Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (26 page)

Although things had been cleaned up a little on that October
day, our home, as we had known it, was definitely not the same. Our formerly pristine lobby, with its floor-to-ceiling mirrors,
potted palms, polished steel columns, and Oriental carpets, was now dusty and disheveled, a shadow of its former self.

The sitting area was filled with the piles of luggage of returning residents. There were notices tacked to the walls about
emergency services and apartment cleaning. Card tables set up in the area leading to the elevators were manned by FEMA workers
and insurance representatives, who answered questions about resettlement efforts in Battery Park City.

Katie trotted over to one of the tables, spotted an open bag of Fritos lying under it, and efficiently swiped it, running
to the elevator in an attempt to escape detection. She failed, as I grabbed it away and returned it.

A moment later, as Katie and I came off the elevator, she bounded happily down our long hallway, overjoyed to finally be back
home in her territory.

“There’s my girl!” Granny smiled with pleasure, as Katie ran into her arms, covering her face with kisses. “How’s my little
baby?!” she asked over and over again. Katie’s tail told it all—just fine, happy to be reunited with Pearl.

My feelings were somewhat ambivalent. Most of the apartments on our floor were deserted. The hallway was empty and dark, with
only the dim emergency lights turned on.

Two weeks earlier, after the National Guard had loosened up its rules and allowed longer home visits, I had been able to return
to my apartment to survey the damage. I was accompanied by my Travelers home insurance rep—a wonderfully warm woman named
Jean Harper. An avid dog lover, Jean was seduced by Katie and was especially efficient in processing my claim.

“Wow, this really is depressing,” I had told Jean as we
surveyed the mess inside. There had been considerable water and dust damage: The marble kitchen counter was cracked in two,
the oak cabinets were warped, the light-beige marble floors had turned brown, the wallpaper was discolored, and the living
room carpets permanently stained. Everything was soaked in an inch of yellowish water.

I was relieved to know that all of it would be repaired or replaced, though some things could never be. For example, my computer
was a dusty wreck, destroyed by the refuse that had billowed inside on 9/11, blanketing everything with heavy black soot.
Although I had backed up some of my files, much of what I had stored was permanently lost.

After that discouraging visit with Jean, I’d been consumed with having everything dried out and cleaned up before our arrival
home. So a decontamination crew in spaceship-like uniforms had been brought in to scour every surface from floor to ceiling,
removing the asbestos dust.

“This place really is a ghost town,” whispered Pearl, startled by the shadowy hallway and the absence of her women friends,
who were still scattered with friends and family.

As she was unpacking her things, she surveyed the thick dust covering every surface in her apartment, sad that most of her
beloved plants were dead, except for one—the rhododendron given to her by Ryan.

She seemed overwhelmed by the cleanup task at hand, and I arranged for a cleaning company to decontaminate her apartment as
well.

“I guess I’ll go shopping for some food,” she murmured that first day, setting off for the grocery store, walking down the
stairs.

“Why don’t you wait a minute—and I’ll go down with you,” I told her.

But independent as always, Pearl shook her head no, and walked right past me.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.”

But I was worried.

Oldest was definitely shaky (and who at her age wouldn’t be?), off in her mood and energy, definitely not strong enough to
resume her life as she had known it. But I gave her a lot of credit for trying.

Beyond the physical, I could see that the readjustment period was going to be difficult because she had recently grown reaccustomed
to seeing Ryan and John nearly every day. But here she was downtown again, more alone than she wanted to be.

Meanwhile, Katie was oblivious to it all and trotted into my bedroom to find her favorite toy, the pink rubber mouse that
squeaked when you squeezed it. She began shaking her head back and forth, tearing that thing apart with gusto. And then, as
she always did, she picked up a sock and we played tug-of-war. Katie snarled enthusiastically as she attempted to rip it away
from me.

Finally, she opened her mouth, her pink tongue hanging out, and gave me her version of a doggie smile, content, at last, to
be home. I popped in a dog biscuit and she curled up on the couch and took a nap.

The next day, I called in Katie’s beloved groomer, Betty, who had been cutting Katie’s hair for thirteen years. Although De
De’s Dogarama had gone out of business a few years earlier, I was completely devoted to Betty, and she now made house calls.

“Hey girlfriend, I see you made it through 9/11, but your hair didn’t!”

Katie ran into Betty’s arms—enthralled to see her again. It
had been a long seven weeks in more ways than one, and anything we could do to reestablish a sense of normalcy was my goal.

Betty had always been such a down-to-earth gal and a true friend to Katie and to me. I relied on her for good advice about
sundry things, whether it was discussing what “senior” dog food to purchase or the best cleanup sprays to counteract accidents.

I can still see Katie that day, patiently keeping her eyes shut tight as Betty briskly shampooed her dirty coat in the bathtub,
the blackened water whirling down the drain. Then, Betty rinsed her with the hose attachment as Katie turned in circles, as
if in a car wash, submitting to the pressure of the water. Later, during the haircutting phase of the operation, Katie, as
always, had the good sense to hold up one paw at a time while Betty trimmed her nails and delicately cut the fur around her
legs.

When Betty was finally done, there Katie stood, her old self once again—exquisitely clean, her blond hair so lustrous that
it almost didn’t look real. Betty swatted her on the butt, the sign that she was done, and Katie, relieved, scampered out
of her reach into the kitchen for a reward.

W
e had much to be thankful for that Thanksgiving of 2001, finally safely home again. Pearl and I spent the holiday that year
with Ryan and John, sharing a festive meal at the Marriott Hotel across the street from our complex (“all you can eat for
$24.95, a great price,” Pearl smiled, holding up the coupons for all to see).

That afternoon, Oldest, the matriarch of our little group, reminisced about the days her mother cooked Thanksgiving turkeys.
Her secret for keeping the skin crispy was “dry brining the skin with salt!” she said.

She gave Peter her recipe for chestnut stuffing while Ryan polished off a meal big enough for two.

Life was slowly returning to normal as Pearl’s cronies made their way back to the neighborhood. My across-the-hall neighbor,
Freda, was back to formally greeting Katie, who carefully avoided her legs. Pearl’s neighbor-to-neighbor girlfriends—Ruth,
Bea, Sally, Sylvia, and Georgie—were back to sharing tea.

And not least important, Pearl’s new friend Lee was kindly solicitous of her. She took her to the hairdresser, out to lunch,
or for a walk, and checked in on her often as they reminisced about the unforgettable day they’d first met.

Even though Granny enjoyed it all (especially fussing over Ryan when she saw him and found out all about his school and new
friends), her energy level was running low.

A week after the Thanksgiving dinner, Oldest had severe abdominal cramps and complained that she was “all blocked up,” making
a doctor’s visit mandatory.

Although I wanted to accompany Pearl to the appointment, she refused. “I can do it. I’m fine,” she again insisted. She trudged
to the bus alone.

But two hours later, the doctor called, notifying me that Pearl had been hospitalized, taken directly from his office in an
ambulance to Downtown Hospital, not far from Battery Park City. She was suffering from an intestinal blockage, the root cause
being a severe case of diverticulitis. She needed immediate surgery.

“Oldest, Oldest Granny!” I exclaimed, holding her hand when I got into the ER, thinking back to the time when she had shown
up for me after my bike accident. “What in the world are you doing in a place like this?”

“I’ll do anything to take a nap.”

“You look a lot better than I did when I was in the hospital.”

“That’s not saying much,” she quipped, tart as always. “Now get me out of here.”

“Not so fast, Grannsibel… here they come,” I said, standing aside for the nurse who was about to prep Pearl for surgery.

A little while later, I followed Granny’s gurney as she was rolled toward the operating room. “You’ll be fine, Oldest,” I
said, holding her hand, “I’ll be right here when you get out. And I’ll bring Lee along.”

“Do that,” she said, squeezing my hand as they rolled her away.

But after the operation, Pearl was extremely weak and fighting a lung infection. Unable to breathe on her own, she was transferred
into the Intensive Care Unit, put on a respirator, and kept sedated. Lee and I came by every day.

Honestly, it was heartrending to see Pearl in this condition, lying there helpless, pale, drained of strength, and in and
out of consciousness for five days.

But when she was finally taken off the respirator, it didn’t take long for her to perk up again. “Where’s Lee?” she whispered,
holding my hand when she first opened her eyes.

“She’s right here,” I said, ushering our cheerful friend into the room.

“Hi Pearlie Girlie,” cooed Lee. A wonderful smile lit up her face as she took Granny’s hand and bent down to give her a warm
hug and kiss.

Pearl was thrilled. “How’d I get in this jam?” she cracked.

“We’ll get you right out of it,” Lee laughed, holding up a cup of water and putting the straw into Pearl’s mouth for her to
sip it.

I was encouraged by how quickly Pearl’s inimitable humor resurfaced despite still being on painkillers. For example, there
was a policeman stationed in the ICU, there to guard a prisoner in the cubicle next door. Pearl, who loved to flirt, kept
glancing his way, batting her eyes and inviting him over to talk.

“Officer, I could use a little protection!” she giggled, discovering in conversation that he was of German ancestry. When
he answered her with a few German words, Pearl responded to
him
in German—though she later claimed she never spoke it.

“Keep that gun handy,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I don’t trust anyone in this hospital.”

Indeed, though she was often alert and in total command of
herself, at other times she was disoriented, sometimes even paranoid, a possible side effect from the anesthesia, we were
told.

Once Pearl was released from the ICU and brought back up to a regular room, she was convinced, for example, that her roommate,
an elderly Chinese woman, was trying to steal her money while she was sleeping.

“Granny,” I told her. “She wouldn’t do that. In fact, that woman can’t even walk!”

“Well, I don’t trust her,” Pearl answered, handing me her wallet and instructing me to take it home with me.

Another time, she seemed to be hallucinating. “Where’s Arthur?” she asked, grabbing my arm, certain he was still alive.

I believed that the quickest way to snap Pearl back to reality was to reunite her with you-know-who.

So I now did for Granny what she had once done for me—I snuck Katie into the hospital by camouflaging my dog, as always, in
a big shopping bag, with a towel on top. Only her nose poked out from it.

“My girl is breaking the law!” Pearl laughed, elated to see Katie climbing out of the bag and onto her bed. Katie was all
kisses and whimpered in joy before falling soundly asleep under the covers, hidden from the nurses. The two were blissfully
content.