Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (5 page)

“Twiggy,” Tom explained, “got a little carsick coming over here—so she threw up.” Oh, great.

“It’s not unusual for puppies,” he assured me. “It’s the first time she’s ever been outside the farm, so she’s a little out
of sorts.”

Twiggy drew back a bit and lay down, snuggling on what Tom described as her security blanket, a ripped pink cotton wrap “that
has her mom’s scent on it. Keep this with her for now. She really loves it and it reminds her of Sweet Sue.”

Nearby were her two favorite toys, he said—a yellow plastic Scooby-Doo dog that made a squeaking sound and a long red snake
that she clutched to her tummy.

Tom then opened the door of the kennel, slowly scooped Twiggy up, and gently put her in my arms.

This was the make-or-break moment I was waiting for.

“Well, hello there, little baby puppy,” I whispered, as Twiggy curled into a ball, leaning against my chest. I held her close
and discovered that she had the most delicious smell. I felt an immediate click. I really did. She was so warm, trusting,
and sweet. The sensation of her leaning into me was indescribable. When she licked my face, that was pretty much it!

I had found my dog, the one I’d been waiting for, and I felt it with total conviction. I handed Tom a check, he wished me
good luck, and off we went in Joe’s VW, back down the FDR Drive to Battery Park City.

True, it had taken thirty-five years to accomplish this, but after my early fear of Strippy, the false start with Baby, and
my test-dog, Dinah, at last I had found a dog of my own.

“I have an announcement to make, guys,” I told Robert and Joe. “I
hate
the name Twiggy.” Everybody laughed.

“It does conjure up a slightly pathetic image, doesn’t it?” said Robert.

“So,” I continued, “I’d like to introduce you to my new puppy. Her name is Katie.”

“Well, that’s an improvement,” replied Joe.

I had decided to name my dog after my all-time favorite movie star—Katharine Hepburn.

A few years earlier, in the course of my work interviewing celebrities, I went to Miss Hepburn’s house for a ham-and-cheese
sandwich and a long talk. It was an unforgettable afternoon. The dazzle of this legend’s presence—her incisive energy, wit,
and intimidating hauteur as the grandest American actress of them all—left an indelible mark on me, as you’ll later read.

I figured that maybe this little puppy from New Jersey, the runt daughter of Sweet Sue, could one day make a little magic
of her own—and might even meet her namesake.

Katie snuggled contentedly in my arms on the car ride home, tuckered out and sleeping soundly.

W
hen I got home, with Joe, Robert, and Dinah in tow, I carried Katie out of the car. The neighbors in the lobby oohed and aahed
at the new blond puppy.

Katie was limp in my arms half-asleep, wrapped in her pink blanket, with her head resting sideways. That exhausted pup would
have slept through anything.

“Who could
this
be?!” asked Nancy, my animal-loving neighbor whom I’d nicknamed “Bird Lady.” Perched on her shoulder, as always, was the
resplendent Mojo—a stunning red-and-blue greenwing macaw who knew how to talk.

“
Pretty girl, pretty girl—want some chicken?!
” crowed the bird, eyeing Katie by poking his head around Nancy’s shoulder, his beak jutting forward. Katie half-opened one
curious eye, then lazily closed it again, having had enough stimulation for one day. In due time, she’d recognize and come
alive at the word
chicken
.

Entering my apartment, we went right into the kitchen, and just as Joe had predicted, Katie viewed the cushiony kennel as
a welcome retreat. As soon as I bent down with her in my arms, she climbed right into it, sniffing her new blanket and
cushions and pushing them all around with her paws, arranging everything to her liking. She then positioned her head on a
blue pillow and fell soundly asleep, her two favorite toys placed next to her. She was home.

After a while, Joe suggested that we leave the room, giving Katie a chance to acclimate. But a minute after we’d disappeared
into the living room, Katie started whimpering, then howling. It was pathetic. She was, after all, just a baby.

As I began heading back into the kitchen to comfort her, Joe stopped me. “No. No! You’ve got to let them howl. You need to
teach them a lesson right from the start.”

You
do
?

“Leave her alone and let her get used to it. Otherwise, she’s always going to be a crybaby whenever you go away.”

To me, Joe’s advice seemed harsh, especially on day one, when Katie was disoriented and, no doubt, insecure without Sweet
Sue or the farm environment to comfort her. I had no intention of following Joe’s advice, though I pretended to.

I thanked Joe and Robert profusely for everything they’d done for me that day. And as soon as the door closed, I ran back
into the kitchen, opened up the kennel door, and lifted Katie out of it, holding her snugly against me.

I had to show her off and couldn’t wait another minute to introduce her to my neighbors Pearl and Arthur. I headed right down
the corridor to 3C.

“Ohhhh, a special delivery!” Pearl cried, as she opened the door, entranced with the little pup. After we sat down at her
dining table, I lifted Katie up and passed her over to Pearl, who cradled her in her arms. She started rocking her like a
baby—and Katie was limply compliant and completely at ease, enjoying the attention.

“Oh, she’s beautiful, just like when Brandy was a baby,”
cooed Pearl, stroking Katie’s head and leaning down to kiss it, whispering sweet nothings.

“Hey, let me get a look at that little girl,” said Arthur, walking out of the bedroom and eagerly sitting down to join us.

Katie perked her head up and then wriggled out of Pearl’s arms, taking a walk on
top
of the dining table (Joe would have had a conniption) and climbing into Arthur’s arms, licking his face. It was instant infatuation.

Katie then fell sound asleep in Arthur’s arms, her paws wrapped over his wrists, softly snoring. As I watched this scene unfold,
with all of us sitting around the table making small talk and enjoying the moment, I felt at peace, so incredibly calm.

Unlike the panicky sensation I’d experienced with Baby’s arrival, I didn’t feel alone at all this time around, thanks to Joe
and my new friends down the hall.

That first night, I moved Katie’s kennel into my bedroom so she could smell and feel my presence. And just before going to
sleep, I looked down into the crate. There she was, irresistibly cute, stretched out on her back, looking up at me, teething
contentedly on a nylon bone. At that moment, my heart just filled up with love and a deep sense of protectiveness for this
little puppy. It was an intense feeling that I hadn’t expected. I was just like any new parent—utterly entranced by the wonder
of it all.

Over the next few weeks, the smallest things about taking care of Katie gave me pleasure. I’d fill up her miniature water
bowl (decorated with a picture of Minnie Mouse on the bottom of it), and she’d greedily drink from it, her tongue splattering
water all over the floor.

She flew into her food bowl with gusto, and her nose and face were covered with mush by the time she finished eating. She’d
try to sneeze it off—or tolerate my wiping her face clean
with a paper towel, closing her eyes patiently. She’d then lick my nose a few times before hightailing it back into her pen,
rolling on her back, and exposing her tummy in surrender, as if to say, “
Thanks Dad, gotta relax.
”

In these euphoric puppy days, there were a series of “firsts” in store for Katie, as she was about to meet her doctor, her
groomer, her trainer, my longtime housekeeper—and the ground outside.

That first morning, when I took her out, she looked perplexed at the alien cement, sniffing it suspiciously, wondering how
it had replaced the grass she was accustomed to. She quickly turned toward the door, attempting to escape back into the building.
“
C’mon, I don’t like it out here
,” she seemed to say. But I held steady. And although she eventually did relieve herself, it took nearly a half hour to get
the job done, a situation that worried me.

That morning, I made a beeline to a vet I’d found in Manhattan’s Chelsea area, Dr. Scott Simon. He was super-tall, in his
mid-thirties, with blond curly hair, a resounding voice, and a down-home demeanor. I had heard that he was meticulous in his
exams. “So this is little Katie,” Dr. Simon said, gently examining her from head to toe, paying special attention to her eyes
and ears, which, in cockers, are susceptible to infection.

Katie tried to wriggle back into my arms, uncertain of this giant. “Just hold her steady, by the shoulders,” he advised, as
he carefully peered into her ears.

“Ahhh, I see that Katie has ear mites—nothing serious—just a few parasites from the farm. We’ll get rid of those fast enough.
And in five months or so, we’ll spay her.” He explained that the procedure reduced the chance of breast cancer and other tumors
and infections, while spayed females also tended to have more even temperaments.

“No babies for Katie?” I asked.

“It’s up to you—but I don’t think you need to do that.” I agreed with him, changing the subject to housebreaking.

“This morning,” I told him, “Katie wasn’t very interested in doing her business outside—and I need to know the best way to
get her housebroken.” Katie was lying down on the steel exam table, head over the side of it, sniffing for treats, and bored.

I explained that the breeder had suggested to me that the quickest way to housetrain a puppy was to use a baby suppository!
“He told me that it glides right in—acting as a prompt to getting instant results—and that after a few days, the dog never
needs it again.”

“We sometimes do that for senior dogs,” replied Dr. Simon, laughing, “but it can work for a puppy too—and it’s not going to
hurt Katie.”

It sounded weird to me, and I wasn’t crazy about administering this back-ended remedy, but I tried it the next day. For a
second there, as I slipped it in, Katie looked indignant. Her eyes widened as she turned her head back around—as if to say,
“
What’s going on back there?
”—but it worked like a charm. After two days of this, Katie got the hang of it and never looked back, so to speak, again.
No further proctological ministrations were required.

On the way out of the vet’s office that first day, Dr. Simon had one final piece of advice: “Katie could use a good bath and
grooming.”

Indeed, at twelve weeks, Katie, more than most puppies, was definitely going through her “awkward” stage, like a gangly teenager.
Her body proportions were all off, especially her long legs, which gave her an up-on-stilts look, making her slightly uncoordinated.

The vet explained that puppies are growing so rapidly their
heads and bodies part company, each developing at different rates. “So puppies don’t often look their best until six or eight
months. In the meantime, take this,” he said, handing me a card for De De’s Dogarama. “one of the best.”

Heading down Seventh Avenue to Greenwich Village, we walked into this tiny emporium of beauty for dogs, outfitted with floor-to-ceiling
kennels along the back walls, each filled with pampered mutts of every shape and size waiting for their shampoos, crème rinses,
haircuts, pedicures, and manicures. With all the bathing going on, the room was as humid as a rain forest.

And there on the grooming table was a white standard poodle, standing obediently still as her elaborate coiffure was blown
out to comic perfection. Presiding over it all was the young owner, a blonde named De De, happy to meet her new client.

For Katie, De De recommended a groomer named Betty, “a magician with puppies,” she said. Betty was a tomboyish young woman
with overalls, a short red pixie haircut, and tortoise-shell glasses. Dog hair covered her from head to toe. (Truthfully,
she needed a good grooming as badly as Katie.)

Betty was bubbly and talkative, carrying on nonstop conversations with all her canine clients as she cut and trimmed. The
dogs seemed to follow Betty’s repartee with their eyes, lifting their paws when directed to.

“Hey Sport,” Betty grinned, plucking Katie from my arms and burying her with a hug. “Oh, my my my,” she surmised, “this little
girl needs a makeover bad. Leave her with me and come back in three hours—no, make it three-and-a-half.”

I hesitated, not wanting to leave Katie alone, but I was practically shoved out the door by the assertive De De. “No clients
stay.”

As I looked back, Katie was nose-to-nose with Betty, as the groomer chatted away to her. “Now look here, sister,” she said,
“you’re a pup who needs a lot of help. Mama’s going to give you the look you deserve.”

When I returned, I did a double take. Standing on the counter, literally posing, was a blown-dried stunner who had gone from
bow to wow.

Katie was literally unrecognizable with a pink satin bow tied daintily around her neck. Her hair was sleekly cut close to
the body and looked slightly bleached and evenly blond. Betty had left an amusing fringe, like eyebrows, above her eyes, like
a silent-era film star. Katie held her head high with a sense of hauteur, still as a statue as she showed off her new look.
Her hair was so perfect that she almost looked like a stuffed animal. Her wagging tail told me that she’d thoroughly enjoyed
the pampering.