“There’s nobody like that girl!” Granny now bragged to all her older women friends, some of whom were jealous of Pearl’s new “find.”
And Pearl wasn’t the only household member being seduced by Naia’s charms. One night, just before bedtime, I let myself into Pearl’s apartment to pick up Katie for the night. And there was my dog, sitting on Naia’s lap, hypnotized as Naia sang a lilting lullaby to her—in Georgian! What a scene. Katie soon dropped her head on Naia’s lap and fell asleep, Naia stroking her head like a baby.
Katie was entranced by Naia and followed her everywhere, as hopelessly in love with her as she was with Ramon.
And so, as if Pearl and I didn’t lavish enough attention on Katie, Naia was now doing double duty, acting as Katie’s aide as well—feeding her, cleaning out her water and food bowls, taking her on walks, brushing her ears, giving her vitamins and medicine, making special snacks for her, and kindly cleaning up after my fourteen-year-old when she had accidents.
“I love dogs, don’t worry, it’s nothing unmanageable,” Naia assured me, fully aware of how therapeutic it was having Katie in Pearl’s apartment. “Katie,” she wisely surmised, “is Pearl’s baby—but more like a queen.”
After six months of intense involvement in our household, with all her industry, I could see that the stresses of the job—and homesickness—were getting to Naia. She sorely missed her family, all of them back in Georgia.
I worried about her, as did Granny. “That girl works too hard,” Pearl told me. And I agreed, soon suggesting that she take weekends off. So we hired one of her Georgian friends as the weekend aide.
On Sunday nights when Naia returned, Katie practically leapt into her arms, racing around her in circles before trotting over to a living room cabinet and sitting still as a statue in front of it, staring at the Humpty Dumpty cookie jar where Naia kept her snacks.
Then, there we were, sitting around Pearl’s table just like in the old days, though the players had changed. John and Ryan were gone, their chairs now filled by Naia and Lee—who visited almost every day.
Afterward, Katie scooted in Pearl’s bed for an after-dinner snooze and a round of TV. I’d come by around 9:00 p.m. to gently lift her off the bed, say good night to Pearl and Naia, and then take Katie outside for her final walk.
At last, things were getting back to normal.
But by the summer of 2002, I was very worried about Katie. It seemed we were always going to the vet—she had an ear or urinary infection, an upset stomach, a sore hip, an infected paw, inflammation in her eyes, or she was listless with no appetite. You name it, she had it—and despite my furious attempts to keep her going, nothing was really working. It was wearing us both down.
Sometimes, though, Katie was almost like her old self again, bringing me toys and chasing squirrels outside; but more and more, she was out of gas and could hardly move, hiding in bed next to Granny and refusing to budge.
Now close to fifteen—which would be about eighty-three in human years—she relied mostly on smell and memory, and was nearly blind due to cataracts. Her vision was almost entirely blocked in her left eye, and only partially serviceable in her right.
“An operation is up to you,” the ophthalmologist at the animal hospital had told me, “though at her age, you might just leave it alone.”
It was really upsetting to see my incredibly intelligent dog disoriented and confused, her dignity bruised when she bumped into walls, producing a stunned look on her face.
“You’re a good little girl, it’s okay, now let’s go this way,” I said, guiding her toward the bedroom by keeping my hands on either side of her, then giving her a boost onto the bed, as she hobbled forward.
Katie was also going deaf, oblivious to her own name if you called it from behind, though she still willingly followed commands when she could hear them (most enjoyably, “over” for a belly rub). Like many canine seniors, she heard what she wanted to. When it came to a snack, of course, her ears pricked right up.
Most serious was Katie’s arthritis, which made it painful, at times almost impossible, to walk. Some mornings, she would limp pitifully until she got warmed up and ready to move. More than once, she screeched out in pain when I tried to hitch up her leash and take her out for a walk, her legs collapsing under her. This was incredibly sad.
“My poor little girlie,” whispered Pearl, looking distressed by all this as she sat nearby in her wheelchair. “We’re both getting so old!”
On days Katie couldn’t walk at all, I’d carry her to the street as I did when she was a baby, gently setting her down on the pavement, waiting for her to go. More and more, she couldn’t even squat because her legs were too weak to hold her weight.
Inside the house, she’d stumble on the way to her food dish, though anxious to get there. And even when I picked her up to take her back into bed, she was so fragile that she would wince at my touch.
In short, seeing Katie so frail, and witnessing her steady deterioration, was devastating. It broke my heart to see a dog who had once raced through the park and leapt on and off the bed like a gymnast now reduced to limping her way to the door, her wobbly legs barely able to support her.
Even worse, Katie, who had always been perfectly housebroken, was now often incontinent, wandering into the living room at night to relieve herself. Sometimes, at 3:00 a.m. I’d find her in the midst of it all—and to my regret, I sometimes lost patience with her. I can still see her desperately remorseful expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it, Dad. Please forgive me.”
And with her tail down, she would slink off to the marble floor of the bathroom, knowing that she should stay away from the carpet. I’d find her curled up on the cold tile, shivering, her head tucked into her front paws.
When I walked in to take her back into the bedroom, she looked up at me so astutely, her eyes expressing the sadness we both felt.
Yet, during that summer, even though Katie was ailing, she still liked going outside at sunset to relax by the water. Most nights, I’d choose a bench just a few feet from the river’s edge opposite the Statue of Liberty, and she’d contentedly sit on my lap, snuggling in against me.
With the wind blowing her ears, Katie would extend her head toward the water and sniff away, curious as ever. And as sailboats caught the wind and glided by, Katie enjoyed the breezes, her tail wagging as she accepted pats on the head from her friends passing us.
Then, with the sun sliding down the sky and the temperature dropping, she’d shiver and bury her head in my arm, or take cover under my jacket, with just her head poking out of it.
I’d often talk into her ear, telling her what a good girl she was, using some of her favorite words. Sometimes, when I was in the middle of a sentence, she’d turn her head and quickly lick my face, up and down, as if to say, “Dad, I love you.” This was the greatest sensation—better than the view.
Sharing that bench together at sunset, feeling her weight against me, was peaceful and meditative, the best part of the day. I loved my dog so much and felt as protective of her as if she’d been a baby, especially now, when she was so fragile and in pain.
After nearly fifteen years together, the bond between us was something beyond words. So on those magical nights at sunset, I savored our moments together under the linden trees and wished they could last forever.
During that summer of 2002, Oldest, whose health had been stable, was suddenly acting strangely—disoriented and increasingly confused.
Some days, alone in her bedroom, she would talk to an ancient hand-painted porcelain doll (one leg broken) that she had treasured as a little girl. On and on, she would tell the doll her sweet secrets, sharing her fears of the dark and her thoughts about everything from the weather to the stock market.
On other days, she’d be having conversations with her deceased mother or Arthur, pointing toward her bedroom closet, telling me that they were hiding in there.
Sometimes, thankfully, she was completely lucid. You just neve
r knew. Was this senile dementia or something more?
It turned out to be both. We learned that summer that Pearl had a benign, slow-growing brain tumor. Although it wasn’t necessary to remove the growth, I was told that it would very gradually make her overall mental functioning worsen. “God,” sighed Lee, “as if that poor woman hasn’t gone through enough.”
We didn’t tell Pearl about the tumor, figuring it would serve no purpose. She was finding it difficult enough just to function day-to-day. I did, of course, discuss Pearl’s medical condition with her family. Although Pearl wasn’t particularly close to Edith, the niece she’d stayed with after 9/11, she did periodically keep in touch with her and appreciated what she had done for her during those difficult days.
I was glad to see that Pearl’s grand-niece, Susan, and grand-nephew, James, continued to be a source of joy for Pearl. Although they were not close by, with Susan in London and James in Boston, Pearl delighted in their phone calls, notes, and visits. We were always hearing stories of how sweet they were and about their accomplishments. James and his mother, Edith, had attended Pearl’s eighty-fifth birthday party at my apartment, and I periodically kept them updated on Pearl’s health as they were quite concerned about it.
And as Pearl became progressively worse, I’d often reach out, especially to James, to brief him about her treatment. In the end, though, being unavailable to provide hands-on care, Pearl’s relatives came to largely depend on me—together with Naia—as Pearl’s primary support system, figuring that all was basically well while we were around. Clearly, keeping Pearl at home in Battery Park City was far preferable to putting her in an assisted-living facility or in a nursing home.
Her moods, however, were now volatile and unpredictable. After a psychiatric consultation, Pearl was given prescriptions for a tranquilizer, an antidepressant, and antianxiety medication. True, she was no longer as nervous or panicky, but now she was so doped up with the pills that she spent most of her time in bed, sound asleep or dozing.
Naia was more actively involved in nursing Pearl than ever, expertly juggling the array of prescribed pills. She often ground them up and put them into her food, as Pearl found it difficult to swallow them.
“She was better physically than mentally,” Naia observed. “She still had great posture, and wonderful manners—and I envied her strength.”
To Katie, of course, Granny’s state of mind made absolutely no difference. She burrowed in right next to her, keeping her warm and snuggling mornings and nights, happy to be close.
As the months passed, Granny and Katie spent more and more time in bed sleeping the day away, their long afternoon naps extending late into the day. It was so poignant seeing them together, both aging and ailing, but still bonded for life.
Katie may have lost her vision, her hearing, and her energy for going outside, but she never lost her love for Granny—or me.
That fall, thanks to the medication, Granny’s mood suddenly stabilized and her spirits slowly revived. We all started laughing again. As always, Lee came by every single day—and Pearl loved it. They talked for hours at a time, either in her bedroom or at our local coffee shop just a block away.
Even though Pearl was old enough to be Lee’s mother, they related as if they were complete contemporaries. Although Pearl was sometimes confused, she was no less opinionated than before and offered her views about everything.
“Why do all these girls walk around naked in the middle of the fall?” was one of Pearl’s frequent questions, referring to the army of joggers on the Esplanade. “In my day, even hookers had more clothes on. What happened to good manners?”
“Beats me,” laughed Lee.
“George Bush,” she observed one day, “is suddenly a hero [thanks to 9/11], but I still think he’s a zero”—her astute assessment of him borne out by many political pundits.
One night in early fall, I pulled out a Donald Duck hat I’d purchased for Pearl at Disney World twelve years earlier.
“Remember this, Oldest?” I asked Granny, handing it to her.
She happily put on the hat, looking absolutely ridiculous in it as she nonchalantly chatted away with Lee before breaking into giggles. Katie looked up quizzically, wondering about that odd thing on Granny’s head.
“I’ve seen worse hats, though I’ve looked better in them,” Pearl said, mugging for the camera as I snapped away. Later on, the photos reminded me that, even in her weakened state, Granny never lost her game spirit or her wit. On her worst day she was more fun than many people were on their best.
One evening, she was visiting with a friend of mine who had a constant battle with the bulge. “You look thinner,” she told him.
When I came into the room, he joyfully turned to me, and said, “Granny says I look thin.”
Pearl shot him a look, and retorted, “I didn’t say that. I said you look thinner.”
That was our Granny!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Nocturne
In late 2002, as Indian summer turned to fall in Battery Park City, Katie was really struggling. Ever since 9/11, she had become increasingly frail and the old mischief and bounce were unmistakably fading away. On our walks outside along the marina, even when it wasn’t cold, she often shivered and was out of breath, no longer very interested in the birds or squirrels.
I felt terrible as she just limped along, trying her best to walk despite the pain in her legs and inability to see or hear. We were both battling against the inevitable.
For months, I’d been trying to patch together another good day for her, but it wasn’t working. Her moments of tail-wagging, snatching up her toys, playing tug-of-war, or smiling up at me with her tongue hanging out were over. Some days she wouldn’t even go near her food bowl.
As a senior citizen of the dog world, Katie’s sadness had only increased with her physical infirmities. Her beautiful brown eyes were swollen and bulging due to fluid buildup. Only able to see blurs and shadows, she was bumping into walls more and more. It was pitiful. And her failing hearing only exacerbated the problem.
Most of the time, her inability to hear me except when I was right in front of her face seemed to put her in a fog. She wandered aimlessly around the apartment, often in circles.
Of course, her nose and memory never failed and she always knew when Naia was frosting a cake, lying patiently on the kitchen floor waiting for a lick of the spoon. This was a pleasure she could still enjoy.
But making matters worse, she was now almost entirely incontinent, an indignity that I know she hated. She’d always been in control of herself and extremely clean. But now, after every accident, her tail went straight down, her head hanging low to the ground in defeat. The lethargy of her demeanor spoke volumes, her depression evident in the droop of her head.
In short, without her vision or hearing, and barely able to walk, she had lost interest in life, content to sleep the days away. I knew what was coming, though I didn’t want to contemplate it.
Euthanasia was a prospect that the vet had suggested more than once over the last few months, but I was fighting it. I would have preferred waiting until Katie had a natural passing, all on her own. But I was told that that was not the humane thing to do when a dog is in constant pain and in failing health. One part of me saw the wisdom in ending my dog’s misery, while the other thought I should wait and let nature take its course. After all, Katie didn’t have a terminal illness or cancer, though she was often in severe pain due to the arthritis.
Naturally, I had talked with Pearl about it as much as I could—but she was firmly opposed to having Katie put to sleep. “She’s not ready yet,” Granny said stubbornly, her expression filled with fear and a sense of profound sadness. I sometimes wondered if she was talking about Katie or herself. I think she understood that Katie was ready to go, but, even so, it was impossible to say good-bye.
But by November of that year, I could no longer avoid the decision about euthanasia, as Katie was barely able to move at all, her int
erest in life seemingly gone. And so, with dread, I had finally made up my mind.
The morning of November 19 was cold and blustery. Granny had had a restless night and had taken a sleeping pill, which finally knocked her out. “She can’t get up,” Naia told me. And I was relieved, as I desperately wanted to avoid this farewell.
The night before, Katie had had a good time with Pearl, eating from her plate and licking her face over and over again. I thought maybe it was best to leave it this way and gently break the news later, sparing Granny the pain of a final good-bye.
So early that morning, I asked Lee to accompany me to the vet’s office, intending to put Katie to sleep. I couldn’t quite believe I was going to do it—but knew I couldn’t face it alone.
Lee was pale as we got into a taxi, tears filling her eyes. She was opposed to my decision, though she respected it. As she later told me, “On the way up to the doctor’s office, you had Katie on your lap and you were crying too. I wasn’t sure what you were going to do.” Truthfully, neither was I.
In the taxi, Katie slept in my arms, her head falling over my wrist. She was oblivious to her surroundings.
“She’s very thin,” the vet told me, “twenty-one pounds, down from twenty-eight. That’s a lot.” She was so weak she couldn’t stand on the exam table, and the vet gently held her as he listened to her heart. He then calmly explained the procedure for euthanizing a dog. I hated hearing it and felt panicked.
After listening to all of it, I said, “No, I can’t do it.” And I’ll never forget his answer, “I think she’s ready, but you’re not.”
And it was true. I just couldn’t do it.
On the way out of the vet’s office, I optimistically bought a twenty-pound bag of Katie’s favorite dog food—Prescription Diet.
When we got home from the vet, I carried a very drowsy Katie into the elevator and up to the third floor. Once we got in the hallway, though, she perked up and squirmed out of my arms, pressing onward toward Granny’s half-open door. Whereas she used to easily push it open with both paws, she now scratched against it weakly, her breath heavy.
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