There she was at 6:00 p.m., racing down the hallway to pick up Ryan and herd him over to Pearl’s for dinner. Then she’d make her way down to my apartment and scratch at my door, reminding me to come down as well.
After dinner, she’d race up and down the hall with Ryan again, with or without the ball, eventually herding him home to his apartment before returning to Pearl’s to say good night—and then on home to me. She clocked more mileage than a car.
It was Katie—and only Katie—who could physically keep up with Ryan. “That’s her job,” joked John, “wearing Ryan out before bedtime.”
On nights when “Daddy John” came home late from the newspaper, he’d often find Ryan stretched out on Pearl’s living room couch, Katie on top of him, her paws protectively on his chest as the little boy slept.
And so, with her new friends down the hallway, Katie had expanded her role—not only a devoted companion to Arthur and Pearl, but also Ryan’s enthusiastic playmate and fierce protector.
This last role was vividly displayed one day at our elevator when an aggressive eighty-five-pound Labrador retriever came along and barked at Ryan in a threatening manner. Katie, all of twenty-eight pounds, sprang into action, moving in front of Ryan and growling ferociously at the large dog as she cut him off, unafraid, seemingly ready to rip out his throat. The Lab backed away.
No dog was going to harm Ryan while she was around.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Over the next year, we continued all our breakfasts, dinners, and impromptu visits up and down the hall, Katie gaining a few extra pounds despite her racing around until she was put on a special diet that no longer included Krispy Kreme donuts.
At Christmas, she got dressed up in a red coat and green hat and posed for pictures for Joe, our dog mentor, who always had a fantastic tree strung with pearls and glitter. He now proudly approved of the way Katie had matured and invited us twenty floors up for eggnog. Katie trotted into his kitchen and sat there patiently, waiting for a biscuit until she got one.
“Just one, Katie, and that’s it!” he told her. Hearing the tone in his voice, she walked away from him after snatching it out of his hand.
As smart and determined as she was, Katie, like most dogs, wanted and needed structure and direction, and to this end, loved being talked to.
Right from the start, I got into the habit of having conversations with her, eye to eye, and I could tell that she clearly “understood” much of what I said. “Now, listen up, child, you’re a good little dog, you are, but you have to learn your manners. No biting, no scratching your nails on the furniture, no getting up on the white couch, and no accidents. And if you’re good, you’ll get a cookie or a nice piece of chicken.” Her ears immediately pricked up at these key words.
No, she didn’t understand every word, but she did intuit the meaning of them from my tone, inflection, volume, and repetition of key phrases. Her vocabulary of about sixty words included good, bad, no, eat, hungry, go out, go ahead (meaning to do her business) stay, sit, come, and beat it.
If I asked, “What are you doing?” her head anxiously went up, as she stopped the offense. She also was well-acquainted with cookie, treat, cake, coat, ball, keys, sock, and bone, to mention just a few of her favorite things to eat or chew on.
And when she heard “get in your house,” she always hightailed it back into her crate, happy to recline on her blue blanket while keeping a watchful eye on me.
With this arsenal of words at her command, and her ability to get the gist of my meaning, Katie was fully communicative.
Beyond her intelligence, her startling beauty was undeniable. Now age six, she had, according to a breeder who saw her, “one of the most beautiful cocker faces I’ve seen.” In fact, a talented street artist I’d met in the shopping arcade at the World Financial Center drew a striking color pastel of Katie—capturing perfectly her soulful brown eyes flecked with gold, the long curly blond eyelashes, the pert black nose, and a face that was less square than most cockers’, its contours feminine and expressive.
Her groomer, Betty, had created what we now called “the Katie cut,” an unorthodox style for a cocker spaniel because it eliminated the long “skirt” that traditionally swept the ground on show dogs—the carpet sweeper style worn by Joe’s Dinah. Instead, Betty cut Katie’s silky coat close to the body.
“Girlfriend, get up here and give me five!” Betty commanded.
“This one’s a devil,” she told the groomer next to her. “Smart as a whip—but I’ve got her in line.” Who had who “in line” I wasn’t so sure.
Katie would merrily lift her paw and playfully hit Betty with it. She’d roll over on her stomach, paws straight into the air, manipulating Betty for a belly rub. But later on, she’d patiently lift each paw as directed, and hold it up as Betty trimmed around her nails. (During the entire two hours, Betty never stopped chattering away, and Katie seemed fascinated by every word.)
Betty would avoid shaving down Katie’s head and instead left behind a fluffy “eyebrow,” a fringe of hair, like an awning, just above her eyes. This made her look quite distinctive, though ridiculous when the brow got wet or sticky from food, which made it stand straight up. That always reminded me of the classic “hair gel” scene in the movie There’s Something About Mary.
With her shampoo, crème rinse conditioner, and blow dry—not to mention her manicure and pedicure—Katie would emerge from each grooming a lustrous stunner. Sometimes when she held perfectly still, she almost looked unreal.
One day right after a grooming, Katie and I walked into Bergdorf Goodman, a Fifth Avenue department store that was dog friendly and lots of fun to browse in. She trotted into the elevator and we went up to the seventh floor (“Home”) where they had bedsheets. While I was looking through the shelves, I told her, “Katie, SIT. Good girl. Now Staaaay.” And she froze.
A moment later, a customer came by and I heard him ask a saleswoman, “How much is that?”
I turned around and this well-dressed businessman was pointing to Katie. He thought Katie was a stuffed animal!
When Katie then came to life and walked over to him, the startled man took in a breath, embarrassed.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I laughed. “She’s flattered.”
On the subway home, a young man in baggy pants and chains who looked like a rapper came into the car. I noticed him staring at Katie as she slept in my arms. He walked over to me: “How much?”
“Huh?”
“How much for the dog?” he asked.
Oh my God. “No, she’s not for sale, sorry.”
“I’ll give you two hundred.” I held onto her firmly, sensing a possible dog mugging.
Such are the perils of beauty (hers, not mine).
After that, especially as dogs weren’t allowed in the subway except if they were in a kennel, we took taxis.
One evening after a dinner at Pearl’s (Katie dragging her freshly groomed ears through a plate of spaghetti), a warming thought dawned on me, almost an epiphany.
For five years, we had been a strong band of four—Arthur, Pearl, Katie, and I. But with John and Ryan now so close to us, we had expanded to six, forming our own little “family” right in the building. It felt like we were now complete, just as close to one another as any biological family could be.
That night, as I lay in bed with Katie snoring softly next to me (exhausted from multiple races up and down the hall), I realized that I had never felt such deep contentment.
For much of my adult life, I’d been continually searching for a romantic relationship. However, I often wound up instead with false starts, mismatches, or relatively brief periods of connection followed by disappointment and frustration. I never quite got it right.
As a result, I’d often felt displaced, isolated, and oddly alone, even though I had many close friends and a supportive family. So the great void remained. I continued on my quest, always looking for that one relationship that
, I hoped, would heal the emptiness I felt. It had never happened.
But everything changed when I turned in a new direction.
Suddenly, with no effort or planning, that empty space in my life was completely filled by my new “family.” This was a huge shift that allowed me to open up in a way that I had never done before.
All the closeness, support, and connection I’d hoped for were right there for me—the nonstop action up and down the hall incredibly therapeutic.
Having spent so many years seeking the spotlight and a byline, I suddenly had nothing to prove. It was a real relief. And for the first time in many years, I felt as if I could actually relax.
True, I had lost my footing professionally, but what I had gained was a new appreciation of family.
Life now was like living in a college dorm, with doors constantly opening and closing, lots of crisscrossing in and out of each apartment, and all of us bonding ever more closely.
This didn’t mean that I didn’t date or strive for an intimate relationship. But in the meantime, our group provided a home for my heart, a steady source of security and love. It was a solid foundation upon which I could build an emotional life—with or without a mate.
And on nights when Ryan gave me a big hug and kiss good night and Katie returned home to sleep, exhausted from the races, I realized how much I looked forward to the next day in a way that I never had before.
We all felt invigorated by Ryan’s endless energy, which boosted everyone’s spirits, day or night. I was amazed by the way he had bonded with Pearl so quickly, completely adoring and wanting to be with her as much as possible.
“In fact,” John told me one night, “Pearl is probably closer to Ryan than most grandmothers would be to their grandchildren because she lives right down the hall, so she can see him on a daily basis.” True enough. How many grandparents have that kind of access?
It was touching to see Ryan throw his arms around Pearl’s neck, shyly giving her a kiss. “He’s a great hugger—he’s my boy,” she’d beam.
Watching John’s face at such moments, I could see the pleasure it gave him to expand his boy’s world, and how gratified and supported he felt by Pearl’s presence in his son’s life.
Pearl was also making a difference in John’s life. She had not only become a de facto grandmother to Ryan, but also an unofficial mom to John, giving him advice about everything from health and cooking to dating and child care.
“Pa-Re-El was telling me just today what to do about one of my bosses at work—that he should shove it!” John laughed, grateful for her unconditional support and grandmotherly pluck.
All in all, things could not have been better for all of us, except that Arthur was slowing down more and more. Although he was just as mentally acute as ever—a voracious reader of espionage thrillers and a devoted sports fan who could cite any score—his physical energy was flagging.
When I had first met him six years earlier, he was in and out of the apartment throughout the day, taking long walks with Katie, chatting in the lobby with neighbors, and dropping into shops along our street.
But now, Arthur was mostly housebound, rarely leaving the house except for doctors’ appointments, since he had difficulty walking due to arthritis and swelling in his feet.
Pearl had always been Arthur’s caretaker, but now, more than ever, she watched over him, administered his medications, and took him to all his medical appointments. Other than visiting doctors, their outings became fewer and fewer.
More than ever, Pearl’s dining table became our main meeting place, the center of our world. For Arthur especially, mealtime gave the day structure—and he looked forward to it immensely.
Pearl would go out to the farmers’ market to scout for fresh vegetables and fruits, and by dinnertime the apartment was filled with mouthwatering aromas. By then, both Katie and Arthur were raring to go, emerging from their long afternoon naps in the bedroom with happy expectation.
While Arthur walked slowly, grumbling about his “charley horse” and pain in his feet, Katie ran ahead, jumping up on the green dining chair right next to his chair, her paws resting on the table as usual. Arthur then settled in, surveying the pot roast or paprika chicken.
And as the meal progressed, Katie kept an eagle eye on the proceedings. First she’d polish off her own dinner of dog food, eating it from the bowl set on the table. Then she’d beg Arthur for bits of chicken and corn, whimpering as she whacked his arm with her paw.
“Steady now, hold it girlie, stay!” he’d tease her, just as Ryan often did, lifting up a tasty morsel above Katie until he was ready to pop it into her mouth.
“Don’t torture her,” I’d say as Pearl looked on, satisfied that everybody appreciated her culinary effort.
As we all sat together, joined by Ryan and John, there was something poignant about watching Pearl and Arthur conversing about current events, neighborhood gossip, and Katie’s antics, still engaged in lively dialogues after more than fifty years of marriage.
“Pearl, dear,” Arthur would say, gesturing for her to pass the potatoes, “tell everyone about that honeymoon meal we had in Atlantic City,” to which Pearl would vividly recount the greatest clam chowder and stuffed flounder she’d ever tasted. “Atlantic City wasn’t all glitzed up back then,” Arthur chimed in, pointing to the couple’s favorite photo perched up on their mahogany liquor cabinet—the black-and-white shot of them on the boardwalk.
As they chatted, I had plenty of time to observe the little things that told the entire story of the love they shared. Pearl would get up after dinner and stand behind his chair, putting both of her hands firmly on each of his shoulders, and massaging them. He’d lean back and close his eyes, comforted by her touch. Other times, he’d lightly touch her arm and stroke it, compliment her on dinner, and politely ask for dessert in the living room. Later on, they’d watch basketball and baseball together on the TV, cheering for the New York Knicks or Yankees.
Pearl was genuinely interested in what Arthur had to say—even when he repeated himself. Over dinner, he’d often launch into one of his old (and corny) jokes for the umpteenth time, his energetic (and dry) delivery making it new again. One of his favorites was his “matchmaker” story, which he’d cart out for anyone new who came to dinner.
“A marriage broker offered Morty a beautiful young girl, a real prize, to be his wife,” began Arthur. “But Morty was stubborn. ‘I’m a businessman,’ Morty argued. ‘Before I buy material from a mill, I look at swatches. So before I get married, I gotta have a sample also.’
“The broker had no choice but to relay the message to the girl. ‘He says he has to know exactly what he’s buying and insists on a sample.’
“‘Listen,’ the girl replied, ‘I’m also good at business. A sample I don’t give. But, I will give him references!’” Arthur would then erupt in uproarious laughter and Pearl would join in heartily.
And on it went, with Arthur’s high spirits carrying us all along.
But then, a shadow was cast over our world in the fall of 1994, when Arthur was hospitalized with pneumonia. Weeks before, he’d been coughing, unable to shake off a bad cold. Increasingly depressed, he seemed more detached than usual, even spending less and less time with Katie, who sat on top of him every chance she got.
Pearl was very upset and went to the hospital every morning, as soon as visiting hours began. And I often went with her, wanting to see Arthur and give her the support she needed. She was so stressed out. All of her life, Pearl had been Arthur’s only caretaker, as much his mother as his wife, and she’d done an excellent job of it. But now, Arthur’s condition was out of her control.
On one of our visits, Arthur was disoriented, tortured by the intravenous tubes running in and out of him, including a feeding tube down his throat.
“Please,” he whispered in a raspy voice, firmly gripping my wrist, “cut the tubes with a penknife!” I knew he wasn’t thinking correctly, and it broke my heart to see him this way. He was in
so much pain and wanted out of it. “Please, do it!” he begged.
Afterward, Pearl and I were both shaken and walked across the street from New York Hospital to a little Chinese restaurant and shared lunch as we frequently did. We talked quietly about Arthur’s worsening condition and I saw something in Pearl’s eyes that I’d never seen before—fear.
At nights, Arthur’s chair was empty at our “family dinners.” We missed the deep sound of his voice and his commonsense remarks, even his complaints about the cartoons. Every night, Ryan asked about “Artur’s” condition. Katie obviously missed him too, as she napped alone on his lounge chair, looking forlorn.
Then, one freezing day in early January 1995, Pearl went to the hospital alone to see Arthur. Late that afternoon, she knocked on my door. When I opened it, she was so pale.
For the first time ever, this strong, proud woman—the stoic, always upbeat matriarch of our family—was crushed, tears filling her eyes as we embraced.
I knew.
“Oh, no… I’m so sorry.”
“They tried to save him, more than once,” she whispered, “but it was too late. And….” She choked on her words as I led her over to my couch.
Pearl and Arthur had been married for fifty-nine years, and now Arthur was gone, at age eighty-five.
“We almost made it to sixty,” Pearl smiled. She sat down on the couch and gazed out of the window while absently holding Katie close.
We were all bereft. Ryan was too young to fully understand what had happened, though he cried when John explained that Arthur was in heaven and was never coming back. “Never?!” he asked.
For weeks afterward, Katie moped around Pearl’s apartment, aware of Arthur’s absence and mournfully lying on his favorite chair, almost as if guarding it for him as she slept on his bathrobe, which held his scent. Without him, there was a deafening silence in apartment 3C.
The next day, we all accompanied Pearl to the cemetery up in Westchester County in the most atrocious weather imaginable. It was stormy and depressing with teeming rain, high winds, and mud slides. Pearl almost lost her footing as we made our way down a hill to the family plot. I held onto her left arm while Ryan tightly gripped her right hand, and John held a giant umbrella over all of us. Katie sank into the wet ground, the mud covering most of her paws, but she soldiered on and sat at attention as Arthur’s coffin was lowered.
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