Two grizzled denizens of the 84-unit apartment building at 115 West 86th Street died last weekend, Harry on Friday evening, and his compatriot Bix on Saturday. They were virtual centenarians. Both were wildly popular, highly visible and on a one-name basis with their piece of the Upper West Side: Harry for a debonair self-assurance reminiscent of Cary Grant, Bix for his diplomatic skills and soulful eyes.

The fact that they were not human, but were instead a pair of 14-year-old dogs, seems only to have magnified the bereavement in their building, where they had lived longer than most tenants; on their block, where Harry held court at sidewalk cafes and was known as the Mayor of 86th Street; and deep into Central Park, where Bix had been the ringleader of a 9 a.m. play group since 1997.

As they got older, the two dogs were afforded privileges usually extended to elderly humans. Bix and Harry had first dibs on entering and exiting the elevator; residents commiserated with Harry, a purebred Shar-Pei, in the lobby on rainy days because they knew he disliked getting wet.

Bix, named for the jazz musician Bix Beiderbecke, and a mishmash of Akita, Saint Bernard and German shepherd, was the opposite: oblivious to bad weather, crazy about swimming, and delighted to peruse the nose-level bone display at the neighborhood Pet Stop, until the day he died. His 84-year-old owner, the documentary filmmaker D. A. Pennebaker, said he never knew any of his neighbors until Bix moved in, an instant catalyst for eye contact and conversation.