Sunday, July 6, 2008

Important reporting from the paper of record

The New York Times



July 3, 2008

Legacy of $8 Billion? For Us? Dogs Take the News in Stride

Froggy, a 5-month-old Yorkshire and cairn terrier mix, stared at the front-page article, sniffed it dutifully and wandered off Wednesday for better sniffing elsewhere in the Washington Square Park dog run.

So Leona Helmsley, before her death last year at 87, had secretly earmarked up to $8 billion of her real estate fortune for the care and welfare of dogs — way beyond the mere $12 million she had willed to her Maltese, Trouble — although it remained unclear whether trustees would regard her statement of intent as binding.

Froggy had trouble just following the tale. “It’s the frontal lobe thing,” said his owner, Annie Albrecht, a Hollywood writer. But once she explained the situation, she said, Froggy was ecstatic. (Ms. Albrecht was happy to translate, as other owners also did for their pets quoted below).

“I’d have a lovely green field and a fountain and a big place for me to sit and watch,” Froggy said of Ms. Helmsley’s largess. “Oh, and I’d have free doggie day care and also health care for doggies that don’t have a home, and spaying and neutering for cats, too.”

“Cats?” said Sidney, Roberta Bayley’s 7-year-old pug, playing nearby. “Let them get their own millionaire.”

Billy, a 9-year-old Jack Russell terrier who was playing with Sidney, said, “If I had my way, I’d buy every squeaky toy I could get my hands on.”

Also, “more no-kill shelters would be nice,” Billy told her owner, Laura Hughes, a casting director.

“What I would do,” Nina, a 5-year-old beagle-Labrador mix, told her owner, Sarah Levy, a lawyer, between tummy scratches, “is get the biggest jar of peanut butter, and I’d open my own dog run with no other dogs and a thousand people.”

Nikita, a Kerry blue terrier, compulsively scratching her shaggy coat, had her own plans for the money, she assured her owner, Derek Berg, a photographer: “I’d make a special squirrel farm and no skateboarders within two miles — They scare me and get me very angry, mostly the sounds.”

Tearing around the sandy run, Tennessee, a Labrador retriever and Great Pyrenees mix, said he did not want anything for himself, but would use the money to buy a bigger apartment for his owner, Mariel Rittenhouse, a freelance writer, and her boyfriend — while cautioning that $8 billion no longer buys the kind of Manhattan space it used to.

Some hesitated to embrace Ms. Helmsley. “Maybe she is making up for past misdeeds,” said Ethan, a poodle belonging to Claudia Schalb, an art critic.

But many seemed willing to forgive the darker aspects of her record — she went to prison for tax evasion and was widely derided as the Queen of Mean for her exacting and tyrannical ways.

“She left it to us, and she could have just bought more shoes,” said Max, a busily herding border collie and setter mix belonging to Barry Ratoff, an artist.

Froggy had some reservations: “I would think a children’s hospital might have been a better choice.”

Oliver begged to differ. A wire-haired dachshund with impeccable counterterrorism credentials — he worked for a time for Hans Blix, the chief United Nations weapons inspector, sniffing out weapons of mass destruction, said his owner, Laura Bong, a film editor and dog walker — he had some worldly experience others lacked. He sat alone, gazing at the commotion.

“It’s a good idea even though she was not so nice a person,” Oliver said, adding, “I told you there were no weapons of mass destruction there.”

If he didn’t romp much with the other dogs on Wednesday, he had a lot on his mind. “He’s upset about the Zimbabwe election and the gun thing,” Ms. Bong said, adding that Oliver would undoubtedly prefer to be home with “his down comforter and cashmere wrap.”

(Oliver’s claims of overseas service could not be immediately verified.).

Lola, a Chihuahua in a rhinestone collar, interrupted her run to confide a dream to her owner, Samantha Retrosi, a student: a dream of someday owning a collar with real diamonds.

Sappho Nelly, another Chihuahua with extensive training as a therapy dog comforting hospital patients, told her owner, Nina Goedé, an artist and composer from Paris, that the Helmsley billions could be put to good use opening up a shaded small-dog section in the dog run, so that little featherweights like her wouldn’t have to keep looking over their shoulders for the brutes. Cradled in her owner’s arms, she spoke in a fetching French accent.

Another Oliver, a wheaten terrier stopping to gulp water, agreed. “Buy a bigger dog park,” he urged his owner, Erma Eliazov, a brands consultant. “This is gross.”

Across town, in Tompkins Square Park, George Rand, a retired nurse practitioner, sat on a bench with Johnny, an ailing 8-year-old adopted part pit bull found wandering in Brooklyn. Johnny hadn’t read the Helmsley article in The New York Times — “He’s kind of a Daily News kind of dog,” Mr. Rand said.

But he said Johnny would know just what to do with the Helmsley billions.

“He’d keep about $500,000 for medical care and give away the rest,” Mr. Rand said. “He’s that kind of dog.”

1 comment:

the earl of domino said...

as i was on my second hendricks and tonic the other morning--nothing bucks up the constitution like that fine juniper juice. learned that from my grandfather, a trick of his during his days in Bombay during the Raj when he and Lord Curzan had to appear at ladies social teas at some ungodly hour after a stiff night at the local casino–or more like a makeshift club as it only had a roulette wheel, some card tables and the sterling was polished only once a fortnight due to monsoons. where was I? oh yes, i read this in the paper and thought of you. and can you believe I had to pop out to the newsagent to buy this paper myself? my new valet normally does so but had appeared at my breakfast tray the previous day talking poppycock about it being some sort of national holiday here in the colonies so he'd taken the liberty of giving himself the entire weekend off. now, i know my bank holidays and i was perfectly sure it was neither ladies day at ascot nor guy fawkes' and come to think of it, it couldn't be st andrews' day as we're not in inverness. i believe my man was having me on but as i had yet to consume my daily plover egg and gin-laced coffee i was in no state to argue. american bank holiday first week of july? never heard of it.