“Oh, she’s beautiful, just like when Brandy was a baby,” cooed Pearl, stroking Katie’s head and leaning down to kiss it, whispering sweet nothings.
“Hey, let me get a look at that little girl,” said Arthur, walking out of the bedroom and eagerly sitting down to join us.
Katie perked her head up and then wriggled out of Pearl’s arms, taking a walk on top of the dining table (Joe would have had a conniption) and climbing into Arthur’s arms, licking his face. It was instant infatuation.
Katie then fell sound asleep in Arthur’s arms, her paws wrapped over his wrists, softly snoring. As I watched this scene unfold, with all of us sitting around the table making small talk and enjoying the moment, I felt at peace, so incredibly calm.
Unlike the panicky sensation I’d experienced with Baby’s arrival, I didn’t feel alone at all this time around, thanks to Joe and my new friends down the hall.
That first night, I moved Katie’s kennel into my bedroom so she could smell and feel my presence. And just before going to sleep, I looked down into the crate. There she was, irresistibly cute, stretched out on her back, looking up at me, teething contentedly on a nylon bone. At that moment, my heart just filled up with love and a deep sense of protectiveness for this little puppy. It was an intense feeling that I hadn’t expected. I was just like any new parent—utterly entranced by the wonder of it all.
Over the next few weeks, the smallest things about taking care of Katie gave me pleasure. I’d fill up her miniature water bowl (decorated with a picture of Minnie Mouse on the bottom of it), and she’d greedily drink from it, her tongue splattering water all over the floor.
She flew into her food bowl with gusto, and her nose and face were covered with mush by the time she finished eating. She’d try to sneeze it off—or tolerate my wiping her face clean with a paper towel, closing her eyes patiently. She’d then lick my nose a few times before hightailing it back into her pen, rolling on her back, and exposing her tummy in surrender, as if to say, “Thanks Dad, gotta relax.”
In these euphoric puppy days, there were a series of “firsts” in store for Katie, as she was about to meet her doctor, her groomer, her trainer, my longtime housekeeper—and the ground outside.
That first morning, when I took her out, she looked perplexed at the alien cement, sniffing it suspiciously, wondering how it had replaced the grass she was accustomed to. She quickly turned toward the door, attempting to escape back into the building. “C’mon, I don’t like it out here,” she seemed to say. But I held steady. And although she eventually did relieve herself, it took nearly a half hour to get the job done, a situation that worried me.
That morning, I made a beeline to a vet I’d found in Manhattan’s Chelsea area, Dr. Scott Simon. He was super-tall, in his mid-thirties, with blond curly hair, a resounding voice, and a down-home demeanor. I had heard that he was meticulous in his exams. “So this is little Katie,” Dr. Simon said, gently examining her from head to toe, paying special attention to her eyes and ears, which, in cockers, are susceptible to infection.
Katie tried to wriggle back into my arms, uncertain of this giant. “Just hold her steady, by the shoulders,” he advised, as he carefully peered into her ears.
“Ahhh, I see that Katie has ear mites—nothing serious—just a few parasites from the farm. We’ll get rid of those fast enough. And in five months or so, we’ll spay her.” He explained that the procedure reduced the chance of breast cancer and other tumors and infections, while spayed females also tended to have more even temperaments.
“No babies for Katie?” I asked.
“It’s up to you—but I don’t think you need to do that.” I agreed with him, changing the subject to housebreaking.
“This morning,” I told him, “Katie wasn’t very interested in doing her business outside—and I need to know the best way to get her housebroken.” Katie was lying down on the steel exam table, head over the side of it, sniffing for treats, and bored.
I explained that the breeder had suggested to me that the quickest way to housetrain a puppy was to use a baby suppository! “He told me that it glides right in—acting as a prompt to getting instant results—and that after a few days, the dog never needs it again.”
“We sometimes do that for senior dogs,” replied Dr. Simon, laughing, “but it can work for a puppy too—and it’s not going to hurt Katie.”
It sounded weird to me, and I wasn’t crazy about administering this back-ended remedy, but I tried it the next day. For a second there, as I slipped it in, Katie looked indignant. Her eyes widened as she turned her head back around—as if to say, “What’s going on back there?”—but it worked like a charm. After two days of this, Katie got the hang of it and never looked back, so to speak, again. No further proctological ministrations were required.
On the way out of the vet’s office that first day, Dr. Simon had one final piece of advice: “Katie could use a good bath and grooming.”
Indeed, at twelve weeks, Katie, more than most puppies, was definitely going through her “awkward” stage, like a gangly teenager. Her body proportions were all off, especially her long legs, which gave her an up-on-stilts look, making her slightly uncoordinated.
The vet explained that puppies are growing so rapidly their heads and bodies part company, each developing at different rates. “So puppies don’t often look their best until six or eight months. In the meantime, take this,” he said, handing me a card for De De’s Dogarama. “one of the best.”
Heading down Seventh Avenue to Greenwich Village, we walked into this tiny emporium of beauty for dogs, outfitted with floor-to-ceiling kennels along the back walls, each filled with pampered mutts of every shape and size waiting for their shampoos, crème rinses, haircuts, pedicures, and manicures. With all the bathing going on, the room was as humid as a rain forest.
And there on the grooming table was a white standard poodle, standing obediently still as her elaborate coiffure was blown out to comic perfection. Presiding over it all was the young owner, a blonde named De De, happy to meet her new client.
For Katie, De De recommended a groomer named Betty, “a magician with puppies,” she said. Betty was a tomboyish young woman with overalls, a short red pixie haircut, and tortoise-shell glasses. Dog hair covered her from head to toe. (Truthfully, she needed a good grooming as badly as Katie.)
Betty was bubbly and talkative, carrying on nonstop conversations with all her canine clients as she cut and trimmed. The dogs seemed to follow Betty’s repartee with their eyes, lifting their paws when directed to.
“Hey Sport,” Betty grinned, plucking Katie from my arms and burying her with a hug. “Oh, my my my,” she surmised, “this little girl needs a makeover bad. Leave her with me and come back in three hours—no, make it three-and-a-half.”
I hesitated, not wanting to leave Katie alone, but I was practically shoved out the door by the assertive De De. “No clients stay.”
As I looked back, Katie was nose-to-nose with Betty, as the groomer chatted away to her. “Now look here, sister,” she said, “you’re a pup who needs a lot of help. Mama’s going to give you the look you deserve.”
When I returned, I did a double take. Standing on the counter, literally posing, was a blown-dried stunner who had gone from bow to wow.
Katie was literally unrecognizable with a pink satin bow tied daintily around her neck. Her hair was sleekly cut close to the body and looked slightly bleached and evenly blond. Betty had left an amusing fringe, like eyebrows, above her eyes, like a silent-era film star. Katie held her head high with a sense of hauteur, still as a statue as she showed off her new look. Her hair was so perfect that she almost looked like a stuffed animal. Her wagging tail told me that she’d thoroughly enjoyed the pampering.
As I was about to pick her up from the counter, Betty came up behind me, spraying a mist of something in our direction. “It’s a nice parfum for dogs that we use,” she said.
“Yeah,” added De De matter-of-factly, ready to mak
e a sale. “It’s a floral bouquet with a soft powder-and-vanilla background, perfect for females,” though I never did buy it (or want it used again), instead preferring the clean, fresh smell of just the shampoo.
Betty planted a parting kiss on Katie’s wet nose—“see you next time, sister!”—and off we went.
There wasn’t one person on the street who didn’t turn around or stop us, as Katie was now irresistible.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Lion” in a Cage
Despite the grooming, within a few weeks of Katie’s arrival, my apartment smelled “doggy”—a combination of puppy chow, her not-so-clean fur, and the accidents in the kitchen. And with Katie’s toys and dog equipment strewn all over the place, it felt as if my entire existence had been thrown up into the air, in a happy way.
Although I tried, at first, to keep Katie in her crate next to me at night, she refused, and would cry unless I took her out of it and placed her on the bed.
I kept this a secret from Joe, who totally disapproved of dogs in beds, while I found my puppy’s ability to burrow into the perfect warm spot quite entertaining.
She’d poke her head under the blanket and travel south, face down, heading toward my feet, finally resting her head on my toes.
During the night, she’d gradually make her way north again and lean against my side, my own little heating blanket. And by morning, her head was on my pillow, her long ears tangled around her face.
In her daytime hours, one of Katie’s favorite recreations was the sock game, the reason for all my mismatched socks. She’d pick one up from the floor and spit out half of it for me. I’d hold one end, she the other, and what ensued was a vicious tug-of-war. She’d growl and shake her head and pull on that poor sock until it was in shreds.
Sometimes I let her win, and she’d pounce on it, triumphantly trotting into the other room with it. She’d shake her head back and forth as if she’d caught some delicious prey. But when I won and pulled it out of her mouth, those eyes never left me until I threw it across the room again. I bought plenty of socks.
Within a week, I was so consumed with puppy care that my apartment was in complete disarray, so it was definitely time to have the place cleaned.
So the next “first” on our list was introducing my puppy to Ramon, my longtime housekeeper, who was also one of my best friends and confidantes, an energetic, incredibly optimistic person who always buoyed my spirits.
Ramon arrived every Tuesday morning and was horrified that first week, when he found Katie loose in the kitchen, energetically jumping up on the gate to greet him. He was terrified of dogs. Months earlier, when I had just mentioned the possibility of getting a dog, the ordinarily congenial Ramon turned stony. “I hate them,” he said matter-of-factly, “and if you get one, I’ll quit.”
But I had defied his warning. I’ll never forget that first Tuesday morning when he looked into Katie’s pen and said, “Forget it!” He started to pick up his things and leave. I begged Ramon to stay. “I promise that she’s harmless, and I’ll keep her in the kennel with the door closed. She won’t bother you at all.”
Ramon slowly considered my offer, peering into the cage as if he were looking at a wild lion. “Okay,” he told me grudgingly, “we’ll try it. But I don’t think so.”
Over the next few months, Katie worked on him, demonstrating how cuddly she could be, lying tenderly in my arms, seductively passive, or turning over on her back. The more Ramon resisted her advances, the more she tried to shake hands with him, throwing her paws in his direction, sometimes both at one time.
Katie knew what she was doing, sensing Ramon’s fear and moving to melt it. It wasn’t long before Katie was out of the cage and allowed to walk around, following Ramon as he worked. This was amazing progress.
One day, Ramon even ventured to pet Katie, and she licked his hand in return. He pulled it away, disgusted. “Yuck!” I could tell she was growing on him—but it was going to take a little longer for him to adjust.
In the meantime, I had to make sure that Katie was well on her way to being housebroken. Although as a puppy she was endlessly curious, she was also eminently trainable—at the perfect age to master city-style living.
For starters, she needed to be certain that relieving herself was an outdoor activity. To accomplish this, I took her out every two or three hours. I was determined to train Katie as quickly as possible because I had wall-to-wall carpeting throughout my apartment, the only washable floor space being in the kitchen.
In the morning, I’d scoop her up right out of the kennel and off we went—so she never had a chance for an accident. But by the afternoon, of course, it was inevitable that accidents would appear in the kitchen, most of them on the newspaper spread all around her kennel.
So for now, that room remained Katie headquarters. “I’m not going in there,” Ramon warned me. “And she’s not coming out here.”
Indeed, the baby gate barricaded Katie in, though it wasn’t foolproof and didn’t always stop her. As Tom had warned me, she’d been the first of the litter to escape the kennel.
So during her first week, I found the gate on the floor twice, with Katie lounging in the living room under a coffee table, casually chewing her bone. Another time, I found her sound asleep on a velvet pillow.
I then bought a stronger, higher gate. Most of the time, though, Katie had no reason to attempt a getaway, as I was usually home, in and out of the kitchen, and had her up and outside all the time.
And as Joe had predicted, Katie never had an accident inside her kennel, except once when she was sick. On that day, as I cleaned out her little house, she stood hovering close by, poking her nose around my arm, possessive of her territory and curious to supervise my invasion of it. And just as soon as I had finished fluffing up the freshly laundered blankets and pillows, she jumped back in, snugly content.
Beyond housebreaking, the next step was teaching Katie basic commands. As I knew nothing about obedience training, I hired a young man named Jonathan Klopp, an accountant-turned-trainer in horn-rimmed glasses who promised he’d whip Katie into shape within five easy lessons at fifty dollars an hour.
“Now the first thing we’re going to do,” he explained, “is teach Katie to sit whenever you want her to.” As a reward and prompt, he recommended using Velveeta cheese “because puppies love it and it works perfectly.”
He demonstrated this by putting his left hand out and gently pressing down on Katie’s back, as he emphatically said, “Sit,” which she immediately did, hungrily eyeing that piece of cheese in his right hand. Jonathan popped the orange treat into her mouth every time she complied.
“Goooood girl!” he exclaimed, reinforcing good behavior with his tone of voice and the cheese, and then showing me how to do it too. Within a few minutes, Katie had “Sit” down cold—an expert.
A few days into practicing this, touching her back wasn’t even necessary. With simply a finger motion in the down direction together with the verbal prompt, Katie sat like a little soldier, waiting for a treat, her brown eyes intently focused on the cheese. Gradually, we weaned her away from the cheese and she sat anyway.
Next, we worked on “Stay” and “Come,” using the long red-carpeted hallway outside my door—a perfect “backyard” for fetching, running, and playing. Soon enough, with Jonathan holding a mouthwatering piece of that gooey cheese, Katie was racing down that corridor at the command “Come,” triumphantly retrieving the treat. “Goooood girl!!” we’d both shout.
Katie became especially adept at “Shake,” one of her favorite commands. At first, she’d hesitantly lift up her right paw, then the left, but once she got the hang of it, all you had to do was tempt her with a cookie and she furiously offered both paws—back and forth, like playing patty cake—until she got what she wanted.
Finally, and most difficult, was differentiating “Sit” from “Down,” in which case Katie had to drop to the ground into a crouch, keeping her head flat on the carpet and not moving until told
to. But after just a few weeks of practicing and keeping the refrigerator stocked with cheese, Katie had mastered it all—that is, until we went downstairs for a real-life test-drive.
So confident was I that she would obey me that we tried a walk inside the lobby without a leash. When a tenant opened the front door of the building, Katie slipped through it, gone in a flash. She raced outside like a jackrabbit, escaping at a blindingly fast speed, running across the circular driveway—where a car could have killed her. Then, she took off through the adjoining garden.
Naively, I hadn’t expected such a surge of energy from a puppy so small.
“Katie, Katie! Come!” I furiously hollered. She totally ignored me. No cheese—no results. I chased her down quickly, scooped her up and took her home, expressing my displeasure at her disobedience.
But she had a mischievous grin on her face, her tongue hanging out in pleasure as her little body heaved with the exertion. She was most pleased with herself.
Like any toddler, Katie was going through “the terrible twos.” If she didn’t have her favorite bone to chew, my sneaker sufficed. Shoelaces were fun too. And a black knit hat made a nice lunch. Her big brown eyes missed nothing.
One day, after grocery shopping, I left a sealed box of snack bars unattended for a few minutes as I went down to the laundry room. When I returned, all the green plastic wrappers had been neatly removed from each half-eaten bar, and Katie’s face was covered in granola.
“What did I tell you about ya manners?” I’d exclaim, a common refrain over the next years. She’d look up at me, that pert black nose pointed in the air, tail down, then trot away, disenchanted with my tone.
One night, my decorator friend, Michael, came over for a spaghetti dinner. As he was sitting in the living room balancing a plate on his lap, Katie eyed it with great interest. When Michael, who always had a great sense of propriety, looked away for a moment, Katie pounced, diving into his pasta headfirst.
Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family Page 4
