Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (3 page)

But inside, Mom and Papa were having a heated “discussion.”

Much as I begged, Mom wouldn’t allow him to stay. Papa took the dog away—and that was it for me and dogs for decades.

Well into adulthood, though, I always kept a
to-do
list tucked into my date book. It had life goals (and trivia) written out on it: work objectives, hobby ideas, good restaurants,
a list of friends and phone numbers, and for twenty-five years running, a three-word
note to self
: GET A DOG.

I somehow sensed that having a four-legged companion would turn out to be one of the secrets to contentment (and sometimes
easier to find than a two-legged one).

Meanwhile, also on my to-do list was the goal of upgrading my living situation. After six years, I couldn’t stand the claustrophobic,
dark apartment on the Upper East Side—a cross between a cave and a prison. I was desperate for something better.

In the spring of 1985, after weeks of looking at outrageously priced high-rise apartments, just as an afterthought, my realtor
suggested that I check out a brand-new building in Battery Park City. It had unobstructed Hudson River views, a swimming pool,
gardens, restaurants, and stores. If it was too good to be true—
and
a real bargain—that was because not many people back then wanted to live at the southern tip of Manhattan, so far from midtown.

But after I saw the Hudson River rolling by what would be my new living room window, I didn’t care
how
far out of the way it was.

Once I was settled into Battery Park City, though, my sunny new apartment seemed awfully quiet—and once again, the impulse
to get a dog came and went.

That impulse to get a dog was amped up by the sheer power of suggestion. In our complex of 1,720 apartments (spread out in
six cement-and-glass buildings, including a trio of thirty-five-story high rises), we had more than 300 dogs.

The Esplanade and dog run were more jam-packed than the LA freeways.

So why was I still tooling along alone?

Admittedly, I’d always been consumed with work and work alone, focused on a career that had often become a blinding obsession.

Two years earlier, I’d had my first book published, a
comprehensive biography of Vladimir Horowitz that took three years to write; and after that, between freelancing at a women’s
magazine and working a full-time job at a men’s lifestyle publication, I’d found my leisure time limited. And the little of
it that I had was somewhat empty.

No matter how much surface excitement I felt meeting celebrity interview subjects—or covering stories like the America’s Cup
in Bermuda, a rodeo in Denver, or a Christmas chat at the White House with Nancy Reagan—there was, just underneath, a pervasive
sense of loneliness. And nothing could chase it away.

Admittedly, I wasn’t great at establishing intimate relationships—though I did have a wide circle of close friends. Yet it
seemed to me that creating a stronger domestic life was key to creating a happier life. Could the prime part of that new life
be a canine companion?

Over the next two years, every time I was tempted to get a dog, I pulled back, distracted by yet more work or anxious at confronting
a new learning curve. After all, what did I know about owning a dog? What breed to buy? How to train it?

All of it seemed overwhelming—until 1987, when I finally took the plunge.

One hot summer day, I was out shopping for clothes with a longtime friend, Michael, an architect and designer who had moved
into our apartment building on my suggestion. He had an unerring eye and had helped me get my Battery Park City apartment
in order.

That humid day, as we browsed around in Bloomingdale’s, I was looking for bathing suits—not puppies.

But afterward, as we were taking a walk up Lexington Avenue, we came upon a pet store on East 77th Street. The front windows
were filled with frolicking pups.

“Oh, look!” Michael exclaimed, spotting just the one he liked. “There’s an incredibly cute pug.”

In the front was a tiny tan dog with a wrinkly face and a pushed-in nose, contentedly biting a toy mouse.

I was only half-listening to Michael as he went on: “I love all the Chinese dogs,” he said (perhaps viewing them as much as
décor-enhancers as pets). “There are the Pekingeses, the Japanese chins, Shih tzus, Chinese cresteds….” And having accessorized
rooms with dogs in sculptural form, he joked, “And they make wonderful porcelains too.”

Yikes. I was beginning to get worried by that excited smile on Michael’s face. I’d seen it before, when he’d suggested buying
a dining table that was well beyond my means.

So, staring at the little pug, I muttered, “He’s cute.” Michael practically yanked me into the store, and the rest of what
happened is a blur.

Within fifteen minutes of being down on the floor playing inside a metal pen with the pug, Michael, no stranger to high-end
retail, announced to the clerk, “Wrap him up… we’ll take him,” as if we were buying a couch.
We
, of course, meant
me
.

I pulled out my credit card to cover the price, which didn’t include his crate, toys, pillows, food and water bowls, blankets,
deodorizers, shampoo, conditioner, and baby gate.

The taxi ride home was surreal, me holding my shopping bags, Michael holding “Baby,” the name he’d instantly given the pug.

Back at my apartment, we set up the puppy’s new headquarters in my kitchen, and I can still see Michael dancing with him,
holding Baby up by his front paws while the back paws strutted away. Well, at least they were happy.

A few hours later Michael said good night and went back
upstairs to the twenty-third floor. There I was, left alone on the third floor with my purchase.

Baby was in his crate, snoring away in the kitchen, and I was lying in my crate in a panic, nearly hyperventilating—sweating
and anxious. I felt trapped by the consequences of my rash decision. It reminded me of the time I got arrested for speeding.
I started calling up friends, “I’ve made a real mistake… what was I thinking?”

I knew, instinctively, that Baby was the wrong dog for me. I didn’t want a breed this small, didn’t want a male, and didn’t
want a dog that snored either. Other than that, Baby was perfect.

“You’re in shock,” said Michael. “Just give yourself a chance. Don’t make any quick decisions.” But I already had.

I called him at the crack of dawn the next day and said, “I can’t do it. The dog is going back…”

And off I went, back to the pet store. I felt really guilty about it as Baby had a rather worried expression on his face,
maybe sensing that he was heading back to the store window. But because he was such a beautiful dog, I reasoned that someone
would come along and buy him.

And so it was that Baby was in my life for less than twenty-four hours.

Bye-bye baby.

After that false start, a year passed, though I hadn’t given up on the idea of getting a dog. I was just stalled.

What I really needed and luckily found was a
mentor
, someone who could calmly and wisely lead me in the right dog direction.

Fortuitously, in the spring of 1988, I became friendly with Joe, an extroverted long-time resident of my building who worked
as a bartender across the street at the Marriott Hotel.
Loquacious and curious, Joe could talk to
anybody
—while he also had a great talent turning a house into a home with a beautiful apartment on the twenty-third floor. He was
a meticulous caretaker as well, completely devoted to his three-year-old cocker spaniel named Dinah.

Like most classically groomed cocker spaniels, Dinah had a “full skirt,” long blond hair that flowed from her torso to the
ground, which reminded me of a carpet sweeper. She had a plaintive oval face (a canine Modigliani), melancholy brown eyes,
and a submissive disposition—nothing like the lusty personality of Lady, but sweet and demure.

Joe was admittedly a tough taskmaster. He had trained Dinah to obey his every command—no pulling on the leash, no stealing
treats from the table, no snooping on the ground (keeping her long ears clean), and no accidents on the carpet. She even had
to face uphill when relieving herself, so that her fur would not get wet!

Joe would erupt with a harsh rebuke and a swat on Dinah’s butt if she committed any such infractions.

Because he was such a disciplinarian, Dinah, I noticed, seemed a little afraid of him, not wanting to disappoint. She’d look
up at him with a worried nervous expression and I felt sorry for her. Like some dog owners (not the kind I turned out to be!),
Joe was the commander, deeply caring but strict—and Dinah was his servant.

Joe could be affectionate too—kissing Dinah, rewarding her with treats, patting her on the head for excellent behavior, and
grooming her to the nth degree.

I’d often find him showcasing his talents outside on the Esplanade, brushing out Dinah’s ears and expertly trimming her coat
with an electric clipper as she sat perfectly still on a park bench.

One day, something stirred inside me as I watched Joe perfecting Dinah’s pendulous ears. I was so taken by those ears, which,
in the end, turned out to be the key to moving forward.

Joe noticed. “You ought to get a cocker spaniel,” he told me, stroking Dinah’s back with a wiry brush and then putting the
final touches on her coat with a portable hair dryer. “You’ve got to get one. It would be good for you.”

M
y mentor was turning out to be a true friend and a well-intentioned know-it-all.

Joe loved taking me under his wing and giving advice on anything and everything—from dating and dining to shopping tips, family
relationships, and social networking. And I was more than receptive to Joe’s guidance and friendship—as I had more time on
my hands than I was used to.

A few years earlier, I had quit my full-time magazine job when the freelance work picked up, which included the strong prospect
of collaborating with a pop star on his autobiography. But the book idea hadn’t panned out. And when my regular magazine gig
dried up as well, I was actively looking for another full-time job while battling a sense of loneliness at home.

“You need some company—and getting a dog is a lot quicker than a dating service,” he joked, talking nonstop like a used car
salesman for the next week about the virtues of cockers.

“They’re so calm, friendly, easy to train—and pretty too. How many people do you know who are like
that
?!”

“And,” he exclaimed, without taking a breath, “a dog is a
real magnet—you walk around with a cute one—and you’ll get one just like it.”

But the main benefit of being a pet owner, he said, was the incomparable companionship from it, something he especially needed.
While, by night, Joe tended bar, he was alone much of the day, just like me, so he understood the feeling of being isolated.
His basic cure-all was the magic of owning a dog.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said carefully, always the cautious one. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you
loan
Dinah out to me for an afternoon—so I can take her out for a test drive?”

“Like rent-a-dog?!” he laughed, game to try my scheme.

“Exactly. Dinah will be my test-run dog.”

So I took her home with me, first for a long walk outside and then inside for a joint nap. Honestly, I had never had a dog
in my bed (at least not a canine one) and having her lean against me as we snoozed was an incredible sensation. It was so
relaxing. I later read that a dog’s presence can actually lower your heart rate and blood pressure. It certainly was doing
something for me.

I napped in a way I rarely had, resting more deeply than usual, my breath following hers. Anyone who has ever slept with a
dog knows exactly what I’m talking about. It was comforting and cozy. And I was touched by Dinah’s gentleness and by the way
she drew next to me, putting her paws on my arm.

After a few more test naps, I was sold. And over the next few weeks, Joe began giving me a crash course on how to prepare
for a puppy of my own.