Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (31 page)

During this visit, Naia came over to the table and stroked Pearl’s hand, as she often did now.

“Something weird happened last night,” I told Granny. “At one point during the night, I heard the table skirt rustling next
to the bed—just as it did when Katie was playing under it—and I swear, I thought it
was
Katie—until I woke up.”

“Your girl loved hiding under that table—and ruined the skirt! Remember?”

I sure did. And it was worth every trip to the dry cleaner.

Breakfast was over and Oldest got up and returned to bed, although it was early in the morning.

A few hours later, Paul was about to say his good-byes, ready
for the return trip to Boston. Just before he left, the anticipation of being alone again left me with a homesick, sinking
feeling. I wasn’t ready to see him go. My friend of thirty-two years had been with me for this last chapter of Katie’s life—and
with me at the piano too.

He wrapped me in a fierce hug. “You’re going to be fine, you are, just fine, even without Katie.” I wasn’t so sure.

I went back into Granny’s apartment, but she was still hibernating under the covers, sound asleep. She’d stay that way most
of the day. Sleep was her great escape, and I envied it.

“Katie was her baby,” said Naia, sipping a steaming cup of herbal tea as we sat together at the table. “She gave her a reason
to live.” Just as Ryan had, I thought to myself.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, Pearl was pouring her heart out to her dear friend Rose more and more, though she kept
her emotions in check around me, “Pearl was sick when you put Katie to sleep,” Rose later told me.

That wasn’t exactly what I needed to hear. I knew Pearl was opposed to my decision for euthanasia and I felt horribly guilty
about it—continually second-guessing myself about it. Had I done the right thing at the right time?

“Of course you did,” Rose assured me, knowing full well how Katie had been suffering.

But without her now, a great vacuum was left behind. Everything I looked at in Pearl’s apartment reminded me of “the child.”
There was the dining chair that she sat on as she mischievously stole food off Granny’s plate, efficiently eating row after
row of corn on the cob; strewn on the floor were her leftover toys, including her favorite squeaky mouse; sitting on the cabinet
was that Humpty Dumpty cookie jar, still filled with Milk-Bones; etched on the door were all the happy scratch marks from
her paws; and sitting deserted on the floor were
her Disney-character water and food bowls, her Minnie Mouse rubber placemat under them. I quietly picked them up and started
back home.

To say our hallway was quiet was an understatement. As I walked slowly down the corridor, my mind was flooded with a kaleidoscope
of images, spread out over nearly fifteen years.

I could see Katie merrily skipping behind me, eagerly jumping up on my legs as we made our way to Pearl’s. There she was,
retrieving the blue rubber ball thrown by Arthur or cheating Ryan at the starting line by jumping the gun. I saw her running
wildly to the elevator to greet Ramon, throwing herself on her back for a belly rub, legs straight in the air. There she was,
strutting between apartments in her party dress, her wagging tail sticking out from the ruffles of black satin.

When I opened my apartment door, all the emotions I’d been feeling in the last few days caught me in the throat. I’d held
back most of them, occupied with the vet, Pearl, Paul, and the memorial—existing on adrenaline and chocolate, with little
sleep.

But now, alone, I let go. Once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. I made it to the living room and when I saw Katie’s favorite
green chair with one of her toy rabbits left on its cushion, the pain of her loss sliced through me. And then I was on the
carpet, on my knees, bent over that chair, heaving in dry sobs. I couldn’t catch my breath.

“I miss my baby,” was all I could say, over and over again. I stayed there until there were no tears left—nothing, just the
emptiness and the horrible silence of my apartment.

I eventually got up, went into the bathroom, and washed my face with cold water. Then, feeling resolve, I went into the kitchen
and started throwing things out. I opened the cupboard and collected an entire shelf of Katie’s medicines, shampoos,
creams, lotions, you name it, plus the twenty-pound bag of dog food I’d confidently purchased from the vet a few days earlier.
I put all this in a plastic garbage bag and took it down to the compactor room. I couldn’t look at any of it ever again. Next,
I collected Katie’s toys, her combs and hairbrushes, the food and water bowls, her coats, her leash, and even the engraved
gold Milk-Bone tag that had been around her neck for nearly fifteen years. It read “Katie Plaskin,” with her address and phone
number etched on it. Every time I heard that little tag rattle on her neck, I knew she was close or in motion, on her way
up or down our hall. I decided to keep it on my key chain, so I could always see and hear it, every single day. It’s always
with me, to this day. I took the rest of Katie’s belongings into the large closet in my bedroom and stored it all neatly on
the shelves meant for shoes.

After doing all this, I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sound sleep.

Later that night, I returned to Pearl’s apartment to have a light dinner, but Pearl had no appetite and we sat in the dim
light as the sun set, absently listening to the radio. Soon, she returned to bed to watch TV as Naia and I talked quietly
in the dining room.

It occurred to me how drastically my relationship with Pearl had changed. For so many years, we were best buddies, surrogate
grandmother and grandson, hands-on neighbors, equals—and, above all, Katie’s keepers. But now, I had become Pearl’s primary
caretaker and
de facto
guardian—quite a switch, and not a happy one for me.

Pearl was now dependent rather than independent, as she always had been. This made her vulnerable in a way that turned our
world into a melancholy place. I felt her despair. It seemed to hover over her and her apartment.

And yet, I was also deeply touched by her complete trust in me. Just by the way she said my name, or looked at me, or touched
me, I knew how much she loved me—that I was truly her son, or her grandson. I wasn’t sure which it was—but we were definitely
a family. And as in all families, when parents or grandparents get older and frail, it’s the children who step in to help.

Granny granted me legal power of attorney, so I now kept track of all her affairs—paid her bills (as her hands shook and she
could no longer write a check), paid Naia, and in accordance with her health care proxy, also supervised her medical care.
This was more responsibility than I wanted, though being so actively involved made me feel useful, and it also distracted
me from Pearl’s deteriorating condition.

It was very difficult seeing Oldest increasingly helpless and preparing, in practical ways, for the end. At her request, Lee
and I had even gone to the Riverside Funeral Home on Manhattan’s Upper West Side to pay for Pearl’s funeral in advance. Boy,
was that a grim task, picking out a coffin and planning a funeral service for someone who was still alive.

Although I visited Pearl at least two or three times a day to chat and bring her up-to-date on neighborhood news, it was Naia
who was Granny’s on-the-spot emotional rock, her greatest comfort, tenderly ministering to her every need. We often joked
that though Pearl had never come to like Naia’s
cooking
, she really loved
Naia
—and treated her like a granddaughter.

Understandably, I could see that Naia was deeply depressed; the weight of caring for a woman in failing health was a heavy
burden. Granny noticed it too.

“You’re working too hard and losing weight,” Granny would fuss, pushing another piece of pie in Naia’s direction. “Eat!”

“I love your hair that way, pulled back like a ballerina,” she’d tell her. “Why don’t you take that brush on the dresser,
the one my mother used. It’s yours. I don’t need it anymore.”

“Take a little extra,” she said one day, pushing a twenty-dollar bill in Naia’s direction, “and treat yourself to a manicure.”

“No, Granny,” Naia answered firmly, giggling at her ministrations. “I don’t need it. But thank you.”

At other times, when Pearl’s battery ran low, Naia tried her best to rouse her, “Granny, let’s take a walk outside.” Granny
would turn her head away and burrow under the covers just as Katie used to do. “C’mon, sweetheart,” Naia urged, “let me help
you up.” Granny wouldn’t budge. We rarely talked about Katie, as it was too painful a subject.

In the weeks and months that followed Katie’s death, though, I sensed her presence and lingering spirit around me. I really
did. I kept thinking about what Paul had told me before he left—that dogs
want
us to be happy, that they live for it.

Sometimes, especially at night, there was a stir in the air—and I felt her spirit in the room; while at other times, there
was nothing but a vast and silent emptiness.

I began to understand that love is not confined to space or time, that it remains and continues on beyond the physical plane.
With this comfort, I was able to sleep peacefully most nights; and if I was lucky, Katie would come to visit me in my dreams.

But for Granny, there was little respite from grief. After Katie died, Pearl seemed lost, hibernating under her ancient frayed
afghan. No matter what time I walked in to say hello, she was either asleep, depressed and withdrawn, or absently watching
TV as if in a trance.

She didn’t want to bathe, she ignored the mail, she hardly
ever read, and even had to be persuaded to come to the table for meals. Nothing seemed to cheer her up.

Making matters worse, John announced that he’d gotten a plum five-year assignment at the Paris bureau of his newspaper, so
he and Ryan were moving to France. As great an opportunity as it was, Pearl wasn’t very happy about the news. It was an effort
seeing them since they’d moved uptown, but at least they were still in New York. Now, it would be impossible for her to see
them at all.

True, she still had me and Lee and her women friends, but without Katie or Ryan, her heart was broken and she felt more lonesome
than ever.

But in December 2002, a month after Katie’s death, I was happy to see Granny at her dining table enjoying a meat loaf dinner
complete with fried zucchini and squash, topped off with Chanukah cookies I’d gotten from her favorite Lower East Side bakery,
Gertel’s.

Her spirits were now somewhat better and she was genuinely pleased and proud when I told her I had just accepted a great job
opportunity—ghostwriting a book for someone whom I had long admired.

That was the good news. Unfortunately, this assignment was going to take me away for fifteen months, beginning in March 2003,
most of it to be spent in the South Pacific, California, and British Columbia.

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Granny, hiding her true feelings as she handed me a frosted dreidel cookie. “But what are we
going to do without you here?”

The plan was for Naia to continue taking care of Pearl while the indispensable Lee would visit her as much as possible. I’d
call her most every day. Even so, I knew it was going
to be difficult for Pearl. Still, I admit I was excited to be leaving New York for an extended period, relieved to get away
from our now-depressing hallway and the Battery Park City winters to see another part of the world, especially the South Pacific.

Yet, as I packed my new laptop and four suitcases for the overseas trip, I felt guilty about leaving Pearl, though I completely
trusted Naia to cope without me.

On the big departure day, I came into Pearl’s bedroom to say good-bye and gave her a big hug. “Now Granny, you be
good
!—and don’t drive poor Naia crazy.”

“I will so!” she answered mischievously, holding my arm tightly. And then, stoic as ever, she waved good-bye as I blew her
a kiss.

“Have a great time—and
call
me!” And I was off on my great adventure.