Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (18 page)

As John later reflected, “With Arthur gone, Pearl took Ryan on as her life’s project—her
mission
.”

“Most days when Ryan gets off the bus,” Pearl told us proudly one night, “he runs right over and hugs me.

“His friends just stand there looking kind of cockeyed,” she said, “and I ask them: ‘Do any of
you
have a Granny?’ They shake their heads no and come over to me. So I hug them all!”

“Do they like it?” John asked.

“Yes, they do.”

It touched my heart to see the satisfaction in Pearl’s eyes as she related this, knowing how she had lost her own chance for
motherhood decades earlier. At last, she had found a child that loved and needed her.

So Pearl was now Ryan’s number one babysitter, the main female presence in his life, reliably stepping in for John anytime
he was at work, at a meeting, or on a date. (Katie acted as Pearl’s energetic aide-de-camp.)

“Wednesday is
my
day,” Pearl announced at first, though her after-school babysitting role soon expanded to most any day. She helped Ryan with
his homework, packed up his Power Rangers lunch box for the next day, whipped up chicken or meat loaf for dinner, and rewarded
him at dessert time with her graham-cracker-crust chocolate pie (or spoiled him with Krispy Kreme doughnuts).

Dessert time also now included Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey—banana ice cream with fudge chunks and walnuts. You could always
depend on Katie to lick Ryan’s bowl clean. “No need for a dishwasher with her around,” quipped Granny, wary that Katie never
ate any of the chocolate chunks that were so bad for dogs.

Once, Pearl was spraying whipped cream on Ryan’s ice cream when Katie dove into the bowl, her nose instantly covered with
the white topping. When Ryan objected, Granny spritzed
him
on the face with the cream, Katie merrily licked it off his nose. And so it went.

“But Granny,” John told me one day, “is no pushover and she won’t stay up with ‘the kid’ past eleven o’clock—so I better damn
well be home by then.”

“And if you’re not,” Pearl scolded, “that’s your problem, not mine.”

When this happened, she usually turned Ryan over to me. That meant that I’d literally pick him up and carry him—sound asleep
in my arms—from Pearl’s to my apartment and place him on my living room couch next to Katie until John got back. Later, John
would scoop him up and carry him home. Through it all, Ryan never woke up.

But first thing in the morning, Ryan was right back at Granny’s door, ready for some fun. This twosome, seventy-eight years
apart, could be heard giggling for hours at Pearl’s dining table as they talked about school and played cards together. “Granny
really knows how to play,” Ryan told John, “and she usually beats me.” Sometimes I’d find them finger painting at the table
or putting together a model airplane.

Ryan was intently curious about everything in Pearl’s world. One day, he poked his head into her bedroom closet as she pulled
out Arthur’s coin and stamp collections, along with a
silver stopwatch that Arthur had used when judging track meets at Madison Square Garden. Ryan marveled at the heavy timepiece.
I could see Pearl getting emotional as she held it in her hand. “One day,” she promised, “when you’re older, I’ll make sure
you have this.”

Sometimes when I came into her apartment, Ryan would be on the couch with his feet propped up on Granny’s lap, Katie next
to him, as Pearl read him one of the Curious George books or taught him how to do a crossword puzzle. At other times, Pearl,
who loved gardening, would show Ryan how to pot a plant or properly water the dozens of blooms set along her windowsill.

“Don’t overwater,” she instructed as Ryan flooded a small plant, though he soon got the hang of it, enjoying the process of
filling the water can and using it.

Ryan was also interested in Pearl’s collection of old vinyl LPs. “Choose one,” she’d smile, and a few minutes later I’d find
them singing and dancing together to Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin, or to the soundtrack of
My Fair Lady
.

You never knew what you might find going on in 3C!

At Halloween, Granny surprised Ryan by wearing a monster mask when he trick-or-treated at her door.

At Thanksgiving, she stuffed him with turkey.

At Christmas, she reached up to the top of the tree to position the star.

On July fourth, she took him outside to watch the fireworks—lighting up the sky and the Statue of Liberty just down the river
in the harbor.

And on his birthday in August, she helped blow out that last stubborn candle, wiping chocolate off his face.

In short, when it came to being a grandmother, Pearl was everything that a boy could ask for—and more.

Pearl, who took special pride in the meals she prepared, also began teaching Ryan the basics of cooking, starting with scrambled
eggs and French toast. “This is how you break the eggs,” she explained as he looked on at the frying pan with a spatula in
his hand. (It was poignant seeing this eighty-four-year-old patiently teaching a six-year-old.) Katie attempted to push him
out of the way with her paws, wanting to stand next to Pearl and capture any morsel that fell to the floor, but Ryan nudged
her back with his foot.

Around this time, I also got on a cooking kick—and Pearl was my “taster” down the hall. At first, I attempted to bake some
of the desserts my grandmother had made, plus others I’d seen on the Food Network. As soon as they were fresh out of the oven,
I’d bring my attempts down the hall for table tests.

“Oh, my,” Pearl would grimace. “Maybe you should take a class.” (Most of my creations found their way into Pearl’s wastebasket,
sorry to say.)

But I persisted, and after watching Martha Stewart’s show for months (she made everything look so easy and I liked her calm,
detailed approach), I was inspired to go out and buy a professional mixer and the right pans and utensils. Everything was
gleaming new.

“Granny, can you come over? I’m about to try out Julia Child’s pound cake with vanilla glacé…” And Pearl was down the hall
in a flash, standing next to me. She sifted the flour (warning me not to add the dry ingredients too quickly into the wet
ones), measured out the baking powder and vanilla, leveled in the cake batter, and later helped me mix up the frosting and
spread it. Standing side by side brought back such fond memories of Nana, whom I missed—so I treasured this kitchen time with
Pearl. Katie followed our every move.

Sometimes the cakes were complete flops—over- or
underdone—and taken right down to the garbage chute. Other times they were tasty but lopsided, and we gave them away to the
doorman downstairs (who I heard fed them to the dogs in the building). Once in a while, the result was perfect, and Katie
helped us polish it all off in an evening.

One night, I was convinced I’d mastered a recipe and couldn’t understand why Granny spit out her slice. “You put
SALT
into it instead of sugar!” she scowled, scraping it into the wastebasket—once again.

After two hours of baking and frosting, I would be tired, while Pearl would look as fresh as ever.

Indeed, though Granny had years on me, she had more stamina (and a healthier back) than I did. There she was, lugging laundry
to the utility room, mopping floors, trudging to the bus stop for a shopping expedition, taking Ryan to play dates or soccer
practice, or going out on long hikes on the Esplanade with Katie and her “boy,” showing them both off as grandmothers do.

Ryan was also interested in showing
Granny
off. He took her photograph to his art teacher at school. And a week later he proudly brought home a striking pen-and-ink
drawing that he thereafter kept in his bedroom. In it, the artist had captured Pearl’s homespun expression—her plump cheeks
with dimples, her high forehead, the unruly mane of hair, and her expressive eyes, that were, humorously, hooded with the
extra skin that comes with age. Not the girly type, Pearl’s idea of makeup was putting on some lipstick for a wedding. Other
than that, she wore none at all.

“Half the time,” John smiled in later years, “she looked a little like something from a Marx Brothers movie with that wild
hair.” But that only made her more lovable. To me, Pearl was as basic as bread, not fancy or primped in any way.

When it came to taking care of Ryan, Pearl wasn’t particularly strict, though she kept a watchful, amused eye on everything
that “the kid” and Katie did. From the bedroom doorway in her apartment, she once caught them eating bagels together in bed,
Katie licking cream cheese off Ryan’s lips. Then Katie snoozed on top of Ryan, loudly snoring, as he watched cartoons.

When Ryan had a friend over for a playdate, Katie ran around the apartment as they played War, circling the boys. And at night,
Katie would even submit to bubble baths with Ryan, her face becoming all sudsy as he rinsed her with little cups of water.

After Ryan’s bath, there was always time for a final race down the hallway, with Pearl acting as referee. Unlike the days
when Arthur would throw Katie’s rubber ball, we now had running contests with no ball at all. To make the race fair, I’d line
Katie and Ryan up on an imaginary starting line right in front of Pearl’s front door, holding my arm out to keep them both
positioned, like horses.

“Now
stay,
Katie,” I told her, though she sometimes “jumped the gun,” trying to gain an advantage over Ryan.

“She’s cheating!” Ryan hollered, scowling.

“Shhhhh,” exclaimed Pearl. “Get with it, Katie.”

I’d call Katie back and she cooperatively lined up again.

Then Pearl made her announcement: “
Ready… Set… Goooooooo
!”

Ryan and Katie galloped wildly down to the end of the hallway and then back again to Pearl, a blur of energy. More often than
not, Katie was the triumphant winner (“she cheated again,” Ryan would mope), her head held high in the air and her tongue
hanging out of her mouth. As usual, she’d promenade in a victory lap back up the hall before hightailing it back to Pearl’s
for a reward.

These races got to be such a hit on our floor that several of the neighbors would open their doors and cheer from the sidelines.
“Go Ryan!” shouted one college student, encouraging “the kid” to overtake my dog, while Freda, my across-the-hall neighbor,
would root for Katie. One night, five doors opened, everyone laughing and cheering as Katie swept down the hall, the winner
yet again. Ryan was looking down, vowing to beat “the child” next time, as Katie licked his face, unaware of how she’d irritated
her little friend.

After three or four races, it was time to tuck Ryan into “his” bed in Pearl’s bedroom. The boy put his arms around Granny
for a hug good night while Katie crawled in next to him, her head nuzzled on his shoulder.

“She licks my face and kisses me a lot,” he told Granny, as he yawned.

“That’s because she loves you. Now go to sleep.”

On nights like these, Ryan and Katie were in seventh heaven—and so was Granny.

D
uring the darkest days of my nonworking years when my back was at its worst, there were times when I literally couldn’t walk.

It was quite a turnaround for me. It wasn’t so long before that I was jetting from coast to coast for interviews; now I was
literally crawling from the bedroom to the bathroom.

“Pearl, can you come down?”

“I’ll be right there,” she clipped, hanging up the phone. And within minutes, with Katie skipping merrily behind her, Pearl
was down the hall to my apartment ready to offer a helping hand, whether it was changing the bed linens, bringing in groceries,
or helping me up from the floor and back to the bed.

It was pretty ironic. I was sometimes laid up with back spasms and pain that made it difficult, or impossible, to straighten
up or walk while my much older friend, Pearl, was in excellent health, coming to my rescue when I most needed her.

Katie, Pearl, John, and Ryan were all like a tonic, dramatically lifting my spirits and giving me a
reason
to recover from what seemed like an intractable problem that had led me to feeling severely depressed.