Katie Up and Down the Hall: The True Story of How One Dog Turned Five Neighbors Into a Family by Glenn Plaskin Page A
Authors: Glenn Plaskin
Tags: General, Social Science, Biography & Autobiography, neighbors, Sociology, Biography, New York, New York (State), New York (N.Y.), Pets, Animals, Human-animal relationships, Essay/s, Nature, Dogs, Breeds, Marriage & Family, Customs & Traditions, Battery Park City (New York; N.Y.), Strangers - New York (State) - New York, Families - New York (State) - New York, Cocker spaniels, Neighbors - New York (State) - New York, Cocker spaniels - New York (State) - New York, New York (N.Y.) - Social life and customs, Plaskin; Glenn, Battery Park City (New York; N.Y.) - Social life and customs, Human-animal relationships - New York (State) - New York
Ads: Link
“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 abouthaving 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 shotfrom 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
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 abouthaving 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 shotfrom 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
Similar Books
