Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (12 page)

“Naughty! No! Bad dog!” I yelled. She slinked away, tail down, though she had a sly look on her face, her tongue hanging out
of her mouth, a sure sign that she had no regrets.

The ultimate insult, of course, was the rare occasion when she’d take one look at a prospective competitor for my affection
and relieve herself.

Such were her strong opinions.

K
atie idolized her mom down the hall and followed Pearl around incessantly, while she also continued her busybody walks at
sunset—herding together the pack of seniors who had adopted her as their prized mascot.

But outside of Manhattan, my dog’s favorite person was my grandmother, Essie. Each Thanksgiving when we went home to Buffalo,
Nana fussed over Katie, and, later, actively kept tabs on her adventures in New York via the phone.

I can still see Nana and Katie sitting together on the orange velvet couch in my mom’s living room—Nana combing out Katie’s
ears as my dog snoozed in her lap, oblivious to being primped while deliciously comforted by my grandmother’s presence.

Very sadly, my Nana died of bone cancer in 1990 at age ninety-one, her passing leaving a great hole in our family—and in my
heart.

Katie went to Nana’s funeral, sitting obediently at the graveside, her ears blowing in the brisk November wind. Later that
day, she climbed into my mom’s lap to comfort her, licking her face.

“I’ll never forget when Katie crawled up on top of me,” my mom later reflected, “put her head right under my chin, and laid
her paw on my chest, hugging me all night long. She never let go.”

Especially after Nana’s death, slowly, imperceptibly, Pearl became even more important to me, my all-in-one confidante, best
neighborhood friend, surrogate grandmother, and comrade-in-arms.

Being able to see her daily was a real luxury, a happy treat for me and Katie. There was Pearl at the door, standing with
ramrod posture, a look of wry expectation on her face—a blend of affection, amusement, and genuine interest.

Like the captain of a ship at the wheel, she was usually stationed at her dining table, peeling apples, shucking corn, or
cutting up zucchini. I joined her there and we shot the breeze on pretty much everything—from my celebrity interviews to dating,
from world headlines to healthy eating, though Katie was always topic number one.

We had nicknamed Katie “the child,” jokingly pronounced “chaaa-aellll-d,” and when I’d walk in, I’d typically ask: “How’s
my sweet little chaaa-aellll-d doin’ today?”

“Your
child
stole my best napkin out of the linen closet—the one my mother embroidered—and turned it into this!” Pearl announced dramatically,
holding up the shredded linen.

“Bad girl!” I lectured Katie, showing her the decimated napkin as she sniffed it with disinterest, having had her way with
it.

“What are you going to do to make it up to me?” Pearl asked. Katie licked her hand in penance, the fastest way back into Pearl’s
good graces. All was quickly forgiven as Pearl hugged her girl tightly.

“Girlie,” Pearl would ask, “you want an
apple
?”

Katie knew that word like her own name, and would leap on the dining room chair and wait for Pearl to pop one little chunk
of a red delicious after another into her mouth.

“What about a
cookie
?” Katie trotted over to the cookie jar, hitting it with her paw.

“My girl want to
dance
?” Katie threw up her front paws at Pearl, prancing on her back legs as Pearl sang, “
I wanna be in pictures… I wanna be a star.
”

I quickly discovered the many facets of our Pearl.

She could be extremely girlish at times, and feisty at others.

“She was a serious, plain woman, not a game player,” my mom once observed, “and she sometimes had a gruff look on her face.
You had to get to know her. She was what she was—and made no bones about it.”

But just underneath her no-nonsense exterior was a layer of kindness and pathos that reflected itself in her complete interest
in others. Never one to reveal much about her emotions, she much preferred putting the focus on her guests during visits to
her apartment.

“She was a very good listener,” my mom noted. “But when she wanted you to leave—you knew it!”

For most people, this was true, but the relationship as it developed between us was so comfortable that I never felt as if
I was imposing on her time, and vice versa.

One day, when Pearl and Arthur came by to show off their outfits and pose for pictures before they left for an afternoon wedding,
she was all giggles. “I have a handsome date, don’t I? And I’m not bad myself,” Pearl winked, outfitted in a pale green silk
suit, simple gold jewelry, and patent leather shoes with bows.

But when I gave Pearl some advice too forwardly about
having her windows professionally cleaned (something they desperately needed), she snapped, “Mind your own business! I like
the spots.” Case closed. She wasn’t about to pay for that luxury.

As I knew, Pearl was conservative about money, with coupons frequently in hand, yet immensely generous, often taking clothes
to the homeless or making dinner for friends at loose ends. And underlying her sometimes prickly demeanor and sarcastic wit
were compassion for people’s frailties and a cautious realism born of the Great Depression.

“You spend too much money!” she lectured me, over and over again. “Katie doesn’t need five winter coats… take that one back.”

Yes, Ma’am.

Soon enough, our long dining room table chats became habit-forming and were often accompanied by something good to eat. On
the way home from work, stopping in nearby Greenwich Village, I’d pick up Pearl and Arthur’s favorite Italian pastries from
Veniero’s or Rocco’s, or I’d get glazed cookies from Jon Vie, or crispy Italian bread from Zito’s, any of it cause for celebration.

During this period, out of nowhere, I came up with the nickname “Pa-Re-El,” affectionately calling out Pearl’s name in a stretched-out
cattle call, that started low, went high on “Re,” and ended lower on the syllable “El.” I’d get home with the goodies and
knock on her door, letting out that unmistakable “Pa-Re-El.”

She’d laugh good-naturedly as she beckoned me toward the dining table, drawn by the mystery of the white bakery box in my
hands.

Arthur would emerge from the bedroom in a rush, clap his hands, and Katie would fly out from the bed as if she’d been shot
from a cannon. She’d jump in one leap onto the dining chair at the prospect of a cannoli or sliver of ricotta cheesecake.

Over numerous visits and dozens of Italian pastries, I learned more and more about Pearl and Arthur’s history and was intrigued
by it, piecing together snippets of information as the calories mounted.

Born in New York City in 1912, Pearl and her older sister, Stella (“the pretty one,” she laughed), were raised in a middle-class
Jewish family in the Kingsbridge section of the West Bronx. The young Pearl doted on her little fox terrier.

Pearl’s mother, Ray, was a perfectionist, an excellent cook and astute homemaker, while her father, Isadore, nicknamed “Doc,”
very distinguished in wire-rim glasses, was a rep for a women’s clothing manufacturer, selling piece goods.

Although the vivacious Pearl was a very bright girl with natural wit, she had little interest in her studies, but much interest
in boys.

“I was supposed to marry a doctor—my parents had him all picked out for me—talk about handsome!” she laughed, remembering
her beau with relish.

“Yeah, maybe he was handsome—big deal—but I came along,” interjected Arthur.

“Yes, at Christmas 1934, I was working part-time at the perfume counter in Macy’s,” Pearl explained, “and Arthur came by looking
for a gift for his mother.
I
was the gift! And he wasn’t bad looking either.”

“I was irresistible,” mugged Arthur, explaining that his family worked as house painters, “and that doctor was history.”

The young couple hit it off immediately and discovered that they coincidentally lived just a few doors down from one another
on Aqueduct Avenue. It was love at first sight.

In 1935, though her parents thought she was too young, the twenty-three-year-old Pearl forged ahead and married “the boy next
door.”

Despite the fast repartee and easy affection between Pearl and Arthur during our visits, I sensed a mild sadness hanging in
the air, a sense of loss or regret. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until a few years after I met them, when I finally
understood the missing link.

As it turned out, early in their marriage, Pearl became pregnant—and the couple was ecstatic. But their happiness was short-lived.

Three months into her pregnancy, an ovarian tumor was discovered. A stricken Pearl was told that if it wasn’t promptly removed,
it could threaten her life. She wound up having the surgery, which included a hysterectomy, and, of course, she lost the baby.

This was the tragedy that Pearl never discussed.

Although Pearl and Arthur had initially gotten a little Bronx apartment of their own after getting married, Pearl was so depressed
after the surgery that she and Arthur wound up moving back home to live with her parents, Doc and Ray.

Recovering slowly in the nurturing environment of home, Pearl’s spirits revived and, a few years later, Arthur was drafted
into the Navy.

Although he rarely talked about his experiences during World War II, Arthur repeatedly reminisced about his favorite on-ship
friend, a pet monkey. One day, he dug into a shoebox of ancient photos and pulled out a picture of himself as a bare-chested
young sailor, holding up his precocious primate. “That monkey had more sense than some of my mates,” he laughed.

“And sometimes more than you,” ribbed Pearl.

After the war, Pearl worked as a secretary, typing up notes
for a writer—“I earned $12 a week and gave my mother $5”—while Arthur was a salesman of wholesale women’s apparel. All the
while, they continued living with Pearl’s parents. One year drifted into the next, and decades slipped by, and Pearl and Arthur
wound up living with Pearl’s parents for nearly their entire married life!

In fact, they remained in the Bronx until they themselves were in their seventies, caring for Ray and Doc until their deaths,
then staying on to care for Arthur’s mother until
her
death. Their only respite from family duty was the small country home in Dutchess County that they enjoyed on weekends.

So amazingly, Pearl and Arthur almost never lived alone as a couple until they moved to Battery Park City in 1983.

At last, they were on their own, though a profound vacuum was left behind, the proximity of family gone.

And by the time I met them, even their beloved cocker spaniel Brandy had passed away.

As a result, Pearl and Arthur were wide open to a new chapter in their lives—and adopted Katie and me as their brand-new family.

At first prim about her personal business, Pearl gradually confided more of her intimate feelings about many things, as we
became closer and closer.

She was disappointed, for example, in some of her family members with whom she’d cut off relations, though she adored her
grand-niece, Susan, who lived in London, and her grand-nephew, James, in Boston. Like all good aunts, she bragged about their
accomplishments, showing me their cards and letters, though she regretted they only visited about once or twice a year.

Private as she was, she would never have told them how much she worried about her finances (“we’re living on a strict
budget”) and what serious concerns she had about Arthur’s health (he often had colds, bronchial infections, and intense pain
due to arthritis).

“Arthur was always so strong—and he used to take me dancing in Atlantic City,” she smiled, looking over at her prized photo,
taken on her honeymoon there. In it, Pearl was wearing a fur-trimmed coat and looked very chic, while Arthur was quite debonair
in a blue blazer and white slacks.

“But now he spends so much of his time in bed,” she frowned, though she was determined to keep him strong by buying his favorite
foods and going to the farmers’ market for fruits and vegetables.