Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (2 page)

And it’s in this place—a fledgling waterfront town—that our story begins.

I moved here twenty-five years ago, seduced by the spectacular views of New York Harbor, historic Ellis Island, and New Jersey’s
“gold coast,” though people questioned my migrating to a “wilderness” that was little more than a sandy beachhead.

Getting to the local subway station required what amounted to aerobic exercise. One uptown friend joked he’d need a passport,
a bike, or a jogging suit to visit. True, we were inconvenient to get to and had exactly one supermarket, one drug store,
one dry cleaner, one bank, and a half-finished garden and pool.

But to me the Hudson River sunsets, up-close views of the Statue of Liberty, and the never-ending parade of boats made it
all worth it. After all, I’d come from a dark walk-up apartment overlooking an airshaft!

Compared to that, my new Battery Park City home seemed
utterly sublime. It was filled with sunlight and perched so low to the water that I felt as if I was living on a riverboat.
I had my own honey locust tree that pushed up against the living room window, enveloping the entire space and creating a tree
house effect.

And being a pioneer in Battery Park City had other advantages too. Since my neighbors and I were isolated on the same little
block of land, we were constantly bumping into each other, unavoidably so.

In a notoriously brusque city of eight million, where neighbors typically keep their distance, our community of 9,000 was
an unusually open one—with people mingling at neighborhood block parties, outdoor picnics, pick-up basketball games, and sailboat
outings—happy to be living in what amounts to an idyllic resort town.

The backbone of it all is a magnificent tree-lined Esplanade, a 1.2-mile promenade winding its way around the entire length
of the Battery. All the buildings and outdoor spaces here are set along this expansive walkway like pearls on a string.

In the warm days of early fall, the grand English oaks, river birches, and weeping willows sway in the wind. As I bike through
the pathways, I’m shaded by a lush umbrella of trees, an ideal backdrop for lunchtime strollers. In the evening, the purple
lanterns set close to the water glow as residents and visitors dine at candlelit tables.

In winter, though, living here becomes a grueling marathon, a regimen of ice, wind, and snow. Blustery high winds seep through
our windows. Snow floating down on the Statue of Liberty turns it into a snow globe. And I’m always mesmerized by the jagged
ice chunks traveling downriver, their edges catching the sun as the current moves them briskly along.

Then, with the arrival of spring, the neighborhood perks
up once again. Cherry blossoms and silver lindens perfume the air with their heady sweetness. Eighty species of birds flutter
amid the lion’s tails, roses, azaleas, anemones, toad lilies, and lavender hydrangeas. And hopeful fishermen cast their lines
into the Hudson for local specialties like bluefish, white perch, winter flounder, and tomcod.

But best of all, the Hudson River is overflowing with sailboats, private yachts, tour boats, Jet Skis, and kayaks—plus barges,
water taxis, and commuter ferries—a blur of nautical movement creating a wild dance across the water.

Most dramatic are the mammoth cruise ships that glide southward to the ocean as people stand on shore and wave. The only thing
I haven’t seen on the Hudson is somebody floating by in a bathtub.

On land, the Esplanade is jam-packed with bikers, joggers, rollerbladers, skateboarders, picnickers, volleyball and soccer
players, and a cavalcade of baby carriages. This is Kid Central, with toddlers and elementary school kids everywhere—their
bikes, skateboards, frisbees, and kites filling the neighborhood with action.

And that’s not to mention the
dogs
—hundreds of them in every shape and size. Majestic Great Danes rub noses with pint-sized pugs and Shih Tzus. Golden retrievers
and Labs race by the river, pulling their owners, trailing behind bikes, or staying ahead of Baby Jogger strollers. German
shepherds, Labradoodles, Westies, beagles, and puggles parade along the water, sniffing under trees and reveling in the sun.
At the nearby dog run, boxers, Yorkies, poodles, Boston terriers, Wheatens, and bulldogs chase balls and one other, or splash
in the dunking pool.

It’s a circus and a dog show rolled up in one. And it’s perfect
employment for the neighborhood’s dog walkers, exercising their troops from dawn to dusk.

But to say that the neighborhood is dog friendly would be an understatement. At Halloween, canine residents compete in the
neighborhood’s annual costume contest and dog parade. Contestants have included a Batman whippet, a
Wizard of Oz
cowardly lion Bernese mountain dog, a Cinderella Chihuahua, a Minnie Mouse pug, and a Madonna Lhasa apso, all strutting their
stuff.

They competed against creatively attired Rhodesian ridgebacks, Australian shepherds, dalmatians, Havaneses, Border collies,
Scottish terriers, and, of course, an army of mutts. (One year, the champion was Santiago, a one-year-old pit bull “biker”—in
a leather jacket, leather cap, white T-shirt, and blue jeans.)

It was in this dog-friendly world that my own cocker spaniel, Katie, found a home. Over a period of nearly fifteen years (via
more than 20,000 walks) my curiously intelligent dog explored every inch of Battery Park City.

I can see her now—trotting along the Hudson, racing for tennis balls in the park, chasing squirrels, snoozing under a willow
tree, stealing nacho chips at our local Mexican restaurant, taking sunset cruises on a local sailboat, greedily licking my
pistachio ice-cream cone on a hot summer night, and, like all dogs, searching for the best smells and tastiest treats available
to her.

But this is not just a story about a precocious dog.

It’s about how that dog had the power to turn five neighbors into a real family—racing up and down a 120-foot hallway between
apartments, pushing doors in with her paws, herding
her “pack” together, and trotting outside along the Hudson, her spirit a magnet to all.

Through her soulful eyes, we witness antics and family adventures spanning everything from Hollywood high times to the terrors
of 9/11, one dog creating a family circle that embraced and transformed each of its members, including me.

Of course, none of what I’m about to tell you was planned—or expected. In fact, I sometimes ask myself: What if I had never
moved to Battery Park City at all? Was everything that happened just an accident, coincidence, or luck?

Or was it fate and destiny?

I can tell you I definitely believe in the power of
proximity
, for who we’re physically near is so often who we wind up being close to.

And so, I now invite you to enter my little world in a town built on water.

Like one of those online maps that allows you to zoom into any city, then zero in on the neighborhood, street, and building,
come on down to Battery Park City… and find out what happened—
up and down the hall
.

New York

May 2010

A
s a kid, I was never a “dog person,” to say the least.

In fact, I was terrified of dogs.

It all began with “Strippy”—a menacing black-and-white spotted English pointer, who was always barking furiously at the top
of his lungs in our neighbor’s yard.

There he was, all seventy pounds of him, nervously pacing back and forth on a long metal chain, or sitting ominously on top
of his green-and-white doghouse, surveying his kingdom from above.

Strippy was the king of the mountain—and I was his prey, frightened by his incessant barking and growling. We might as well
have been living next door to a
lion
, for to me it amounted to the same thing.

On hot summer days on Bondcroft Drive, a quiet street in a suburb of Buffalo, New York, my sister Joanne and I would race
through the sprinkler or splash in a small wading pool. But we weren’t entirely carefree, always keeping a wary eye on this
seemingly dangerous animal, just thirty feet away.

I would later understand that the source of Strippy’s frustration was being chained up all day. After all, pointers are full
of energy and go-power, tireless as hard-driving hunting dogs. They love to gallop and roam.

So it was no wonder that Strippy was so high-strung, lacking freedom and exercise. His owners kept him restrained, they said,
to prevent him from running away.

One day, when I was about four years old, I was playing in the hedges behind our house with my sister, then six. In a flash,
out of nowhere, Strippy suddenly broke loose and tore out of his yard and into ours, racing over the hedges and straight toward
us.

Strippy pushed us down to the ground with his huge paws, bouncing on top of us, though not actually scratching or hurting
us in any way. In hindsight, he was probably just being friendly and knocked us down by accident. But tell that to two petrified
kids.

My heart was pounding furiously as I felt the horrible weight of that dog on top of me before he raced away from the yard.

My mom saw it all from the bedroom window, and by the time she came rushing outside, we were cowering in the bushes, crying
and hysterical. I escaped into a large cardboard box that was nearby on the lawn, shivering inside it, while my sister huddled
in Mom’s arms.

This traumatic event would stay with us for years. Thereafter, any time a friendly neighborhood dog trotted by, we froze in
our tracks, like statues, paralyzed by fear.

But by the time I was ten, this fear of dogs had miraculously faded away, thanks to “Lady,” a vivacious beagle who became
our neighborhood mascot. I never can forget her adorable face, those floppy brown ears, and expressive brown eyes that literally
sparkled. True, she was a little chubby, but that didn’t stop her from being the spunkiest dog I’d ever seen.

She’d race us around the yard—her long tail waving back and forth like a windshield wiper—chasing balls, leaping into the
air, tagging behind me on bike rides, fetching branches, begging for snacks, and snooping into everything—overjoyed to play
with the neighborhood kids and stealing kisses with her long tongue. I loved it when she’d roll over, desperate to have her
stomach rubbed.

It wasn’t long before I wanted a dog of my own. But Mom was firmly opposed to it. By now, I had another sister, Debby, and
Mom said that raising three kids was enough work—that we weren’t meant to have a dog.

Yet, as a girl, Mom had treasured a white poodle named Sadie, and later, a German shepherd named Duke. Her father, our Papa,
was a great dog lover and lobbied on my behalf. The arguments went on for weeks. But the answer was still no.

Not to be dissuaded, my stubborn grandfather forged ahead, and one morning simply showed up at our house with a miniature
schnauzer.

Mom was furious. By the time I got home from school, the black puppy, named Herman, was tied to the swing set in the backyard,
looking up at me with a plaintive expression that said: “
Keep me.
”