Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (14 page)

Then, one March day, with a snowstorm blasting Battery Park City, I was outside walking up a steep hill, feeling rather morose,
when my back snapped, the muscles locking in spasm. I had always had back pain, which tended to worsen with excessive sitting,
bending, or stress, but this had rarely happened. I could barely move and hobbled home bent at a ninety-degree angle.

Over the next weeks, Pearl mobilized into action, more helpful than ever. My injury seemed to energize her. (That made one
of us.) She took Katie outside for walks and ministered to all the dog caretaking—feeding her, playing with her, brushing
out her coat. She also helped me change the sheets on the bed, picked up medicine at the drugstore, went food shopping, and
collected the mail.

And most nights she’d come by with an entire dinner in hand: hot soup, a salad, grilled salmon, spaghetti, tuna casserole,
or breaded chicken cutlets, followed by a tart or cake.

Katie licked her chops, stealing as much of the food as possible while cheering me up as I sat there against pillows with
either an ice pack or heating pad under me.

“The child now moves a lot better than you do!” joked Pa-Re-El, marveling at Katie’s gymnastics as she jumped on the bed,
dragging a sock over to me for a game of tug-of-war.

Katie, Pearl, and Arthur did more to boost my spirits than any job could have. I appreciated them now, more than ever, and
having them close to me was incredibly comforting.

Over the next few months, after visits to an orthopedic surgeon, a chiropractor, pain specialists, and a physical therapist,
I learned that I would have to drastically change my lifestyle—no more sitting for long periods writing, no bending, no running,
limited exercise, and no more
working
.

Now I was really depressed. How did I go so quickly from being “able” to “disabled”? Sure, I could walk and do the basics,
but my world, as I had known it, was drastically changed—and all in three months.

I needed help (and not just the physical kind). And I found it, in early January, at a Community Center located on West 13th
Street in Greenwich Village. This was a fantastic place offering social events, support groups, twelve-step meetings, and
a wide array of health, youth, and family services—a total of 14,000 activities per year.

I started attending support groups almost daily, which immeasurably helped jolt me from depression and connected me to my
peers. People talked about everything here—from their finances and job challenges to the ups and downs of relationships, family
issues, physical health, and addiction matters as well.

One freezing day in February, when I brought Katie along with me into the dog-friendly Community Center, we were just hanging
out in the main reception area on the ground floor, enjoying the parade of people going in and out.

Amid all the adults, I noticed a tiny little boy racing around the room, making wide loops, whooping it up, giggling uproariously
as he circled us. He was the cutest kid imaginable, with brownish-golden bangs that fell into those beguiling brown eyes,
his plump little face lit up with a sparkling smile.

Outfitted in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, blue corduroy pants, and black-and-white sneakers (with blinking red lights that illuminated
when he ran), he reminded me of Dennis the Menace—a boy filled with high spirits and mischievous plans.

Katie, who was ordinarily frightened of kids and loud noises (and averse to having her space invaded), jumped out of my arms
and stood still as a statue, legs spread in combat position, warily watching this boisterous boy.

“Don’t be afraid, he won’t hurt you,” I soothed her, giving her a pat on the butt and nudging her forward, encouraging her
to play.

“
But Dad
,” she seemed to say, “
I’m not so sure. That kid looks dangerous… but running looks like fun. I do like to race!
”

“Then go ahead,” I told her, letting her off the leash.

In a flash, Katie threw caution to the wind and took off, skipping after the exuberant boy. When she caught up to him, she
started off hesitantly, sniffing his leg, but she was soon chasing him.

The boy became even more energized, running faster, delighted to have a companion. They whirled together, around and around
the room, disturbing everyone in their wake. Katie’s tail stood up in delight. The little kid let out a mock scream, as if
he was threatened by her pursuit, though I could tell he knew he wasn’t in any danger.

This had
never
happened before. Katie had always disliked kids and avoided them—but now she was elated. She actually bounced up against
the boy to embrace him, offering her
paw to “shake,” a big grin on her face, her tongue hanging out, breathless with happiness.

“Hi girl!” the boy smiled, stopping for just a minute to pet her, then screaming, “Now let’s GO!” And off they went again,
fast new friends, the boy dodging people drinking their coffee as he led the way around the perimeter of the room.

“But who
is
that little dude?” I asked, talking half out loud to myself, wondering why he was left unattended.

“His name is Ryan—and I’m his father John!” laughed a blond-haired, affable-looking guy in his late thirties, coming up behind
me.

I’d seen John in the support group before, and he was a very approachable person—warm, talkative, and relaxed. He wore glasses
and had blue eyes and an easygoing smile.

Midwestern in appearance, he was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and a bulky ski parka, both rugged and
slightly bookish looking. Here was a real person with solid values, someone with no pretense or artifice. He put me right
at ease.

I had heard him describe the challenges, and rewards, of raising a son as a single gay dad, and I knew that he was active
as one of only three men in the Community Center’s single parents’ group—part of the “Center Kids” program. One thing that
came across loud and clear was his utter devotion to his son.

“Ryan’s two-and-a-half and he loves dogs,” John told me, pulling up a chair. “In fact, as you can see, he never leaves home
without one.” And there, tucked under the boy’s arm was a raggedy stuffed animal, a golden retriever.

“That’s Puppy!” John told me, “though it looks like Ryan has found a new puppy.”

“I’m a single parent too, kind of,” I joked. “That’s
Katie—and she never does this. In fact, she
hates
kids—but not today.”

As John and I chatted, I discovered that we had much in common. After graduating from Stanford in computer science, he had
gotten a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern University and now worked at the
New York Times
. I told him about my fall from grace at the
Daily News
and he commiserated, though our focus was mostly on our “kids,” one human, one canine.

“Ryan,” John explained, “has aunts and uncles and cousins, but none of them close by.”

I learned that John was one of five, raised in Chicago, and that, sadly, at age nine, he had lost his mother to cancer, while
his father had later died when John was in college. It wasn’t easy growing up without a mother, and now, with his siblings
living out West, John wanted to carve out a family of his own.

Perhaps, I thought, he was filling in a space in a heart that had weathered much loss. Or maybe, as I later understood, he
just loved kids and wanted to raise one.

John and Ryan lived in nearby Montclair, New Jersey. Having recently broken up with a long-term partner, John was determined
to move into New York City to start a new life.

“The commute,” he explained, “is becoming unmanageable. Every morning, I take Ryan to day care, get on a bus, come into Manhattan
to work, then back to day care and home again. I’ve
got
to find an apartment in Manhattan.”

“You should definitely look in Battery Park City,” I told him. “I love it there,” joking that our complex’s 300 dogs would
keep Ryan quite busy.

“I never even thought of it,” he said.

“Well, it’s an incredible neighborhood—right on the water
with a marina, and boats, and a view of the Statue—and it’s filled with families, hundreds of kids, and a great elementary
school.”

The next day, I brought John downtown to show him around, and our rental office put him on a waiting list for a two-bedroom
apartment. “It will be at least six months,” he was told, which left John worried as he had to move by May.

But then, in April, the agent called, “We’ve got
one
two-bedroom available, so you’d better come look at it now. It will be gone by the end of the day.”

When John got downtown, I was puzzled when the agent brought him up to
my
floor.

“Where are we headed?” I asked.

“We’re here!” the agent laughed, taking us down the hallway to apartment 3P.

I couldn’t believe that the
only
apartment available in our entire six-building complex of over 1,700 units was an apartment right down the hall from me.

“What were the chances of this happening?” I asked John.

“It must be about one in a million,” he laughed, delighted by the coincidence.

John took apartment 3P the next day.

“Was that fate?” I later asked him.

“Oh, absolutely. It was a higher power intervening. It would never have been the same if I’d been living on a different floor
or in a different building.”

My reversal of fortune (losing my job and getting sick) forced me to slow down, to rest and reflect. And with the time to
do this, my life was beginning to turn in an unexpectedly positive direction, with new people and activities in it. This
change—which also allowed me to spend more time with Katie—was about to present surprises and adventures that I never could
have imagined.

As that spring ended, I continued attending support group meetings with John at the Community Center. Part of my “therapy”
included participating in a theatrical production, a spoof of
The Wizard of Oz.

I played the Scarecrow and Katie was cast as Toto. The old adage about never taking the stage with a baby or an animal proved
true. Katie, a born entertainer, stole the show. She strutted around, tail wagging, ran down the yellow brick road after being
seduced by a piece of chicken, and whirled in circles as she attempted to bite the Wicked Witch, growling on cue.

At the curtain call, with the applause pouring over her, Katie took her “bow” the wrong way, rolling on her back and spreading
her legs (“No, Katie, sit!”).

Quickly correcting herself, she then scanned the audience, happily spotting Ryan, and raised her paw in thanks before running
offstage for a cookie.

L
inden trees were in full bloom in June 1993 when John and Ryan moved in. Our tree-lined Esplanade, abundant with beds of roses
and hydrangeas, was filled with joggers and bikers, while the Hudson River was brimming with activity of every kind.

“Daddy, look at the
boats
!” hollered a wildly excited Ryan, transfixed at their living room window by the procession of motorboats and cruise liners.

The three-year-old, who loved miniature cars and anything on wheels, was almost bouncing off the walls that day, overwhelmed
by the sights and sounds of his new neighborhood.

There wasn’t too much furniture to unload, as John owned just the basics, though there was no shortage of toys.

“No, Katie!” I shouted, grabbing out of her mouth a metal toy soldier that she was about to choke on. She then switched gears,
snooping into each carton of playthings. She pulled out rubber ducks Ryan used in the tub and stuffed animals, shaking them
around in her mouth, while Ryan kicked his soccer ball off the living room wall.

“Stop that, Ryan!” ordered John, rolling his eyes at me, unfazed by the controlled chaos. “You play soccer out in the hall.”

Katie was puzzled by the ball’s size, though she soon caught on to pushing it forward with her nose or paws, and within minutes,
the twosome were chasing it down the hallway.