“Ryan,” John explained, “has aunts and uncles and cousins, but none of them close by.”
I learned that John was one of five, raised in Chicago, and that, sadly, at age nine, he had lost his mother to cancer, while his father had later died when John was in college. It wasn’t easy growing up without a mother, and now, with his siblings living out West, John wanted to carve out a family of his own.
Perhaps, I thought, he was filling in a space in a heart that had weathered much loss. Or maybe, as I later understood, he just loved kids and wanted to raise one.
John and Ryan lived in nearby Montclair, New Jersey. Having recently broken up with a long-term partner, John was determined to move into New York City to start a new life.
“The commute,” he explained, “is becoming unmanageable. Every morning, I take Ryan to day care, get on a bus, come into Manhattan to work, then back to day care and home again. I’ve got to find an apartment in Manhattan.”
“You should definitely look in Battery Park City,” I told him. “I love it there,” joking that our complex’s 300 dogs would keep Ryan quite busy.
“I never even thought of it,” he said.
“Well, it’s an incredible neighborhood—right on the water with a marina, and boats, and a view of the Statue—and it’s filled with families, hundreds of kids, and a great elementary school.”
The next day, I brought John downtown to show him around, and our rental office put him on a waiting list for a two-bedroom apartment. “It will be at least six months,” he was told, which left John worried as he had to move by May.
But then, in April, the agent called, “We’ve got one two-bedroom available, so you’d better come look at it now. It will be gone by the end of the day.”
When John got downtown, I was puzzled when the agent brought him up to my floor.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“We’re here!” the agent laughed, taking us down the hallway to apartment 3P.
I couldn’t believe that the only apartment available in our entire six-building complex of over 1,700 units was an apartment right down the hall from me.
“What were the chances of this happening?” I asked John.
“It must be about one in a million,” he laughed, delighted by the coincidence.
John took apartment 3P the next day.
“Was that fate?” I later asked him.
“Oh, absolutely. It was a higher power intervening. It would never have been the same if I’d been living on a different floor or in a different building.”
My reversal of fortune (losing my job and getting sick) forced me to slow down, to rest and reflect. And with the time to do this, my life was beginning to turn in an unexpectedly positive direction, with new people and activities in it. This change—which also allowed me to spend more time with Katie—was about to present surprises and adventures that I never could have imagined.
As that spring ended, I continued attending support group meetings with John at the Community Center. Part of my “therapy” included participating in a theatrical production, a spoof of The Wizard of Oz.
I played the Scarecrow and Katie was cast as Toto. The old adage about never taking the stage with a baby or an animal proved true. Katie, a born entertainer, stole the show. She strutted around, tail wagging, ran down the yellow brick road after being seduced by a piece of chicken, and whirled in circles as she attempted to bite the Wicked Witch, growling on cue.
At the curtain call, with the applause pouring over her, Katie took her “bow” the wrong way, rolling on her back and spreading her legs (“No, Katie, sit!”).
Quickly correcting herself, she then scanned the audience, happily spotting Ryan, and raised her paw in thanks before running offstage for a cookie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Canine Cop
Three Apartments Become One
Linden trees were in full bloom in June 1993 when John and Ryan moved in. Our tree-lined Esplanade, abundant with beds of roses and hydrangeas, was filled with joggers and bikers, while the Hudson River was brimming with activity of every kind.
“Daddy, look at the boats!” hollered a wildly excited Ryan, transfixed at their living room window by the procession of motorboats and cruise liners.
The three-year-old, who loved miniature cars and anything on wheels, was almost bouncing off the walls that day, overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of his new neighborhood.
There wasn’t too much furniture to unload, as John owned just the basics, though there was no shortage of toys.
“No, Katie!” I shouted, grabbing out of her mouth a metal toy soldier that she was about to choke on. She then switched gears, snooping into each carton of playthings. She pulled out rubber ducks Ryan used in the tub and stuffed animals, shaking them around in her mouth, while Ryan kicked his soccer ball off the living room wall.
“Stop that, Ryan!” ordered John, rolling his eyes at me, unfazed by the controlled chaos. “You play soccer out in the hall.”
Katie was puzzled by the ball’s size, though she soon caught on to pushing it forward with her nose or paws, and within minutes, the twosome were chasing it down the hallway.
Despite the stresses of moving, John was, as usual, calm and controlled, allowing Ryan his freedom while keeping a watchful eye over him.
As a single parent, John was both Mom and Dad to his young son. And I noticed how skillfully he combined the best of both the maternal and paternal. He was a masculine guy, a newspaper sports editor who loved soccer, football, and computers, but was also highly sensitive and expressive. He was gently nurturing to Ryan and physically affectionate to him in the way a mom might be. Ryan would often curl up in John’s lap, his head resting on his shoulder, as John read to him.
“We’re going to have a blessing of our new apartment here tonight,” John told me, “and I’d like to invite you and Katie, Pearl, and Arthur to come over.”
I’d never heard of doing something like this. But John, a member of St. John’s in the Village Episcopal Church, explained that this was an ancient Jewish and Christian tradition observed centuries before, “one that has pretty much gone by the wayside in troubled times—and it’s good to get it started again.”
That evening, right at sunset, with the scent of the lindens drifting in from the water, there we were—Pearl, Arthur, John, Katie, and I—together with an Episcopal priest and a few friends close to John—all standing in a circle in John’s living room, holding hands.
It was such a peaceful, heartwarming scene, different from anything I’d experienced. “Being here,” the priest explained, “is acknowledging the new members of our community—and blessing their new house, which is now a home. Make it a haven for all who will be here.”
Pearl held onto Katie’s red leash, and Katie was obedient, sitting quietly, sensing that something solemn was under way.
The priest then handed the Book of Common Prayer to Arthur, who was a devout Jew, though intrigued to be participating in the service. He loved ritual and prayer and actually recited a short Hebrew passage of blessing before switching back to the Episcopal reading, “Graciously receive our thanks for this place… and put far from those who dwell here every root of bitterness, the desire of vainglory, and the pride of life. Turn the hearts of the parents to the children and enkindle fervent charity among us all, that we may evermore be kindly affectioned one to another. Amen.”
Although a few other passages followed, the words that really stuck with me that day were affectioned one to another—for that’s exactly what happened—and quickly.
John and I became fast friends and we established an open-door policy that allowed all of us to freely visit up and down the hallway. As John later reflected, “I think you and I trusted each other—and you and Pearl were so close, which is why she decided to welcome us into the circle. Katie was the tie between you and Pearl and, of course, I loved dogs, and missed my dogs, so Katie became a welcome new member of our household too.”
As for me, John’s presence in our building was a healing balm, almost as if he were the brother I’d never had. We had dinner out, went to meetings, spent hours with “the kid” and Granny. He was also my on-the-spot tech whiz, as he could fix or install virtually anything—and did.
When I needed help with a computer crash, my Internet account, or a lesson on instant messaging, e-mail, or any other technical matter, there he was. One day, when all my financial files on Quicken disappeared, he offered to restore them, and did so successfully, though it took him hours at his office. This was typical of his generosity.
It was especially because I was out of work and having serious physical problems that his presence really lifted my spirits. It was such a luxury having a contemporary to talk to, right down the hall, comparable to dormitory living. Day or night, I could just walk the 120 feet from one apartment to another, ready for a chat. And Katie was always game to play with Ryan.
As John folded Ryan’s laundry or assembled one of his many toys, we talked about anything and everything. We often shared observations about the people we knew at the Community Center, humorously roasting some of the quirkier characters we’d met. We also traded personal histories, exchanged war stories, and laughed riotously over the insanity of blind dates and the roller coaster of romance. Not one to give advice, John was an excellent listener who was expert at reflecting, philosophically, and talked about the importance of “letting go” and letting fate take its course. And of course, our main focus became Ryan and his blossoming connection to Katie, Pearl, Arthur, and me.
As I became closer to John, I could see that it wasn’t easy being a single dad, acting as both mother and father—getting Ryan dressed, bathed, reading to him, and playing soccer while juggling a full-time job, plus shopping, cleaning, and cooking.
While he had previously shared child raising with his partner of thirteen years, the end of that relationship had left the entire burden on John. Sometimes he looked pretty exhausted by it all.
He needed help.
True, it was obvious that Ryan was well-adjusted and blissfully happy with “Daddy John,” as he called him; but the fact remained that Ryan had no mother on the scene or grandparents, while his uncles, aunts, and cousins were all in the Midwest.
That left us—and we were only too happy to pitch in.
As John later observed, “At the time we moved in, Pearl definitely became Ryan’s surrogate grandmother. My mother and father were gone, there were no grandparents—so she was it!”
At first, though, Ryan experienced separation anxiety from his dad, as any child would.
One day, when John was away at work and I was babysitting, I took Ryan outside with me to the bank, Katie walking behind us. It broke my heart when Ryan suddenly started sobbing on the street. “I miss my daddy!” he wailed. I got down on my knees, face to face, and Ryan crumbled in my arms as I wrapped him in a hug. Katie started licking the tears off Ryan’s sweet face.
“Daddy loves you and so do I,” I told him. “He’ll be home very soon, I promise.” And I then cheered him up by buying him an ice-cream cone. A wide smile lit up his face, then a frown as Katie stole as much of that strawberry scoop as she possibly could.
During my college years in Boston, I’d been a Big Brother to an eight-year-old named Kenny—and I loved doing it. I took Kenny to the park, museums, movies, and restaurants—and was very upset when I had to leave him, moving to Baltimore for graduate school. Kenny wrote me a good-bye note, saying, “Please don’t ever forget me.” And I never did.
And now, eighteen years later, another child had entered my life, giving me another opportunity to offer what I could as a mentor and part-time babysitter.
At times when John was away, I filled up my bathtub with bubbles and Ryan climbed in with his rubber animals and boats. Katie watched from the sidelines as he blew bubbles at her. She hated having water splashed on her, and Ryan knew it, so he teased her by continuously flicking away at her. She’d put her paw in the air as if to say, “Stop it. I don’t like it,” though she tolerated it.
Afterward, I’d slick back Ryan’s hair with a comb, and he’d laugh hilariously at the sensation of having it blow-dried. “Now you know how Katie feels when she gets her hair done!” I joked, also spraying some cologne on him, and patting him down with baby powder. (Katie stared at all this, jealous of the attention.)
Ryan, standing on top of the toilet seat, would look at himself in the mirror, making faces and dancing around. He’d then agilely step into his footie Power Rangers pajamas and head to the nearby couch in the living room and quickly fall asleep under a cotton blanket, Katie curled up in a ball next to him.
The third floor of our building was now a noisy one, with “the kid,” as I nicknamed Ryan, and “the child,” his canine companion, racing around from one apartment to another.
After five years of Katie being the center of attention, having Ryan on the floor was a complete and welcome novelty, “almost as much fun as raising a puppy,” I joked to Pearl.
“And he can talk too,” she laughed, as entranced by her new charge as I was.
Pearl loved taking on this new role, spoiling her “boy” by whipping up wickedly delicious dinners—tomato and Vidalia onion salads, paprika chicken cutlets, fried zucchini and squash, mashed potatoes with garlic, all of it topped off with home-baked apricot-and-plum tarts or chocolate pies.
“Mmmmm!” Ryan grinned merrily, only some of the food getting into his mouth, while the rest of it was smudged all over his face or on the floor.
Voracious Katie, perched on a green dining chair right next to his, would crane her neck to the right, lick the crumbs and ice-cream off Ryan’s face, scour his empty plate, and then clean up the floor as well. Ryan giggled with delight at her industry.
On nights when Pearl made spaghetti, Ryan played one of his favorite games, holding each long strand of pasta way above Katie’s head, just to torture her with suspense, then dropping it into her mouth, one piece at a time.
“That’s my girl,” said Pearl, “a very good vacuum cleaner.”
Unlike Pearl, who reveled in babysitting and fussing over Ryan, Arthur was somewhat less enthusiastic. He was increasingly ailing physically, more susceptible to colds and respiratory infections than ever. He suffered from severe pain related to arthritis and shortness of breath caused by a heart condition.
Both challenges left him enervated and often depressed. So he mostly stayed indoors in his blue pajamas and plaid bathrobe, reading and watching TV, and, of course, snuggling with Katie.
Some mornings, Ryan would park himself in Arthur’s twin bed, eager to watch his favorite cartoons. That’s when the trouble began.
“The purple dinosaur!” Ryan demanded, announcing his preference for Barney. He also loved Power Rangers. But “Artur,” as Ryan mispronounced his name, liked neither.
As John later remembered, “Arthur would get so mad when ‘the kid’ would watch cartoons in his bed because he wanted to watch the races.”
Horses or cartoons—that was the question.
Sometimes Arthur did tolerate the dreaded cartoons, and watched absently as he fed his “girl” small chunks of apple as they stretched out together. Other times, he’d had enough.
“Stop changing channels, now!” shouted Arthur, taking the remote control back from Ryan, determined to have his way. And so it went, with the three-year-old and the eighty-three-year-old arguing over channels until Ryan was dismissed from the bedroom, dejected, angry, sometimes crying.
“Ryan, come to me,” soothed Pearl, leading him over to the dining table where she began teaching him the basics of Go Fish and War, distracting him from cartoons. There they sat, playing cards while Katie watched, sometimes snapping up a card with her mouth and chewing on it. “Pa-Re-El!” Ryan shouted. “Tell her to stop!” And Katie would guiltily drop it.
Meanwhile, Arthur, feeling mild regret, would eventually come out of the bedroom holding up Katie’s rubber ball, a peace offe
ring. At this, my dog would immediately run to the front door and scratch it, asking to be let out.
Ryan would be in a much better mood—and off they all would go, Katie leading the way for a down-the-hall race with Ryan (with Arthur as referee).
“Now watch the ball,” instructed Arthur, staring at his young charges. Both Katie and Ryan were on high alert, their eyes following his arm as he teased them with his warm-up. And then, he’d hurl the rubber ball to the far end of the hallway. Katie and Ryan took off in a flash, chasing after it.
With Ryan on her heels, and Pearl and Arthur cheering from their doorway, Katie galloped like the wind, each and every time faster than Ryan. She nimbly scooped the ball up with her mouth, and then, without stopping at the hall’s end, looped back around for the return trip down to Arthur’s door, where she dropped the ball at his feet, hoping he’d throw it again.
“Girlie, you’re fast!” grinned Arthur, congratulating Katie with a biscuit.
“She got a head start,” Ryan grumbled, racing to the door and demanding a rematch. So off they went again and again, until both boy and dog were completely winded.
Ryan was learning the art of being a good loser, while the “winner” promenaded in victory up and down the hall, having proved herself the alpha creature of the pack.
More than ever, our red-carpeted corridor was home base for Katie, her very own play space. To our seventeen neighbors along the hallway, who never socialized with one another, this public space meant little. But to Katie, it was her territory and frame of reference, the passageway connecting our three apartments.
I began to see that she instinctively used this hallway to glue us all together. She beckoned us up or down it with her head, in whatever direction suited her, and pulled us out of one apartment and into another. She was our canine traffic cop, a four-legged busybody telling us where she wanted us.
Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family Page 10
