows.”

Pearl had seen nearly every production on the Great White Way, as had Bud. “But my favorite,” she smiled dreamily, showing
Bud the original program, “was
The King and I
because I loved Yul Brynner.
There
was a man.”

Most of the time Pearl was in a festive mood, and she’d
come and stay for the entire party, enjoying it from beginning to end. At other times, she’d make a grand entrance just at
dessert time.

Like Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson, I’d announce: “Heeeeeeeeeeeere’s Granny!” and into the room she’d burst, Katie
at her side, beaming as everyone applauded.

“I have the cutest date in the room,” Pearl once laughed, pointing at Katie as she sat down, plunking my dog on her lap as
she took all of my guests in with a discerning, somewhat sardonic look.

In October 1997, I planned an eighty-fifth birthday party for Granny, a lunch for thirty, complete with helium balloons, flowers,
place cards, a rented thirty-foot table with ballroom chairs, and a chocolate cake made by one of my favorite bakeries, the
Cupcake Café, which specialized in intricately true-to-life buttercream flowers.

“Please don’t bother,” said Granny, resisting such an elaborate party, and disapproving of all the expense. Pearl was the
kind of woman who always took a bus, rarely a taxi, who kept a refrigerator filled with leftovers, and who ate out only occasionally,
mostly when she was in the mood for the incomparable pastrami at the Second Avenue Deli in the East Village. Otherwise, she
was a homebody.

“Anita, I’ve tried and tried to tell Glenn not to be so extravagant, but it only makes him mad,” she told my mom, who had
become close friends with Pearl.

“Well,” Mom said, “you can forget about changing him. Even as a kid, he was setting the table for my parties—so just let him
do it.”

And she did. On the day of the party, we got Katie all dressed up, just as she always was for every party.

“Which one should it be?” I asked Granny. We had two
glitzy doggie dresses to choose from, both gifts from Katie’s modeling jobs. There was either a multicolored sequined dress
with a yellow satin collar or a black satin taffeta getup with ruffled fabric at the tail, complete with purple and yellow
flowers embroidered all over it.

“They’re both pretty gaudy,” Granny laughed, “but the taffeta—good for afternoon.”

Katie understood that a party was in the works and had no problem donning the costume, expertly so, daintily stepping into
it by pushing her paws through the arm holes, then staying still while I attached the Velcro in the back.

Then off she flew down the hall to promenade around the living room of my apartment, racing to the window, twirling in circles,
then jumping up on the green-and-beige lounge chair to peruse her kingdom from above. She posed for pictures with Pearl until
she got bored, then hung her head over the thick cushion, staring down at the floor as she scratched her ears.

“My little baby looks so pretty!” exclaimed Granny, attractively outfitted that day in blue linen.

And so it was that Granny and Katie were our family’s “party girls,” expert hostesses whose social season peaked with this
special birthday party, an affair to remember.

Overexcited, Katie jumped down from the chair in my bedroom, and her tail hilariously stuck out from the black satin ruffles
as she skipped back down the hallway to Pearl’s apartment. Ryan and John came by to pick up Katie and Pearl—and Katie raced
back down to my apartment with her favorites following from behind. It was a whirl of activity.

That day, Pearl held court amid the ivory and gold balloons, birthday hats, noisemakers, and elephant-and-tiger printed napkins.
And despite herself, she was delighted by all the attention.

When the twelve-inch chocolate cake came out, Ryan and a few neighborhood girls quickly surrounded Granny and helped her blow
out her candles. Katie pushed her way into the picture as well.

Pearl hugged Ryan tightly, “You’re my boy!”

“Happy birthday,
Oldest
!”

Pearl’s final words to me?

“I’ve never had a birthday party.
Don’t
do it again!”

I
n the late 1990s, after five years of support groups, therapy, and physical rehabilitation, my back (and the depression) had
finally healed completely and I was able to return to writing. Instead of a grueling high-pressure newspaper job with tight
deadlines and constant travel, however, I switched gears entirely, working from home as a freelance contributor to
Family Circle
.

It was a perfect fit. Gone were the tabloid stories, the celebrity column, and the movie star interviews. Instead, I now concentrated
on what were new niches for me—self-help, inspiration, and service-related articles, all in keeping with my priorities in
life—family, friends, and dogs (and not always in that order).

I researched and wrote about whatever intrigued me. Some of my favorite articles included “The Best Decision I Ever Made,”
“Are You Looking for the Good Life or the Good
in
Life?” “Should Your Child Watch TV News?” “How to Be a People Magnet,” “Create the Life You Want,” “The Positive Power of
Friendship,” “Putting Gratitude in Your Attitude,” “Why Laughter Is Good for You,” and my all-time favorite—“The
Secrets of the Centenarians.” I was fascinated by the phenomenon of longevity.

Reading about a 107-year-old woman in my story, Granny was puzzled. “Why,” she asked me, “did she make a decision to get
remarried
at
ninety-nine
?”

I told her what the woman had told me, “Just optimistic, I guess!”

“But her new husband was twenty years younger,” Granny exclaimed, titillated by this golden years romance that included drinking
champagne, dancing, and acting together in theatrical productions.

I picked up the magazine and read to Granny the woman’s reason for dating a younger man, “I robbed the cradle! He was lonesome.
I wasn’t, but I enjoyed his company so we fell in love.”

Granny, who had no interest in a new suitor, was nonetheless intrigued by this subject. One of the greatest secrets of longevity,
aside from genetics, is the ability to shake off stress and stay involved in life, just as Granny had by getting so intimately
involved with Katie, John, Ryan, and me. The “centenarian personality,” I had learned, is a mind-set that combines positive
thinking and a fighting spirit. That was Granny.

And so, it was during this time that I made up my mind to write an entire article about my relationship with Pearl, and I
titled it “Granny Down the Hall: From Friendship to Family.” It was the first and only time, until now, that I’d ever written
about my life and the people in it.

The opening lines of the story said it all, “
Some of the best things that happen in life are purely accidental. A friendship sometimes develops when you least expect it.
That’s what happened to me.
”

Here was our story, all about the coincidence of living in
the same hallway, about how our little family had been accidentally created and cemented together by my precocious puppy.

Whether it was serendipity, luck, chemistry, or sheer proximity, my first brief encounter with Pearl and the events that followed
it had changed my life (and my dog’s) forever.

Writing the article was bittersweet, as the key person who had first introduced me to Pearl was no longer there to read it.
Joe, my good friend and dog mentor, had died a year earlier of AIDS. He’d been incredibly brave, fighting to the end by keeping
himself active, always looking forward to life—investing in real estate, picking up gardening as a hobby, and getting two
new dogs (collies this time) after Dinah died. I would never forget his wisdom and kindness a decade earlier, when he encouraged
me to get a dog and taught me how to train one. We all missed him—as he was certainly part of our story.