Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (11 page)

Likewise, when a brave squirrel climbed down a tree to snoop around the ground, Katie was on the hunt (proving her ancestry
as a sporting dog), though she was never fast enough to catch the agile rodent, who would race back up the tree once she leapt
in for the kill.

Katie would then continue on through the garden, pulling me forward toward the doormen in each of the buildings in our complex,
anxious to say hello and retrieve a biscuit from them.

She’d then lead the way toward the ice-cream shop at the corner, hoping that I might buy a frozen treat, usually a pistachio
cone that we would share. After polishing that off, she’d trot further west to the outdoor volleyball court that overlooked
our marina and barge into the game by running around the court chasing the ball.

“Katie, no, you’re in the way,” I’d shout, apologizing for the intrusion, but she persisted, determined to meet new people
and have some fun. “
Dad, I need some exercise—and this game is a good one!
”

To appease her desire to chase and retrieve, I’d usually have a tennis ball in my pocket and would pitch it into the air once
we got to the nearby park. Like a major-league outfielder, Katie would carefully follow that ball with her eyes as she ran
and
leapt high into the air to catch it before it hit the ground. After she became breathless, I’d pour water into a cup for a
long drink before we continued on.

Once out on the Esplanade, she walked briskly along the water’s edge, sniffing under every bench, scouting for food, and,
on hot summer days, searching for the perfect shady spot under an oak tree for a long nap.

At other times, Katie’s ears pricked up when she heard the sound of hoofs hitting the pavement. That was the signal that our
neighborhood’s mounted policeman, Sean, was out on patrol, sitting high up on his magnificent Belgian quarter horse, Walter.

Walter, Sean told me, had been raised on a farm with dogs, so anytime we passed, the horse would stop and scoop down his head
and affectionately rub noses with Katie, his wide nostrils quivering with pleasure.

Katie, in turn, would lick his face. Sometimes, I’d hoist Katie up to
him
—and she’d playfully swat him in the wide space between his eyes. The picture of this huge horse nuzzling a pint-sized spaniel
was endearing beyond belief, heartwarming to all who saw it. Then Walter trotted away in one direction, Katie in the other.

Although Katie loved Walter the horse, she wasn’t quite so crazy about dogs, especially little ones, who particularly irritated
her. Heaven help a Boston terrier, Chihuahua, toy poodle, or Lhasa apso who got in her way. Ordinarily sweet little Katie
would lash out at them, and bare her teeth, bark or snarl, sometimes even lunge at them, while I pulled back on the leash,
scolding her.

“Stop it! Watch your manners. Bad girl. No!”

She’d look away from me with little remorse, tail wagging, having proven her dominance.

But she had much greater regard for more imposing dogs like golden retrievers, Great Danes, German shepherds, and Labs. These
mighty canines were worthy of her respect and congenial sniffing, and none of them intimidated her. The bigger the dog, the
more she liked it.

Katie was absolutely fearless strutting up to an eighty-pounder, almost three times her weight, poking her nose into theirs,
licking them or whacking them playfully in the face with her paw.

One day, in our lobby, when a neighbor’s Great Dane named Barney flattened her to the ground with his humongous paw, she laughed
it off, rolling on her back before standing up again and licking him on the nose. Then, she marched into the elevator without
a second glance, dismissing the brute.

Because Katie had no canine brother or sister or regular playmates, her true passion was people, though, again, it depended
on their size—and age.

She vehemently disliked young kids and avoided them at all costs because of their unpredictability. If they even tried to
pet her, she’d run away, casting an angry look. And the only time I ever heard her growl or even bark was when they persisted,
attempting to pull on her ears or yank her tail. Then she’d let out a high-pitched howl. “
Ouch, Dad!
” she seemed to say. “
They hurt me—and I’m scared. Can’t those kids leave me alone?
” She’d be screeching as she alternately lunged forward or hid behind me.

But when she was socializing with adults, whether in my living room, in the lobby, or outside on the Esplanade, she was an
expert mingler. Katie not only recognized the colorful cast
of human characters in her life, but reacted to each of them differently.

For example, she learned that Arthur’s legs bothered him, so she never jumped up on him, understanding that her rightful place
was on his gray velour chair and ottoman, her head balanced on his foot as he read the newspaper.

Katie also knew that she was never to jump up on our frail, across-the-hall neighbor Freda, a retired family-court judge who
walked with braces due to childhood polio.

“Hello Katie, how are you today?” she’d inquire rather formally, greeting us as we both approached our front doors. Katie
sat respectfully in front of the judge and simply offered a paw.

“She has excellent manners,” laughed Freda, “much better than some who came before my bench!”

In truth, Katie adored just about
anybody
over the age of seventy—the older the better. I believe it was because she felt safe with them. In addition to Pearl, Arthur,
and Freda, she gravitated to her regular “pack,” a group of elderly residents all in their seventies, eighties, and nineties.

In the spring, summer, and fall months, each night after dinner, Pearl and Arthur would set out for the Esplanade to watch
the sunset while I usually headed out for a bike ride, looping around the path along the Hudson River to enjoy the startling
view. The brilliant red-and-orange sunlight glowed as it descended against the sky, lighting up the water and the Statue of
Liberty.

“Hurry, I don’t want to miss it,” Arthur would exclaim, briskly tying the laces of his sneakers as Katie interfered, biting
on them.

“Stop it, girlie, we’ve got to
go
!” And Katie would spring to the door, now anxious to be hitched up to her leash for the evening ritual.

Pearl and Arthur would then head west toward their favorite bench facing the marina, Katie trailing behind them as she scouted
for regulars. There was the vivacious, wickedly clever Georgie, who talked in a gravelly smoker’s voice; the hard-of-hearing,
rather stiff and proper millionairess, Sally; the tall, athletic retired headmistress of a private girls’ academy, Ruth, who
swam laps each morning in our pool; the petite college professor in towering high heels, Sylvia, who always spoke in a whisper;
the corpulent and boisterous retired businessman Brody; the shy, slim Chanel-attired Gloria, always floating in a mist of
Tiffany perfume; and the eldest, Georgia, ninety, in a wheelchair, accompanied by her delightful and devoted daughter, Anita.

Spotting the wheelchair from quite a distance, Katie would spring out of Pearl’s arms, leap off the bench, and run over to
greet Georgia. She’d then protectively lead her over to Pearl and the rest of the group.

Having successfully herded her entire gang together, Katie sat contentedly as everyone gazed out at the sailboats and private
yachts floating on the Hudson. Katie was typically balanced on Pearl’s lap, blissfully taking it all in as she snacked on
a banana.

One summer night as Katie sat with her regulars, I noticed her leaning her head dreamily against Georgia’s arm, her big brown
eyes batting away. What a flirt.

“She’s such a lover,” Georgia marveled, never suspecting Katie’s fire and passion, which erupted weekly when it came to greeting
my longtime housekeeper Ramon.

As you might remember from earlier, Ramon was originally terrified of Katie, and threatened to quit when I got her, but not
anymore.

“Hiya Katie girl, what’s up?” he’d now ask playfully. Katie got breathless with excitement whenever she saw him. My dog was
crazier about Ramon than
anybody
else. Nobody, including me, got a more ecstatic greeting than him.

On Tuesdays, when the doorman buzzed to tell me that Ramon was on his way up, I’d open the door, clap my hands, and let Katie
loose as I made a sound similar to a cowboy herding horses.

She could just smell him coming—and galloped down the hallway in a frenzy as he came off the elevator, then jumping up on
him and wildly running in circles as she beckoned him toward my door with her head.

Once inside, she’d throw herself down on the living room carpet, and like an acrobat, roll over and over, begging him to stroke
her tummy. Amazingly, he started doing it.

“Okay, Okay, Okay… Yes, yes, yes girlie… show it to me!” he’d tease, giving her vigorous belly rubs. “You like it?” She was
in ecstasy and I’d tease Ramon that he got her more excited than food.

And after that, as Ramon worked, Katie followed him around for the entire four hours. When he was folding laundry, she laid
her head on the warm towels, angelically looking up at him; when he was in the bathtub scrubbing down the tiles, she was just
outside it, lounging on the floor, keeping a watchful eye; and when he was vacuuming, she stood just behind him, fascinated
by the electric cord and often tripping over it.

“Get OUT of my way, Katie!” he’d tell her. But she never did. Their friendship would last Katie’s entire lifetime.

In contrast to the ecstasy she felt at seeing Ramon, Katie was totally uninterested in her two regular dog walkers—a sweet
Chinese woman named Ann, who adored my dog, and her nephew, Ken, the business brains behind their Battery Park dog-
walking operation. The thought of leaving Pearl’s cozy nest for a mandatory walk with either of them was unappealing to Katie.

“Kay-teeeee,” Ann would sing in high-pitched singsong, waltzing into Pearl’s apartment to retrieve her charge. She’d plant
a big kiss on Pearl’s cheek, often bringing her apples or oranges as treats.

“Kay-teeeee,” Ann continued. But Katie played deaf, hiding under Pearl’s twin bed, burrowing toward the center of it, knowing
she was too far to reach. Ann would laugh and have to either bribe Katie out with a cookie or literally drag her out by her
front paws. Katie always resisted, her sharp nails digging into the tan carpet, her head down.

At other times, Katie would attempt to camouflage herself on the lowest shelf of a mahogany bookcase where Pearl had placed
a soft towel. She’d lean into that shelf like a magician trying to blend into the scenery, hiding from view, determined to
evade capture. But ultimately, tail down, she’d reluctantly trail out of the apartment for a walk.

On rainy days, Ann hitched Katie into her blue-and-white slicker, the two sides of the coat connecting with Velcro. Katie
gingerly put her paws into the four holes and off they went. Once back inside, Pearl would be waiting at the door with a towel,
ready to dry Katie off from the indignity of being soaked to the bone. She’d rub-a-dub-dub away at Katie’s wet head, ears,
and body, and then wrap her in a big fluffy towel as if Katie were at a spa, with only her face poking out. Finally dry, Katie
would vigorously shake herself and then leap onto Pearl’s soft bed for some relaxing television, not to be budged until dinner.

Some nights, Katie would wrest herself from Pearl’s side, returning to my apartment ahead of schedule, discerning and curious
to judge any new friends. Jealousy was clearly a prime factor.

If she liked the person—the vibe or smell they gave off—she’d crawl into their lap and snuggle close, seducing them with her
charms. But if she didn’t, she’d hide and refuse to accept even a pat on the back.

Or worse. On one occasion, a friend who was a pastry chef was whipping up a chocolate pot de crème in my kitchen. Katie seemed
especially receptive, feigning interest in exchange for some whipped cream. But later that night, after the snack, she whacked
her paw against his face, knocking his eyeglasses to the floor, then sat down on them, refusing to budge.