Neighbor Love

communities form in the big city and remain rock solid. this is the story of a sad thing that happened in my building. i must add, however, that it was followed by a spontaneous, spiritual event.

first the sad part.

"k," a lordly 13-year-old maltese dog, died last week of natural causes. his owner "h," who'd rescued him, is beloved by her neighbors-including me-one of 50 or so rent-stabilized tenants who've lived together for decades. we adored k, who pranced through our lobby like he was the most important resident.

unfortunately k snarled like a pit bull every time he saw me. it turns out, alas, there was enmity between k and my own maltese, and k smelled tootsie on me even when i wasn't walking my dog. the only time k didn't growl at me was the afternoon he was being walked by a dog walker. puzzled, i soon asked his owner about it. she explained that her valiant dog was protecting her from me and tootsie but didn't feel the need to protect anyone else. "you've no idea how much love he has to give," h whispered to me over the sound of her dog's barking at me.

i had a glimmer. i've owned several kinds of dogs, and tootsie, my maltese, (they were bred as companion dogs) is the best ever. tootsie wants only to love me and joe weintraub (the man i live with) and to chase pigeons in central park.

thirty of my neighbors sprang into action on the night k passed, crowding into h's apartment to console her. she thanked each one with tears in her eyes and spoke of her companion of 13 years as her protector.

here's my angry question: instead of creating purebreds with surreal coats, why can't breeders come up with dogs and cats who live longer?

gentle reader, allow me to share with you a poem i wrote to deal with my grief over the death of my cat butterscotch, the only living creature besides myself who's enjoyed my singing.

"catlike"

the muse meows and

the writer runs to me pad-footed.

was she dreaming

i'm now grown skeletal, long-whiskered,

sharp-faced

i extend a long paw,

imploring

i brace my back foot against her palm as

she lifts me into the raked litter box.

she swings me out again and

i draw down

into myself

in the hollow of her lap.

she tickles licked gold fur

between my pads, and i am

in the game still, rolling over her legs,

all surrendering elastic stretch.

i brush my forehead on hers, and she sings our ancient love song.

my old cat is so many textures

of smooth and my old cat is better

than all children of memory.

she rubs loose flesh under my jaw.

"you're only old once," she sings.

i lick her forehead. please please oh please

everything depends on you, and

i want to stop dying. -- susan braudy is the author and journalist whose last book, family circle: the boudins and the aristocracy of the left, was nominated for a pulitzer by publisher alfred knopf.