Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (30 page)

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… you 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 added, “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.

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.

T
he 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.