Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (28 page)

Afterward, Katie scooted in Pearl’s bed for an after-dinner snooze and a round of TV. I’d come by around 9:00 p.m. to gently
lift her off the bed, say good night to Pearl and Naia, and then take Katie outside for her final walk.

At last, things were getting back to normal.

But by the summer of 2002, I was very worried about Katie. It seemed we were always going to the vet—she had an ear or urinary
infection, an upset stomach, a sore hip, an infected paw, inflammation in her eyes, or she was listless with no appetite.
You name it, she had it—and despite my furious attempts to keep her going, nothing was really working. It was wearing us both
down.

Sometimes, though, Katie was almost like her old self again, bringing me toys and chasing squirrels outside; but more and
more, she was out of gas and could hardly move, hiding in bed next to Granny and refusing to budge.

Now close to fifteen—which would be about eighty-three in human years—she relied mostly on smell and memory,
and was nearly blind due to cataracts. Her vision was almost entirely blocked in her left eye, and only partially serviceable
in her right.

“An operation is up to you,” the ophthalmologist at the animal hospital had told me, “though at her age, you might just leave
it alone.”

It was really upsetting to see my incredibly intelligent dog disoriented and confused, her dignity bruised when she bumped
into walls, producing a stunned look on her face.

“You’re a good little girl, it’s okay, now let’s go this way,” I said, guiding her toward the bedroom by keeping my hands
on either side of her, then giving her a boost onto the bed, as she hobbled forward.

Katie was also going deaf, oblivious to her own name if you called it from behind, though she still willingly followed commands
when she could hear them (most enjoyably, “over” for a belly rub). Like many canine seniors, she heard what she wanted to.
When it came to a snack, of course, her ears pricked right up.

Most serious was Katie’s arthritis, which made it painful, at times almost impossible, to walk. Some mornings, she would limp
pitifully until she got warmed up and ready to move. More than once, she screeched out in pain when I tried to hitch up her
leash and take her out for a walk, her legs collapsing under her. This was incredibly sad.

“My poor little girlie,” whispered Pearl, looking distressed by all this as she sat nearby in her wheelchair. “We’re both
getting so old!”

On days Katie couldn’t walk at all, I’d carry her to the street as I did when she was a baby, gently setting her down on the
pavement, waiting for her to go. More and more, she couldn’t even squat because her legs were too weak to hold her weight.

Inside the house, she’d stumble on the way to her food dish, though anxious to get there. And even when I picked her up to
take her back into bed, she was so fragile that she would wince at my touch.

In short, seeing Katie so frail, and witnessing her steady deterioration, was devastating. It broke my heart to see a dog
who had once raced through the park and leapt on and off the bed like a gymnast now reduced to limping her way to the door,
her wobbly legs barely able to support her.

Even worse, Katie, who had always been perfectly housebroken, was now often incontinent, wandering into the living room at
night to relieve herself. Sometimes, at 3:00 a.m. I’d find her in the midst of it all—and to my regret, I sometimes lost patience
with her. I can still see her desperately remorseful expression. “
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it, Dad. Please forgive me.
”

And with her tail down, she would slink off to the marble floor of the bathroom, knowing that she should stay away from the
carpet. I’d find her curled up on the cold tile, shivering, her head tucked into her front paws.

When I walked in to take her back into the bedroom, she looked up at me so astutely, her eyes expressing the sadness we both
felt.

Yet, during that summer, even though Katie was ailing, she still liked going outside at sunset to relax by the water. Most
nights, I’d choose a bench just a few feet from the river’s edge opposite the Statue of Liberty, and she’d contentedly sit
on my lap, snuggling in against me.

With the wind blowing her ears, Katie would extend her head toward the water and sniff away, curious as ever. And as sailboats
caught the wind and glided by, Katie enjoyed the
breezes, her tail wagging as she accepted pats on the head from her friends passing us.

Then, with the sun sliding down the sky and the temperature dropping, she’d shiver and bury her head in my arm, or take cover
under my jacket, with just her head poking out of it.

I’d often talk into her ear, telling her what a good girl she was, using some of her favorite words. Sometimes, when I was
in the middle of a sentence, she’d turn her head and quickly lick my face, up and down, as if to say, “
Dad, I love you
.” This was the greatest sensation—better than the view.

Sharing that bench together at sunset, feeling her weight against me, was peaceful and meditative, the best part of the day.
I loved my dog so much and felt as protective of her as if she’d been a baby, especially now, when she was so fragile and
in pain.

After nearly fifteen years together, the bond between us was something beyond words. So on those magical nights at sunset,
I savored our moments together under the linden trees and wished they could last forever.

During that summer of 2002, Oldest, whose health had been stable, was suddenly acting strangely—disoriented and increasingly
confused.

Some days, alone in her bedroom, she would talk to an ancient hand-painted porcelain doll (one leg broken) that she had treasured
as a little girl. On and on, she would tell the doll her sweet secrets, sharing her fears of the dark and her thoughts about
everything from the weather to the stock market.

On other days, she’d be having conversations with her deceased mother or Arthur, pointing toward her bedroom closet, telling
me that they were hiding in there.

Sometimes, thankfully, she was completely lucid. You just never knew. Was this senile dementia or something more?

It turned out to be both. We learned that summer that Pearl had a benign, slow-growing brain tumor. Although it wasn’t necessary
to remove the growth, I was told that it would very gradually make her overall mental functioning worsen. “God,” sighed Lee,
“as if that poor woman hasn’t gone through enough.”

We didn’t tell Pearl about the tumor, figuring it would serve no purpose. She was finding it difficult enough just to function
day-to-day. I did, of course, discuss Pearl’s medical condition with her family. Although Pearl wasn’t particularly close
to Edith, the niece she’d stayed with after 9/11, she did periodically keep in touch with her and appreciated what she had
done for her during those difficult days.

I was glad to see that Pearl’s grand-niece, Susan, and grand-nephew, James, continued to be a source of joy for Pearl. Although
they were not close by, with Susan in London and James in Boston, Pearl delighted in their phone calls, notes, and visits.
We were always hearing stories of how sweet they were and about their accomplishments. James and his mother, Edith, had attended
Pearl’s eighty-fifth birthday party at my apartment, and I periodically kept them updated on Pearl’s health as they were quite
concerned about it.

And as Pearl became progressively worse, I’d often reach out, especially to James, to brief him about her treatment. In the
end, though, being unavailable to provide hands-on care, Pearl’s relatives came to largely depend on me—together with Naia—as
Pearl’s primary support system, figuring that all was basically well while we were around. Clearly, keeping Pearl at home
in Battery Park City was far preferable to putting her in an assisted-living facility or in a nursing home.

Her moods, however, were now volatile and unpredictable. After a psychiatric consultation, Pearl was given prescriptions
for a tranquilizer, an antidepressant, and antianxiety medication. True, she was no longer as nervous or panicky, but now
she was so doped up with the pills that she spent most of her time in bed, sound asleep or dozing.

Naia was more actively involved in nursing Pearl than ever, expertly juggling the array of prescribed pills. She often ground
them up and put them into her food, as Pearl found it difficult to swallow them.

“She was better physically than mentally,” Naia observed. “She still had great posture, and wonderful manners—and I envied
her strength.”

To Katie, of course, Granny’s state of mind made absolutely no difference. She burrowed in right next to her, keeping her
warm and snuggling mornings and nights, happy to be close.

As the months passed, Granny and Katie spent more and more time in bed sleeping the day away, their long afternoon naps extending
late into the day. It was so poignant seeing them together, both aging and ailing, but still bonded for life.

Katie may have lost her vision, her hearing, and her energy for going outside, but she never lost her love for Granny—or me.

That fall, thanks to the medication, Granny’s mood suddenly stabilized and her spirits slowly revived. We all started laughing
again. As always, Lee came by every single day—and Pearl loved it. They talked for hours at a time, either in her bedroom
or at our local coffee shop just a block away.

Even though Pearl was old enough to be Lee’s mother, they related as if they were complete contemporaries. Although Pearl
was sometimes confused, she was no less opinionated than before and offered her views about everything.

“Why do all these girls walk around naked in the middle of the fall?” was one of Pearl’s frequent questions, referring to
the army of joggers on the Esplanade. “In my day, even hookers had more clothes on. What happened to good manners?”

“Beats me,” laughed Lee.

“George Bush,” she observed one day, “is suddenly a
hero
[thanks to 9/11], but I still think he’s a
zero
”—her astute assessment of him borne out by many political pundits.

One night in early fall, I pulled out a Donald Duck hat I’d purchased for Pearl at Disney World twelve years earlier.

“Remember this, Oldest?” I asked Granny, handing it to her.

She happily put on the hat, looking absolutely ridiculous in it as she nonchalantly chatted away with Lee before breaking
into giggles. Katie looked up quizzically, wondering about that odd thing on Granny’s head.

“I’ve seen worse hats, though I’ve looked better in them,” Pearl said, mugging for the camera as I snapped away. Later on,
the photos reminded me that, even in her weakened state, Granny never lost her game spirit or her wit. On her worst day she
was more fun than many people were on their best.

One evening, she was visiting with a friend of mine who had a constant battle with the bulge. “You look thinner,” she told
him.

When I came into the room, he joyfully turned to me, and said, “Granny says I look thin.”

Pearl shot him a look, and retorted, “I didn’t say that. I said you look
thinner
.”