Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family

by Glenn Plaskin

  I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain.

  Toward the end of the book, the dog writes that his memory should bring nothing but joy, that when we visit the grave, we should remember that the love that ties us together has no end:

  No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Have a Great Time”

  “And Call Me!”

  The morning after Katie’s second memorial concert, Pearl was up and around having toast with Paul and me at her dining table, chatting quietly about the evening as she passed around lox and cream cheese, her favorites.

  “Last night was wonderful,” she said proudly, putting her hand on Paul’s shoulder. She complimented him on his piano playing while urging him to take another piece of fish.

  “But what,” she asked plaintively, “am I going to do without my girl?”

  That was the question.

  “Well,” Paul reflected, munching slowly, as he always did, savoring his food as he carefully chose his words, “at the time my dog, Cleo, died, I was reading a great book titled A Hole in the World—and I remember feeling that emptiness inside me. The bottom just fell out of my world.”

  Granny looked up and concentrated on Paul, as she took what he had to say seriously.

  “It hit me harder than the death of any person I’d known,” he admitted. “That’s how important Cleo was to me. I cried a lot, for a long time, and rode the wave and let time take the edge off the pain, rather than resisting it.

  “And,” Paul added, “dogs who are devoted to their owners have been known to go to heroic lengths to hide their own pain and to protect them from distress.

  “So the sadness we feel,” he finished, “is a price worth paying for the joy that our dogs give us while they’re living. I always try to remember how lucky I was having her with me as long as I did.”

  “You’re right, you are,” agreed Pearl, her voice trailing off. Paul was logical and comforting, but from the sad expression on Pearl’s face, I could see that nothing was going to make much of a difference right now.

  But one thing he had just said stung me, ringing painfully true. Toward the end of her life, Katie would often hide in the bathroom and lie on the cold floor, her head turned sideways; she was so miserable but was determined to keep me away from her pain. Finding her this way broke my heart every time. I’d gently pick her up, whispering into her ear what a good girl she was as I put her back into my bed against the down pillows.

  During this visit, Naia came over to the table and stroked Pearl’s hand, as she often did now.

  “Something weird happened last night,” I told Granny. “At one point during the night, I heard the table skirt rustling next to the bed—just as it did when Katie was playing under it—and I swear, I thought it was Katie—until I woke up.”

  “Your girl loved hiding under that table—and ruined the skirt! Remember?”

  I sure did. And it was worth every trip to the dry cleaner.

  Breakfast was over and Oldest got up and returned to bed, although it was early in the morning.

  A few hours later, Paul was about to say his good-byes, ready for the return trip to Boston. Just before he left, the anticipation of being alone again left me with a homesick, sinking feeling. I wasn’t ready to see him go. My friend of thirty-two years had been with me for this last chapter of Katie’s life—and with me at the piano too.

  He wrapped me in a fierce hug. “You’re going to be fine, you are, just fine, even without Katie.” I wasn’t so sure.

  I went back into Granny’s apartment, but she was still hibernating under the covers, sound asleep. She’d stay that way most of the day. Sleep was her great escape, and I envied it.

  “Katie was her baby,” said Naia, sipping a steaming cup of herbal tea as we sat together at the table. “She gave her a reason to live.” Just as Ryan had, I thought to myself.

  Although I didn’t know it at the time, Pearl was pouring her heart out to her dear friend Rose more and more, though she kept her emotions in check around me, “Pearl was sick when you put Katie to sleep,” Rose later told me.

  That wasn’t exactly what I needed to hear. I knew Pearl was opposed to my decision for euthanasia and I felt horribly guilty about it—continually second-guessing myself about it. Had I done the right thing at the right time?

  “Of course you did,” Rose assured me, knowing full well how Katie had been suffering.

  But without her now, a great vacuum was left behind. Everything I looked at in Pearl’s apartment reminded me of “the child.” There was the dining chair that she sat on as she mischievously stole food off Granny’s plate, efficiently eating row after row of corn on the cob; strewn on the floor were her leftover toys, including her favorite squeaky mouse; sitting on the cabinet was that Humpty Dumpty cookie jar, still filled with Milk-Bones; etched on the door were all the happy scratch marks from her paws; and sitting deserted on the floor were her Disney-character water and food bowls, her Minnie Mouse rubber placemat under them. I quietly picked them up and started back home.

  To say our hallway was quiet was an understatement. As I walked slowly down the corridor, my mind was flooded with a kaleidoscope of images, spread out over nearly fifteen years.

  I could see Katie merrily skipping behind me, eagerly jumping up on my legs as we made our way to Pearl’s. There she was, retrieving the blue rubber ball thrown by Arthur or cheating Ryan at the starting line by jumping the gun. I saw her running wildly to the elevator to greet Ramon, throwing herself on her back for a belly rub, legs straight in the air. There she was, strutting between apartments in her party dress, her wagging tail sticking out from the ruffles of black satin.

  When I opened my apartment door, all the emotions I’d been feeling in the last few days caught me in the throat. I’d held back most of them, occupied with the vet, Pearl, Paul, and the memorial—existing on adrenaline and chocolate, with little sleep.

  But now, alone, I let go. Once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. I made it to the living room and when I saw Katie’s favorite green chair with one of her toy rabbits left on its cushion, the pain of her loss sliced through me. And then I was on the carpet, on my knees, bent over that chair, heaving in dry sobs. I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “I miss my baby,” was all I could say, over and over again. I stayed there until there were no tears left—nothing, just the emptiness and the horrible silence of my apartment.

  I eventually got up, went into the bathroom, and washed my face with cold water. Then, feeling resolve, I went into the kitchen and started throwing things out. I opened the cupboard and collected an entire shelf of Katie’s medicines, shampoos, creams, lotions, you name it, plus the twenty-pound bag of dog food I’d confidently purchased from the vet a few days earlier. I put all this in a plastic garbage bag and took it down to the compactor room. I couldn’t look at any of it ever again. Next, I collected Katie’s toys, her combs and hairbrushes, the food and water bowls, her coats, her leash, and even the engraved gold Milk-Bone tag that had been around her neck for nearly fifteen years. It read “Katie Plaskin,” with her address and phone number etched on it. Every time I heard that little tag rattle on her neck, I knew she was close or in motion, on her way up or down our hall. I decided to keep it on my key chain, so I could always see and hear it, every single day. It’s always with me, to this day. I took the rest of Katie’s belongings into the large closet in my bedroom and stored it all neatly on the shelves meant for shoes.

  After doing all this, I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sound sleep.

  Later that night, I returned to Pearl’s apartment to have a light dinner, but Pearl had no appetite and we sat in the
dim light as the sun set, absently listening to the radio. Soon, she returned to bed to watch TV as Naia and I talked quietly in the dining room.

  It occurred to me how drastically my relationship with Pearl had changed. For so many years, we were best buddies, surrogate grandmother and grandson, hands-on neighbors, equals—and, above all, Katie’s keepers. But now, I had become Pearl’s primary caretaker and de facto guardian—quite a switch, and not a happy one for me.

  Pearl was now dependent rather than independent, as she always had been. This made her vulnerable in a way that turned our world into a melancholy place. I felt her despair. It seemed to hover over her and her apartment.

  And yet, I was also deeply touched by her complete trust in me. Just by the way she said my name, or looked at me, or touched me, I knew how much she loved me—that I was truly her son, or her grandson. I wasn’t sure which it was—but we were definitely a family. And as in all families, when parents or grandparents get older and frail, it’s the children who step in to help.

  Granny granted me legal power of attorney, so I now kept track of all her affairs—paid her bills (as her hands shook and she could no longer write a check), paid Naia, and in accordance with her health care proxy, also supervised her medical care. This was more responsibility than I wanted, though being so actively involved made me feel useful, and it also distracted me from Pearl’s deteriorating condition.

  It was very difficult seeing Oldest increasingly helpless and preparing, in practical ways, for the end. At her request, Lee and I had even gone to the Riverside Funeral Home on Manhattan’s Upper West Side to pay for Pearl’s funeral in advance. Boy, was that a grim task, picking out a coffin and planning a funeral service for someone who was still alive.

  Although I visited Pearl at least two or three times a day to chat and bring her up-to-date on neighborhood news, it was Naia who was Granny’s on-the-spot emotional rock, her greatest comfort, tenderly ministering to her every need. We often joked that though Pearl had never come to like Naia’s cooking, she really loved Naia—and treated her like a granddaughter.

  Understandably, I could see that Naia was deeply depressed; the weight of caring for a woman in failing health was a heavy burden. Granny noticed it too.

  “You’re working too hard and losing weight,” Granny would fuss, pushing another piece of pie in Naia’s direction. “Eat!”

  “I love your hair that way, pulled back like a ballerina,” she’d tell her. “Why don’t you take that brush on the dresser, the one my mother used. It’s yours. I don’t need it anymore.”

  “Take a little extra,” she said one day, pushing a twenty-dollar bill in Naia’s direction, “and treat yourself to a manicure.”

  “No, Granny,” Naia answered firmly, giggling at her ministrations. “I don’t need it. But thank you.”

  At other times, when Pearl’s battery ran low, Naia tried her best to rouse her, “Granny, let’s take a walk outside.” Granny would turn her head away and burrow under the covers just as Katie used to do. “C’mon, sweetheart,” Naia urged, “let me help you up.” Granny wouldn’t budge. We rarely talked about Katie, as it was too painful a subject.

  In the weeks and months that followed Katie’s death, though, I sensed her presence and lingering spirit around me. I really did. I kept thinking about what Paul had told me before he left—that dogs want us to be happy, that they live for it.

  Sometimes, especially at night, there was a stir in the air—and I felt her spirit in the room; while at other times, there was nothing but a vast and silent emptiness.

  I began to understand that love is not confined to space or time, that it remains and continues on beyond the physical plane. With this comfort, I was able to sleep peacefully most nights; and if I was lucky, Katie would come to visit me in my dreams.

  But for Granny, there was little respite from grief. After Katie died, Pearl seemed lost, hibernating under her ancient frayed afghan. No matter what time I walked in to say hello, she was either asleep, depressed and withdrawn, or absently watching TV as if in a trance.

  She didn’t want to bathe, she ignored the mail, she hardly ever read, and even had to be persuaded to come to the table for meals. Nothing seemed to cheer her up.

  Making matters worse, John announced that he’d gotten a plum five-year assignment at the Paris bureau of his newspaper, so he and Ryan were moving to France. As great an opportunity as it was, Pearl wasn’t very happy about the news. It was an effort seeing them since they’d moved uptown, but at least they were still in New York. Now, it would be impossible for her to see them at all.

  True, she still had me and Lee and her women friends, but without Katie or Ryan, her heart was broken and she felt more lonesome than ever.

  But in December 2002, a month after Katie’s death, I was happy to see Granny at her dining table enjoying a meat loaf dinner complete with fried zucchini and squash, topped off with Chanukah cookies I’d gotten from her favorite Lower East Side bakery, Gertel’s.

  Her spirits were now somewhat better and she was genuinely pleased and proud when I told her I had just accepted a great job opportunity—ghostwriting a book for someone whom I had long admired.

  That was the good news. Unfortunately, this assignment was going to take me away for fifteen months, beginning in March 2003, most of it to be spent in the South Pacific, California, and British Columbia.

  “That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Granny, hiding her true feelings as she handed me a frosted dreidel cookie. “But what are we going to do without you here?”

  The plan was for Naia to continue taking care of Pearl while the indispensable Lee would visit her as much as possible. I’d call her most every day. Even so, I knew it was going to be difficult for Pearl. Still, I admit I was excited to be leaving New York for an extended period, relieved to get away from our now-depressing hallway and the Battery Park City winters to see another part of the world, especially the South Pacific.

  Yet, as I packed my new laptop and four suitcases for the overseas trip, I felt guilty about leaving Pearl, though I completely trusted Naia to cope without me.

  On the big departure day, I came into Pearl’s bedroom to say good-bye and gave her a big hug. “Now Granny, you be good!—and don’t drive poor Naia crazy.”

  “I will so!” she answered mischievously, holding my arm tightly. And then, stoic as ever, she waved good-bye as I blew her a kiss.

  “Have a great time—and call me!” And I was off on my great adventure.

  Although I came home periodically between trips, I was immersed in work and often distracted, while Pearl seemed more withdrawn than ever. I was fully aware that my absence had shrunk her world (and her support system) more and more. I was especially grateful that Lee was taking Pearl out to lunch, out for walks, and was even kind enough to get my mail and pay my bills (and Granny’s) while I was away.

  “When I first met Pearl,” Lee reflected, “I could tell that she was not a person who had been embraced very much. There had not been much physical warmth in her life. I began hugging and kissing her and stroking her hand. At first, she’d be very stiff. But especially after Katie died, she started hugging back.

  “Every time I’d leave her bedroom, I’d always say, ‘I love you, Pearlie Girlie,’ and she’d just look at me. But one time when I was leaving and forgot to hug and kiss her good-bye, she said, ‘Oh, what? No kiss?!’ It wasn’t long after that that she started telling me, ‘I love you’ back.”

  That spring, I had a great birthday party at home, inviting the new friends I’d met in Australia and Palm Springs. Granny uncharacteristically never made her usual cameo appearance for dessert. She just wasn’t in the mood, her party girl days seemingly over.

  And in the late fall of 2003, although Oldest could still walk indoors as long as Naia supported her, she started using a wheelchair for trips outside the apartment as her balance was unsteady.

  One day, when I was home from a trip, I ran into them both outside by the bank, which w
as the first time I had seen Pearl out and about in the chair. I sensed that being in it publicly embarrassed her, violating her pride.

  From my vantage point, seeing her disabled this way was heartbreaking. Granny looked frail and vulnerable. But there was also something brave about her that day. Her hair was brushed back as it blew in the blustery Battery wind. Her face was made-up (thanks to Naia), and she was nicely dressed with a jaunty orange silk scarf at her neck. Touchingly, although she seemed dazed and more passive than usual, she was still pleased to run into neighbors she knew, asking questions and smiling, making comments and witty remarks.

  She was still Granny, just slowed down—and deeply sad.

  She had lost so much in sixteen years—her husband, John and Ryan, Katie, and now, in a sense, me as well, as I was so often out of town.

  During this period, she even confided to John that she sometimes prayed to die. “She didn’t understand why God was keeping her alive—and wanted to be with Arthur,” he recalled.

  “What’s the point of being here?” she had once asked me in despair.

  “Granny!” I exclaimed, trying to make light of that heartrending question, though I fully understood it. “You have us, you know you do.”

  She just looked at me that day, changing the subject. Most of the time, she kept the banter light between us, protectively hiding her despair from me.

  Sure, we spoke all the time and saw each other, but it just wasn’t the same. When I’d call Pearl from the Gold Coast of Australia or from Palm Springs, she sounded distant and lost, and sometimes confused. Her voice was no longer booming and filled with curiosity. It was flat, softer, and distracted.