Right up to the end, she remained asleep. “I can’t believe this dog,” said Bette, in parting. “She’s so sweet, so calm. I’ve got to get one. Can you please give me the name of the breeder?”
Katie opened her sleepy eyes and reluctantly got off Bette’s lap, wagging her tail, having made a new friend. (Gratefully, there were no accidents.)
Katie got quite a different reception a few weeks later from Leona Helmsley, one of my favorite interview subjects, the hotel queen who had been dubbed by the press the “Queen of Mean.”
I can tell you that she was never mean to me. (After we became friends, I told her about my grandmother, Nana, who was diagnosed with bone cancer in 1990 and was being treated in a Buffalo hospital. The next day, three dozen white roses were delivered to Nana, with a note signed “Love, Leona.”)
Her legal problems aside, Helmsley had unbelievable charm and intelligence and I liked her immensely. After being introduced by the New York public relations legend Howard Rubenstein, we struck up an immediate rapport in both of our Daily News interviews and in an extended Playboy magazine interview.
As I wrote in Playboy, “Part brass-horn comedienne, Jewish mother and tragic heroine, Helmsley was soon pouring out her heart to me…. She was also quick with the solo one-liners. To wit: when Harry entered the breakfast room, zipping his pants: ‘Don’t brag, darling!’”
One hot summer day, I was having lunch with Leona and her husband Harry at their 200-acre Connecticut estate Dunnellen Hall, enjoying mushroom soup and a salmon fillet. I was telling them both all about Katie. Back then, Leona didn’t yet own her beloved dog “Trouble,” a white Maltese to whom she would later leave $12 million in her will.
“She sounds like a savvy dog… I’d like to meet her,” Leona said gamely.
“Well, I guess not today,” I told her. “Katie is back in Manhattan. Next time.”
“Oh, no, no, darling,” she insisted. “I want to meet her today. I’m going to send my driver to get her—now.” She then picked up the phone, and instructed the chauffeur to pick up my dog thirty miles away.
“What’s her address?” she asked.
I quickly telephoned Pearl, told her that a limo was coming for Katie, and asked her to put Katie into the car for the trip.
“Are you kidding?” Pearl gasped in disbelief.
“Pack her up!”
And so it was, just a few hours later, my dog arrived at the Helmsley estate in high style, her head poking out of the back window of a black Lincoln limousine, her ears blowing in the wind as the car pulled into a long tree-lined driveway and up to the gigantic portico.
As I opened the car door and scooped her into my arms, Leona came up to us, and looked her up and down, stroking her head. “She’d make a nice coat!”
Harry came out, tipped his cap to Katie, and offered to take us all for a ride on his electric golf cart. This was surreal.
In an instant, there I was, sitting next to Manhattan’s legendary real estate billionaire, being driven around with the notorious Leona and my dog. When we got back to the house, I picked Katie up, intending for her to join us inside.
“Oh, no, darling,” said Leona with a warning in her voice. “I don’t want the marble floors scratched. Leave her in the car.”
It must have been 90 degrees that day. “We’ll leave on the air-conditioning,” she offered.
Surveying the sculpted hedges, exquisite gardens, and manicured lawns, I wondered what would happen when Katie would eventually need to relieve herself. It didn’t take me long to find out.
An hour later, when I was bidding farewell, we went outside and Katie was gone! She had jumped out of the open window of the limo and escaped into the vegetable patch, where she had relieved herself and was munching on something edible.
“What?!” exclaimed Leona, her face turning red. I feared I was about to see the dark side of the hotel queen. But then, a good sport, she smiled and had the car turned around.
“Time for you both to hit the road,” she laughed, bidding Katie farewell.
I leave the best for last. My favorite interview subject of all time was the incomparable Katharine Hepburn, who had little need for publicists, instead setting up interviews at her East 49th Street townhouse herself, giving terse commands before hanging up the phone.
“Ham and cheese. Twelve-thirty.”
Click.
Those were the instructions I always received when being invited over for lunch by “Madame,” as Miss Hepburn was nicknamed by one lifelong friend.
Before and during my Daily News years, I interviewed Miss Hepburn many times (such as for her eightieth birthday, for her autobiography Me, and for a TV movie, The Man Upstairs, costarring Ryan O’Neal). But the pattern never varied and the menu never changed: homemade zucchini soup and melted ham and cheese, followed by something chocolate, which I usually brought along. (I’d often pick up her favorite dark chocolate “turtles” with pecans from Mondel Chocolates.)
One time, I presented her with a truly magnificent truffle cake, which I was looking forward to tasting. “Ah, fascinating,” she uttered, looking into the box. “Norah!” she hollered down to her cook. “Come up and take this away.”
Then, turning to me, she remarked, “It’s much too good for lunch—I’ll eat it for dinner!” and it disappeared into the kitchen.
That same day, I asked her whether she ever thought about death. “Death,” she answered sweetly, “will be a great relief. No more interviews. Now pass the peanuts.”
After eight years of knowing Madame, we became friendly enough to chat off the record as well, so I occasionally went over to her townhouse for purely social lunches.
I also, from time to time, acted as a conduit, introducing her to people she was interested in, most notably Calvin Klein, whom I had previously interviewed for Playboy. The king of American fashion had, of course, met just about every celebrity in the world he’d ever wanted to—almost everyone, that is, except for Miss Hepburn. I felt honored to be able to bring these two legends together.
On the day of the lunch, Calvin came up the stairs into her drawing room holding in his arms exquisitely tailored wool and cashmere sweaters and pants, all wrapped in tissue paper, one-of-a-kind pieces he had made especially for her. He held them out to her as a gift.
In a teasing mood, she looked gamely at Calvin, at first not willing to accept them. Then, with her chin in the air, she teased, “Are they free?!”
“Of course they are,” he smiled. She then handily lifted them out of his arms and disappeared upstairs into her bedroom to examine them. Later, the twosome sat side by side, engrossed in their discussion of fashion in the thirties and forties.
A few months after that stellar introduction, I figured I’d try another, which is where Katie came into the picture.
So one day, I asked Miss Hepburn, “Would you like to meet Peter Jennings?”
“Peter WHO?” she inquired, chin again jutting into the air. “Who is he?”
“You know, the ABC news anchor. He’s on TV every night.”
“Mmmm,” she sniffed, “I don’t watch the show. All right, bring him by.”
Peter was a bit more thrilled about the upcoming lunch than Miss Hepburn, and promised to bring along, as a gift, what he described as his wife’s incomparable brownies, prewarned about Miss Hepburn’s passion for chocolate.
The day of the lunch I decided to bring Katie along so Miss Hepburn could finally meet her namesake. But I only wanted Katie to stay for the introductions, not for lunch, as I knew my treat-hungry dog would be begging for food.
To manage the logistics, a friend of mine, Dean, came along in the car with Katie, me, and Peter. Dean would take Katie home after her cameo.
On the car ride up to East 49th Street in the Turtle Bay neighborhood, Katie sat snugly on Peter’s lap, her paw on his arm, unimpressed with the legendary news anchor, but never taking her eyes off his foil-wrapped package of brownies.
“Katie, relax,” admonished Peter, who was a
dog lover and owned a Wheaten terrier named Bogart. “These aren’t good for dogs,” he told her in his distinctive baritone. Katie then took her right paw and slapped it against his arm, begging him, with no success.
Miss Hepburn greeted us outfitted, as always, in well-worn pants, a white turtleneck, red sweater, and a heavily frayed long-sleeved shirt.
I was surprised by how shy she seemed meeting Peter—maybe it was because he was someone outside her regular sphere. And Peter also seemed uncharacteristically reserved, almost as if this patrician actress intimidated him more than the legions of dictators he’d interviewed. As for Katie, she was oblivious to this exceptional company, her tail wagging as she ran up the wooden stairs into the drawing room, circled it once, and then lay down near the fireplace.
“Who’s this?!” asked Hepburn, glaring down at Katie. My dog’s tail immediately went down and she drew closer to the fireplace.
“I wanted you to meet my dog, Katie….”
“Mmmm. How’d you come up with that name?”
“I named her after you!”
“Small compliment. A midget me.”
“Now,” dismissing my dog with a look of total disinterest, “Mr. Jennings, we’re having ham and cheese.”
I felt really embarrassed, as this was the first and only time I’d ever brought Katie along to an interview when she bombed, so to speak. You can’t win them all.
I scooped my dog up and handed her off to Dean, waiting outside. The rest of the lunch was uneventful, until dessert.
“Glenn told me how much you love chocolate, and these are the best, made by my wife,” Peter said, handing over his offering.
“Let’s have a bake-off,” replied Miss Hepburn, all ready for this, as I had told her Peter was bringing brownies. “Norah!” she commanded, hollering down the staircase, “bring up the brownies.”
Miss Hepburn then set one of Peter’s brownies and one of her own side by side on a white china plate, munching into one at a time. After a moment of careful consideration, she proclaimed, “Mine are much better!”
Peter was a great sport, laughing uproariously, promising not to relay that information to his wife.
And that was it for lunch. Peter had met a legend. Miss Hepburn had won the bake-off. And Katie had met her match.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Walter the Horse
Favorites and Foibles
The next four years flew by in a flash, a blur of celebrity interviews, trips to California (with my “hearing” dog in tow), and countless runs up and down our red-carpeted hallway.
Katie was now at her energetic best, practically defying gravity as she jumped and skipped behind me to Pearl’s, carrying in her mouth chew bones, rattles, rubber balls, and a noisy pink rabbit—which she shook furiously from side to side in order to make it squeak.
Scratching at Pearl’s door with her paws, Katie would drop her toys onto the carpet as precious offerings. She’d then try to slip craftily between Pearl’s legs into the apartment for a snack. To tease her, Pearl would purposely block Katie from entering, as if playing soccer. The game would continue until Katie slinked around Pearl, her true goal being the dining table to snatch a piece of crispy toast, which she would then munch on loudly.
Although Katie loved being indoors, she also relished exploring our neighborhood. Often, as she was lazing on my bedspread, I’d ask, in a rather soft voice, “Want to go OUT?”
And in one long leap, she was off the bed, running toward the door. She’d pull the leash off the knob, sit down waiting to be hitched up, then race down the hallway to the elevator and patiently wait for it to open. In cold months, I’d ask, “Where’s your COAT?!” And using her mouth, she’d pull a coat off a shelf and push it toward me.
As we came off the elevator, she’d expertly navigate from the front lobby door out to the Hudson River. First, trotting briskly through our garden on the way to the water, she’d typically spot a bird and twirl into the air attempting to catch it.
Likewise, when a brave squirrel climbed down a tree to snoop around the ground, Katie was on the hunt (proving her ancestry as a sporting dog), though she was never fast enough to catch the agile rodent, who would race back up the tree once she leapt in for the kill.
Katie would then continue on through the garden, pulling me forward toward the doormen in each of the buildings in our complex, anxious to say hello and retrieve a biscuit from them.
She’d then lead the way toward the ice-cream shop at the corner, hoping that I might buy a frozen treat, usually a pistachio cone that we would share. After polishing that off, she’d trot further west to the outdoor volleyball court that overlooked our marina and barge into the game by running around the court chasing the ball.
“Katie, no, you’re in the way,” I’d shout, apologizing for the intrusion, but she persisted, determined to meet new people and have some fun. “Dad, I need some exercise—and this game is a good one!”
To appease her desire to chase and retrieve, I’d usually have a tennis ball in my pocket and would pitch it into the air once we got to the nearby park. Like a major-league outfielder, Katie would carefully follow that ball with her eyes as she ran and leapt high into the air to catch it before it hit the ground. After she became breathless, I’d pour water into a cup for a long drink before we continued on.
Once out on the Esplanade, she walked briskly along the water’s edge, sniffing under every bench, scouting for food, and, on hot summer days, searching for the perfect shady spot under an oak tree for a long nap.
At other times, Katie’s ears pricked up when she heard the sound of hoofs hitting the pavement. That was the signal that our neighborhood’s mounted policeman, Sean, was out on patrol, sitting high up on his magnificent Belgian quarter horse, Walter.
Walter, Sean told me, had been raised on a farm with dogs, so anytime we passed, the horse would stop and scoop down his head and affectionately rub noses with Katie, his wide nostrils quivering with pleasure.
Katie, in turn, would lick his face. Sometimes, I’d hoist Katie up to him—and she’d playfully swat him in the wide space between his eyes. The picture of this huge horse nuzzling a pint-sized spaniel was endearing beyond belief, heartwarming to all who saw it. Then Walter trotted away in one direction, Katie in the other.
Although Katie loved Walter the horse, she wasn’t quite so crazy about dogs, especially little ones, who particularly irritated her. Heaven help a Boston terrier, Chihuahua, toy poodle, or Lhasa apso who got in her way. Ordinarily sweet little Katie would lash out at them, and bare her teeth, bark or snarl, sometimes even lunge at them, while I pulled back on the leash, scolding her.
“Stop it! Watch your manners. Bad girl. No!”
She’d look away from me with little remorse, tail wagging, having proven her dominance.
But she had much greater regard for more imposing dogs like golden retrievers, Great Danes, German shepherds, and Labs. These mighty canines were worthy of her respect and congenial sniffing, and none of them intimidated her. The bigger the dog, the more she liked it.
Katie was absolutely fearless strutting up to an eighty-pounder, almost three times her weight, poking her nose into theirs, licking them or whacking them playfully in the face with her paw.
One day, in our lobby, when a neighbor’s Great Dane named Barney flattened her to the ground with his humongous paw, she laughed it off, rolling on her back before standing up again and licking him on the nose. Then, she marched into the elevator without a second glance, dismissing the brute.
Because Katie had no canine brother or sister or regular playmates, her true passion was people, though, again, it depended on their size—and age.
She vehemently disliked young kids and avoided them at all costs because of their unpredictability. If they even tried to pet her, she’d run away, casting an angry look. And the only time I ever heard her growl or even bark was when they persisted, attempting to pull on her ears or yank her tail. Then she’d let out a high-pitched
howl. “Ouch, Dad!” she seemed to say. “They hurt me—and I’m scared. Can’t those kids leave me alone?” She’d be screeching as she alternately lunged forward or hid behind me.
But when she was socializing with adults, whether in my living room, in the lobby, or outside on the Esplanade, she was an expert mingler. Katie not only recognized the colorful cast of human characters in her life, but reacted to each of them differently.
For example, she learned that Arthur’s legs bothered him, so she never jumped up on him, understanding that her rightful place was on his gray velour chair and ottoman, her head balanced on his foot as he read the newspaper.
Katie also knew that she was never to jump up on our frail, across-the-hall neighbor Freda, a retired family-court judge who walked with braces due to childhood polio.
“Hello Katie, how are you today?” she’d inquire rather formally, greeting us as we both approached our front doors. Katie sat respectfully in front of the judge and simply offered a paw.
“She has excellent manners,” laughed Freda, “much better than some who came before my bench!”
In truth, Katie adored just about anybody over the age of seventy—the older the better. I believe it was because she felt safe with them. In addition to Pearl, Arthur, and Freda, she gravitated to her regular “pack,” a group of elderly residents all in their seventies, eighties, and nineties.
In the spring, summer, and fall months, each night after dinner, Pearl and Arthur would set out for the Esplanade to watch the sunset while I usually headed out for a bike ride, looping around the path along the Hudson River to enjoy the startling view. The brilliant red-and-orange sunlight glowed as it descended against the sky, lighting up the water and the Statue of Liberty.
“Hurry, I don’t want to miss it,” Arthur would exclaim, briskly tying the laces of his sneakers as Katie interfered, biting on them.
“Stop it, girlie, we’ve got to go!” And Katie would spring to the door, now anxious to be hitched up to her leash for the evening ritual.
Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family Page 7
