Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family (29 page)

That was our Granny!

I
n late 2002, as Indian summer turned to fall in Battery Park City, Katie was really struggling. Ever since 9/11, she had become
increasingly frail and the old mischief and bounce were unmistakably fading away. On our walks outside along the marina, even
when it wasn’t cold, she often shivered and was out of breath, no longer very interested in the birds or squirrels.

I felt terrible as she just limped along, trying her best to walk despite the pain in her legs and inability to see or hear.
We were both battling against the inevitable.

For months, I’d been trying to patch together another good day for her, but it wasn’t working. Her moments of tail-wagging,
snatching up her toys, playing tug-of-war, or smiling up at me with her tongue hanging out were over. Some days she wouldn’t
even go near her food bowl.

As a senior citizen of the dog world, Katie’s sadness had only increased with her physical infirmities. Her beautiful brown
eyes were swollen and bulging due to fluid buildup. Only able to see blurs and shadows, she was bumping into walls more and
more. It was pitiful. And her failing hearing only exacerbated the problem.

Most of the time, her inability to hear me except when I was right in front of her face seemed to put her in a fog. She wandered
aimlessly around the apartment, often in circles.

Of course, her nose and memory never failed and she always knew when Naia was frosting a cake, lying patiently on the kitchen
floor waiting for a lick of the spoon. This was a pleasure she could still enjoy.

But making matters worse, she was now almost entirely incontinent, an indignity that I know she hated. She’d always been in
control of herself and extremely clean. But now, after every accident, her tail went straight down, her head hanging low to
the ground in defeat. The lethargy of her demeanor spoke volumes, her depression evident in the droop of her head.

In short, without her vision or hearing, and barely able to walk, she had lost interest in life, content to sleep the days
away. I knew what was coming, though I didn’t want to contemplate it.

Euthanasia was a prospect that the vet had suggested more than once over the last few months, but I was fighting it. I would
have preferred waiting until Katie had a natural passing, all on her own. But I was told that that was not the humane thing
to do when a dog is in constant pain and in failing health. One part of me saw the wisdom in ending my dog’s misery, while
the other thought I should wait and let nature take its course. After all, Katie didn’t have a terminal illness or cancer,
though she was often in severe pain due to the arthritis.

Naturally, I had talked with Pearl about it as much as I could—but she was firmly opposed to having Katie put to sleep. “She’s
not ready yet,” Granny said stubbornly, her expression filled with fear and a sense of profound sadness. I sometimes wondered
if she was talking about Katie or herself. I
think she understood that Katie was ready to go, but, even so, it was impossible to say good-bye.

But by November of that year, I could no longer avoid the decision about euthanasia, as Katie was barely able to move at all,
her interest in life seemingly gone. And so, with dread, I had finally made up my mind.

The morning of November 19 was cold and blustery. Granny had had a restless night and had taken a sleeping pill, which finally
knocked her out. “She can’t get up,” Naia told me. And I was relieved, as I desperately wanted to avoid this farewell.

The night before, Katie had had a good time with Pearl, eating from her plate and licking her face over and over again. I
thought maybe it was best to leave it this way and gently break the news later, sparing Granny the pain of a final good-bye.

So early that morning, I asked Lee to accompany me to the vet’s office, intending to put Katie to sleep. I couldn’t quite
believe I was going to do it—but knew I couldn’t face it alone.

Lee was pale as we got into a taxi, tears filling her eyes. She was opposed to my decision, though she respected it. As she
later told me, “On the way up to the doctor’s office, you had Katie on your lap and you were crying too. I wasn’t sure what
you were going to do.” Truthfully, neither was I.

In the taxi, Katie slept in my arms, her head falling over my wrist. She was oblivious to her surroundings.

“She’s very thin,” the vet told me, “twenty-one pounds, down from twenty-eight. That’s a lot.” She was so weak she couldn’t
stand on the exam table, and the vet gently held her as he listened to her heart. He then calmly explained the procedure for
euthanizing a dog. I hated hearing it and felt panicked.

After listening to all of it, I said, “No, I can’t do it.” And I’ll never forget his answer, “I think she’s ready, but you’re
not.”

And it was true. I just couldn’t do it.

On the way out of the vet’s office, I optimistically bought a twenty-pound bag of Katie’s favorite dog food—Prescription Diet.

When we got home from the vet, I carried a very drowsy Katie into the elevator and up to the third floor. Once we got in the
hallway, though, she perked up and squirmed out of my arms, pressing onward toward Granny’s half-open door. Whereas she used
to easily push it open with both paws, she now scratched against it weakly, her breath heavy.

A few days earlier, desperately needing someone to talk to about the prospect of putting Katie to sleep, I had turned to my
lifelong friend, Paul, whom I’d first met in college at a conservatory of music where we’d both been aspiring concert pianists.
He had stuck with it; I didn’t and became a writer.

Paul was a very calm, steady force in my life, a philosopher at heart who was a great support during this time. He offered
to come down from Boston for a few days to help out.

Granny adored the handsome Paul (an amateur bodybuilder) and flirted shamelessly with him. During his summer visits, they
would talk for hours and often went on long walks along the Hudson River holding hands. Katie also loved Paul and would nap
for hours with her head on his foot or stomach, and she typically refused to sleep with me on nights he was visiting.

Paul was also a devoted dog owner who had euthanized his beloved Cleo, a Lab-Doberman mix, two years earlier, so he understood
the agonizing conflict about putting a dog to sleep, a subject we had talked about frequently by phone.

“Howdy,” whispered Paul, who arrived at my door later that very day with just his backpack and a small box of dog biscuits
for Katie. It was fantastic seeing him again, looking robust and energetic as always. Katie was resting under the coffee table
in the living room and opened just one eye as Paul walked into the room. Her tail started wagging as her nose identified him.

“Hello, girl,” said Paul, bending down to play with her. She was lethargic, sleepy, and mostly unresponsive, though she gave
him one long lick on his cheek.

“Wow,” exclaimed Paul, struck by the drastic deterioration in Katie since the time he’d seen her eighteen months earlier.
“She’s a tired little soldier.”

She fell back asleep on his lap.

“You know,” Paul told me as he gently stroked her head, “having worked at a nursing home, Katie’s demeanor reminds me of some
very elderly people I knew. As people get near the end, there’s a kind of gauzy veil that comes down between them and everyday
reality. Their reactions are slow and not quite appropriate—almost as if they already have one foot on the other side.

“Based on my perception of Katie,” Paul continued, “she is ready to go. I probably would have done it a little sooner.”

I told Paul about what had happened at the vet earlier that day. He understood why I had changed my mind about euthanasia,
though our conversation about it made me believe that I had made the wrong decision.

“You know what? Tomorrow morning, if you’ll go with me, I’m going to try again. I do think you’re right. It’s time.”

“Whatever you decide,” Paul said, his arm around my shoulder, “I’m there.”

That night, Katie seemed revived, much more energetic, which only made me doubt my decision once again. A group of us all
had dinner at Granny’s apartment—Paul, Naia, Lee, and I. It was a lively happy evening, just like the old days. I
balanced Katie on my lap at the table as Granny fed her bits of chicken, some rice, toast, and a little pound cake. Although
Katie couldn’t see, she ruled that dining table with the same authority as always and had a great appetite, licking frosting
off Granny’s hand.

The next morning began deliciously, with Katie burrowed under the heavy down comforter, snoring away softly as she leaned
into my chest, warm as a little oven.

An expert snuggler, Katie had her wet black nose pressed up against me, and those comically long spaniel ears draped across
one of my arms. I never tired of having her next to me. Waking up next to Katie, even after all these years, was incredibly
comforting. Her mere presence—the powdery smell of her warm little belly—could wipe away a bad dream or any lingering worry.

But on this day, I was feeling anything but good, dreading the day and what it would bring. Katie’s familiar presence was
bittersweet and haunting—and I hated the idea of taking her back to the vet. Even though I had vowed that today would be the
day, I still wasn’t 100 percent sure. A stab of panic went through me as I tried to wrap my mind around the idea that this
was the last morning of Katie’s life, the last time we’d ever wake up together again.

On many mornings, especially when she was in the midst of a happy dog dream, Katie would often wake
me
up with the swat of her tail against my stomach, her eyes—framed by those long blond lashes—blissfully sealed shut.

But now, with her joints so stiff, she understandably was immobilized under the sheets.

“Come on, Katie,” I whispered, nudging her gently. “Ready to go?”

In healthier days, she’d play a game: just one eyelid would open, slyly, then quickly close again, her decision firm.

It was her way of saying, “
No way, Dad, I need my rest!
” She’d then playfully slide farther down the bed, head pointed down toward my feet.

But now, she wasn’t moving at all, though she was breathing peacefully.

Katie had always been a regal dog, headstrong and imperious, and seeing her weak and vulnerable was heartbreaking. Yet I knew
she had to go outside to relieve herself. Although I intended on carrying her, I first had to get her in a coat so she wouldn’t
freeze on the cold November day. Again, I tried to get her to sit up in the bed by raising the pitch of my voice into a seduction
that had always worked in the past.

“Come oooooon, doggie. You can do it!”

She briefly opened her eyes, but slid further away. “
No!
”

It would have taken an entire cake rather than just a cookie to rouse her, for sleep was her great pleasure.

Eventually, she surfaced from beneath the sheet, only her nose above it, stretched up a bit, and licked my nose as she yawned
lazily in my face. Her mouth was wide open, as if to say,
“Dad! I’m too tired to move. I can’t.”

But always such a good girl, she finally sat up on the bed and waited for me to get her ready. She held up her paws, one at
a time, compliantly slipping them into the “arm” holes of her pink wool coat, resigned to the inevitable trip outside, this
time with Paul keeping us company.

I scooped Katie up, took her downstairs in my arms, and we went out into that gray, chilly day. I gently set her down on the
pavement. But she simply froze. She couldn’t move at all. She just stood there, still as a statue, shivering and staring into
space, making no attempt to relieve herself. Her dazed, disoriented expression said it all, “
I can’t go. I just can’t.”

Although I obviously knew she was in very bad shape, this
was the first time this had ever happened. I leaned down to her, stroking her head, “Katie, come on, you can do it.
Go ahead
.”

Over the years, the phrase
go ahead
had become a mantra that I had repeated hundreds of times. This was her cue to get down to business and she always complied—but
not now.

She just looked up at me hesitantly, her eyes glazed over, so vulnerable—and trusting. “
Please take me home.”

So I gently picked her up.

I knew I’d made the right decision after my talk with Paul yesterday.

This was the end.