A few days earlier, desperately needing someone to talk to about the prospect of putting Katie to sleep, I had turned to my lifelong friend, Paul, whom I’d first met in college at a conservatory of music where we’d both been aspiring concert pianists. He had stuck with it; I didn’t and became a writer.
Paul was a very calm, steady force in my life, a philosopher at heart who was a great support during this time. He offered to come down from Boston for a few days to help out.
Granny adored the handsome Paul (an amateur bodybuilder) and flirted shamelessly with him. During his summer visits, they would talk for hours and often went on long walks along the Hudson River holding hands. Katie also loved Paul and would nap for hours with her head on his foot or stomach, and she typically refused to sleep with me on nights he was visiting.
Paul was also a devoted dog owner who had euthanized his beloved Cleo, a Lab-Doberman mix, two years earlier, so he understood the agonizing conflict about putting a dog to sleep, a subject we had talked about frequently by phone.
“Howdy,” whispered Paul, who arrived at my door later that very day with just his backpack and a small box of dog biscuits for Katie. It was fantastic seeing him again, looking robust and energetic as always. Katie was resting under the coffee table in the living room and opened just one eye as Paul walked into the room. Her tail started wagging as her nose identified him.
“Hello, girl,” said Paul, bending down to play with her. She was lethargic, sleepy, and mostly unresponsive, though she gave him one long lick on his cheek.
“Wow,” exclaimed Paul, struck by the drastic deterioration in Katie since the time he’d seen her eighteen months earlier. “She’s a tired little soldier.”
She fell back asleep on his lap.
“You know,” Paul told me as he gently stroked her head, “having worked at a nursing home, Katie’s demeanor reminds me of some very elderly people I knew. As people get near the end, there’s a kind of gauzy veil that comes down between them and everyday reality. Their reactions are slow and not quite appropriate—almost as if they already have one foot on the other side.
“Based on my perception of Katie,” Paul continued, “she is ready to go. I probably would have done it a little sooner.”
I told Paul about what had happened at the vet earlier that day. He understood why I had changed my mind about euthanasia, though our conversation about it made me believe that I had made the wrong decision.
“You know what? Tomorrow morning, if you’ll go with me, I’m going to try again. I do think you’re right. It’s time.”
“Whatever you decide,” Paul said, his arm around my shoulder, “I’m there.”
That night, Katie seemed revived, much more energetic, which only made me doubt my decision once again. A group of us all had dinner at Granny’s apartment—Paul, Naia, Lee, and I. It was a lively happy evening, just like the old days. I balanced Katie on my lap at the table as Granny fed her bits of chicken, some rice, toast, and a little pound cake. Although Katie couldn’t see, she ruled that dining table with the same authority as always and had a great appetite, licking frosting off Granny’s hand.
The next morning began deliciously, with Katie burrowed under the heavy down comforter, snoring away softly as she leaned into my chest, warm as a little oven.
An expert snuggler, Katie had her wet black nose pressed up against me, and those comically long spaniel ears draped across one of my arms. I never tired of having her next to me. Waking up next to Katie, even after all these years, was incredibly comforting. Her mere presence—the powdery smell of her warm little belly—could wipe away a bad dream or any lingering worry.
But on this day, I was feeling anything but good, dreading the day and what it would bring. Katie’s familiar presence was bittersweet and haunting—and I hated the idea of taking her back to the vet. Even though I had vowed that today would be the day, I still wasn’t 100 percent sure. A stab of panic went through me as I tried to wrap my mind around the idea that this was the last morning of Katie’s life, the last time we’d ever wake up together again.
On many mornings, especially when she was in the midst of a happy dog dream, Katie would often wake me up with the swat of her tail against my stomach, her eyes—framed by those long blond lashes—blissfully sealed shut.
But now, with her joints so stiff, she understandably was immobilized under the sheets.
“Come on, Katie,” I whispered, nudging her gently. “Ready to go?”
In healthier days, she’d play a game: just one eyelid would open, slyly, then quickly close again, her decision firm.
It was her way of saying, “No way, Dad, I need my rest!” She’d then playfully slide farther down the bed, head pointed down toward my feet.
But now, she wasn’t moving at all, though she was breathing peacefully.
Katie had always been a regal dog, headstrong and imperious, and seeing her weak and vulnerable was heartbreaking. Yet I knew she had to go outside to relieve herself. Although I intended on carrying her, I first had to get her in a coat so she wouldn’t freeze on the cold November day. Again, I tried to get her to sit up in the bed by raising the pitch of my voice into a seduction that had always worked in the past.
“Come oooooon, doggie. You can do it!”
She briefly opened her eyes, but slid further away. “No!”
It would have taken an entire cake rather than just a cookie to rouse her, for sleep was her great pleasure.
Eventually, she surfaced from beneath the sheet, only her nose above it, stretched up a bit, and licked my nose as she yawned lazily in my face. Her mouth was wide open, as if to say, “Dad! I’m too tired to move. I can’t.”
But always such a good girl, she finally sat up on the bed and waited for me to get her ready. She held up her paws, one at a time, compliantly slipping them into the “arm” holes of her pink wool coat, resigned to the inevitable trip outside, this time with Paul keeping us company.
I scooped Katie up, took her downstairs in my arms, and we went out into that gray, chilly day. I gently set her down on the pavement. But she simply froze. She couldn’t move at all. She just stood there, still as a statue, shivering and staring into space, making no attempt to relieve herself. Her dazed, disoriented expression said it all, “I can’t go. I just can’t.”
Although I obviously knew she was in very bad shape, this was the first time this had ever happened. I leaned down to her, stroking her head, “Katie, come on, you can do it. Go ahead.”
Over the years, the phrase go ahead had become a mantra that I had repeated hundreds of times. This was her cue to get down to business and she always complied—but not now.
She just looked up at me hesitantly, her eyes glazed over, so vulnerable—and trusting. “Please take me home.”
So I gently picked her up.
I knew I’d made the right decision after my talk with Paul yesterday.
This was the end.
Before Paul and I went off, I carried Katie into Granny’s apartment for the last time. I rethought my desire to avoid this farewell, horrible as it would be. No toast was waiting for Katie at the corner of the dining table, as it usually was. Naia was out at the grocery store. And Pearl was in bed under the tan-and-orange afghan that her mother had knitted for her decades earlier. It was time to say good-bye.
I lifted Katie up and placed her right on top of Granny. “How’s my sweet baby girl?” Pearl asked, cooing with pleasure, though weak due to continued difficulties with her stomach.
“Not too good, Oldest,” I answered. “Katie is really weak today. She can’t walk. She can’t ‘go.’ She just can’t do anything…” My voice trailed off. And hoping she wouldn’t hear me, I said, “I think it’s time…”
Pearl was such a sturdy, practical woman, even at age ninety, and I had never seen her cry, except at Arthur’s funeral eight years earlier. But now, tears were streaming down her face as she stroked Katie’s head and held her close.
“Oh, no… yo
u can’t… not my girl…” she whispered. I turned away, about to lose it completely. Seeing the two of them together in these final moments together was worse than I thought it would be. They were soulmates who’d been together for nearly fifteen years.
Katie snuggled close to Granny, her eyes shut, happy to be close.
I didn’t know how I was going to get Katie off Pearl. I couldn’t wrest them apart.
Granny didn’t say another word. We just sat there silently, crying, both holding the dog that had drawn us together and kept us together for so many years.
Then I lifted Katie up and took her down the hall for the last time. “Wait!” Pearl ordered. “Let me kiss her.” And as we bent back down, Katie licked Granny a final time.
Paul was waiting for us and I handed Katie to him. As he cradled her in his arms, I took a final photo of the child. She looked so sweet and vulnerable. Her face was thin, almost shrunken, but her beauty remained intact. Even in her pain, her spirit reached out to me, offering the kind of wisdom and comfort that only dogs can give. It was as if she was saying, “Dad, don’t worry. You’ve taken real good care of me—and now I’m ready.”
A few minutes later, we again set off in a taxi to the vet’s office, Katie sleeping peacefully in my arms.
The vet, sensitively, had made sure that he had a large block of time so that he wouldn’t be rushed by other appointments. He carefully explained that he was first going to give Katie a painless injection under her skin, a sedative that would make her relaxed and calm, sending her into a twilight sleep.
Katie was shivering, looking up at me plaintively.
“Dad, what’s going on?”
I whispered in her ear something I’d been repeating for years, “You’re a good girl… such a good, good girl. You’re going to be fine.” And I kissed her on her nose and hugged her close.
After the first injection, sure enough, within just a few minutes, Katie was sleeping soundly in my arms, just as she’d been earlier that day. I leaned down and savored the familiar sweet smell of her. My baby was at peace.
Then I carried her into the room where she had always had her checkups. And there, in the center of it, was that steel examining table that, to me, was like an executioner’s booth. I remember thinking that there should be a soft towel or cushion on top of it, that its surface was too hard and cold.
As I laid Katie down on the table, the vet promised me that the euthanasia solution into her vein would be painless, and that within six to twelve seconds, it would take effect.
Just before he gave the shot, I put my left hand under Katie’s warm stomach and the right one against her heart. I bent over and leaned in close as the needle went in. “Good girl…”
Katie took a deep breath. I could feel her heart beating, but within just a few seconds, it stopped. She was gone, her chest silent.
I had listened to her breathing for so many years, but now there was nothing. Katie’s once-animated face—which had remained so beautiful—was now strangely sunken in… and still.
“I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” the vet whispered, and he closed the door.
I couldn’t wait for him to leave. My entire body was vibrating. I bent over and gave Katie such a snug hug with my face and chest, stroking her back, telling her what a good girl she’d always been, and how much I loved her.
I couldn’t stop crying. My little dog’s body was still warm… but she was gone. I kissed her nose and, for a final time, stroked her beautiful head, which was now resting on her paws.
I didn’t want to leave Katie behind on that horrible table. After fifteen years, this was it. I’d never see Katie again. I felt like I was abandoning her.
I stayed a few minutes longer, with my hand gently stroking her back, and then forced myself to turn away. And as I left the room, I wondered if I’d made a mistake, if I should have waited longer for this day. This thought would haunt me for years.
I can tell you that if I could turn back the clock and have Katie home again for a week, a day, or for even an hour—I would give anything to do it. Anything.
After I left Katie and walked back into the reception area, the casual conversation of the secretaries and the ringing of phones startled me back into a different dimension.
How strange. I just left my dog and here I am handing over my American Express card to pay a fee for having her put to sleep. It was surreal.
I asked the vet and his assistant if they would be very gentle with Katie’s body, and that they not take her away until I had left the building. I didn’t want to think about what they were going to do with her.
I had chosen cremation and had declined receiving the ashes, feeling that having them would provide little comfort. After all, an urn of ashes was not the same as Katie. Yet, a few years later, I admit I would have liked to have had them. Instead, though, I have dozens of scrapbooks and hundreds of photos that bring her back to life, reminding me of her sweet spirit.
Afterward, the taxi ride home with Paul was desolate. I sat there holding Katie’s red collar, leash, and gold-engraved ID tag.
“As painful as it is to lose Katie, or any dog,” Paul told me, “I always remind myself that our dogs want us to be happy. They live for it. Knowing this, more than anything, I think, is the secret to accepting the loss.”
Paul was right, and his words would come back to me for months to come, helping me recover.
When I got back and went into Pearl’s bedroom to share with her what had happened, she just closed her eyes, murmured a sigh of regret under her breath, and then rolled over toward the window so she wouldn’t have to deal with it.
Yet that night, her spirits revived a bit when she heard that John and Ryan were coming over for dinner, bringing a rotisserie chicken, one of her favorites. It’s funny how, even at the saddest times of our lives, we still get hungry. We all sat together that night, recounting the things we loved most about Katie. I can never forget Ryan placing his hand so sweetly on top of mine to console me, then coming over and putting his cheek against mine for a big hug.
“That’s my boy!” exclaimed Granny with pride.
A few feet away, sadly, were Katie’s water and food bowls, set out, as always, on her plastic Walt Disney placemat. We just left them there.
Later that night, Paul and I hatched what we thought was a great idea. To celebrate Katie, why not give a special memorial concert? We would both play the piano, and I knew that jumping into something like this would be good therapy.
So over the next few days, I sent e-mail invitations, made phone calls, called a caterer and a bakery, and enlisted the always helpful Lee to coordinate it.
Meanwhile, I practiced the piano furiously, willing my stiff, out-of-shape fingers to get back into condition and reviving those muscle reflexes needed for a Chopin nocturne and two movements of Chopin’s Funeral March Sonata. Paul, always ready to perform, would play some Mozart, Debussy, and Chopin.
Katie had so many friends—a colorful cast of people she’d known over the years—that we wound up having two evenings of music, thirty people at each, with neighbors, friends, and family sitting on every available chair, cushion, and window ledge.
One of our neighbors on our floor, Geraldine, charmingly Irish and warm-hearted, practically emptied her living room of chairs to help out. There was candlelight in the room. Decorating the piano was my favorite framed picture of Katie in her sequined dress and a birthday hat on her head.
One of Katie’s greatest fans was our longtime doorman Teddy, who moonlighted as a pastor at his local Baptist church. Teddy set such a moving tone for the evening, tenderly beginning with a prayer of thanks about how blessed we had been to have Katie and how much we all loved her.
“Katie’s tender spirit will always be with us—as a comfort to us,” Teddy said. “And we will never forget the way she brought us all together—how much love she gave even when she herself was in pain. She wasn’t just a dog—she was a member of our family.” With a grin, he a
dded, “And she’d hate to be missing all this delicious food!”
There, in the front row, was Granny, proudly sitting with all her favorite friends (most of them in their late eighties and early nineties)—Sylvia, Georgie, Ruth, Bea, Freda, and Gloria. Equally touching was a contingent of dogs—all of them stretched out on the carpet. In addition to Jake, the German shepherd, there was Freemont, a Wheaten terrier; Clayton, a Labrador retriever; and Fred, a bichon frisé. Alas, there was no room for her friend, Walter, the horse!
Amazingly, Katie’s canine friends were completely attentive, hardly moving as the little recital unfolded. In the “funeral march” of Chopin’s B-flat Minor Sonata, there’s a lyrically pastoral section in the middle, my favorite. And as I played the melody—with the lucid tone of that Steinway piano filling the room—I glanced up at that picture of Katie in her birthday hat—and the tears came.
I just kept going, thinking to myself that my dog was now in heaven—and that we were all giving her a great, musical, farewell. As I was playing, I realized that I could express my feelings for her better through my fingers than with words. And as the music filled the room, there was an amazing sense of camaraderie that made this a happy night, rather than a sad one.
And so it was that Katie had the most fantastic send-off—an overflow crowd, her favorite friends and family together, John and Ryan and her beloved Granny—all remembering one little remarkable dog and the magnificent spirit that she had left behind.
That night, as I got into bed, I was exhausted yet oddly exhilarated—deeply satisfied at the memory of what had been.
At one point during the night, I heard the table skirt rustle next to me—just as it had with Katie playing under it—and only half awake, I believed she had come back.
Turning the light on, I found a gift from Paul on the night table, a wonderful little book written by Eugene O’Neill, titled: The Last Will and Testament of an Extremely Distinguished Dog.* The narrative is written in the voice of a departed dog who offers his grief-stricken owner words of comfort, reminding humans to be happy.
Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family Page 20
