What this means for how the trust will operate is far from clear. “A mission statement is really just guidance to the trustees,” Victoria Bjorklund, of Simpson Thacher, said. “It’s not binding on them. It would only be binding if it was in the will itself.” Still, the mission statement should have an influence on how the trustees allocate the funds. “The fact that she took out the care of children means to me that she probably experienced a change in her priorities that she expressed that way,” Bjorklund went on. “And there is a general-purposes clause that says the trustees can use the funds for anything that would be charitable. So they don’t have to use the money only for the care of dogs, but she is certainly indicating that it’s a priority.” The trust is not yet operating or making grants, and people familiar with the work of the trustees say that they are still trying to figure out what to do.
The animal-rights movement in New York is, however, already gathering proposals for how to use the money. The most detailed ideas so far come from Jane Hoffman. In 2002, the former corporate lawyer founded the group now known as the Mayor’s Alliance for NYC’s Animals, a not-for-profit organization that works as a public-private partnership with more than a hundred and forty animal-rescue groups and shelters around the city. “We are committed to making New York ’no-kill,’ one community at a time,” she told me, using the movement’s term for eliminating euthanasia as a means of population control for any kind of animal.
To run the operations of the alliance, Hoffman secured a $25.4-million grant over seven years from Maddie’s Fund, the largest-endowed dog-and-cat-centered foundation in America, which was created in 1999 by the founder of PeopleSoft software, Dave Duffield, and his wife, Cheryl. The Duffields have endowed the foundation with more than three hundred million dollars and made grants of more than seventy-one million dollars. According to the fund’s Web site, “The Foundation makes good on a promise the Duffields made to their beloved Miniature Schnauzer, Maddie, to give back to her kind in dollars that which Maddie gave to them in companionship and love.”
Hoffman and other animal-rights supporters have been nursing a grudge for years against the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation. Duke, the tobacco heiress, died in 1993 and left much of her wealth to a foundation that now has assets of about two billion dollars. In her will, Duke spoke of her interest in the “prevention of cruelty to children or to animals” and in “promoting anti-vivisectionism.” (Duke’s pets included two camels and a leopard, as well as several dogs.) The Duke foundation has a program to combat child abuse, but it has never invested in an animal-welfare program. Claire Baralt, a communications officer for the foundation, points out that the will says that support of animal rights was optional, not mandatory. According to Hoffman, however, “Doris Duke is a good example of how a testator’s intent has been thwarted. You know that person was extremely attached to her animals, but, at the end of the day, the trustees have made sure that very little has gone from that estate to animals. If you judge animal need against human need, human need is going to win most of the time, because we are human. We want to make sure the same mistakes are not made with Helmsley.
“The thing that I’m trying to get people to realize is this is not bling for dogs,” Hoffman went on. “When you think about it, five to eight billion dollars isn’t that much. Foundations are required to give out at least five percent of their assets every year, so we’re talking about two hundred and fifty million to four hundred million dollars.” This vast sum, which would dwarf the proceeds of Maddie’s Fund, could finance a great deal of medical research on or about dogs, but most of the ideas so far involve establishing no-kill policies for strays. Thanks in part to the efforts of the members of Hoffman’s alliance to foster adoptions and spaying and neutering, the percentage of animals killed in New York City shelters has dropped from 74 percent, in 2002, to 43 percent, in 2007. Hoffman would like to use the Helmsley money to buy more spay-neuter vans, at two hundred thousand dollars each, and windowed vans for adoption events, at a hundred and seventy thousand dollars apiece; and to establish a “special Leona Helmsley Memorial Veterinary Hospital for needy pets,” at twenty million dollars a year, “providing medical treatment, inoculations, and training to help low-income families care for their dogs and create safer and more humane communities.” Hoffman wants to take these ideas nationwide. “A Leona Helmsley Trust dedicated to helping make the U.S. ‘no kill’ could actually achieve its goal in a remarkably short amount of time,” she said.
Hoffman’s enthusiasm obscures the fundamental moral question about how Helmsley hoped to dispose of her fortune. The way Leona altered her mission statement places the issue in especially stark terms. Version one proposed helping dogs and ailing poor children; version two—the final version—cut out the children and gave everything to the dogs. Is there any justification for such a calculation? Or does Helmsley’s change, along with the broader vogue for pet bequests, reflect a decadent moment in our history?
“In the nineteenth century, when the robber barons started modern American philanthropy, there were no tax deductions, no incentives from the government to give, just the growing idea that with wealth comes social and moral obligation,” Vartan Gregorian, the president of the Carnegie Corporation and a veteran of the New York philanthropic scene, said. “They could spend their money any way they wanted, but, once we started giving tax deductions, which amounted to a publicly approved subsidy, you had to prove that the money was going for a philanthropic purpose, but that is so broad that you can give to almost anything.
“When you see a gift like Leona’s, it’s individualism carried to iconography,” Gregorian went on. “The whole idea that individuals can do whatever they want is part of the American psyche. It’s left to individual decision-making. That you can give to this sector of society, which is animals, as opposed to the other sector, which is human beings, tells you something about her and about the times in which we live.”
The specific nature of Leona’s gift appears consistent with the pervasive misanthropy of her life and her will. This was a woman, after all, who at her trial was quoted as saying about a contractor who was owed thirteen thousand dollars for installing a custom-made barbecue pit at the Helmsley estate and wanted to be paid because he had six children, “Why doesn’t he keep his pants on? He wouldn’t have so many problems.” (In his opening statement at the trial, her defense attorney said, “I don’t believe Mrs. Helmsley is charged in the indictment with being a tough bitch.”) In the light of her vast wealth, the bequests to her relatives were grudging, small, and controlling, particularly the insistence that two of Jay Panzirer’s children visit his grave each year. As in life, Leona’s disdain for others contrasted with her nearly fetishistic obsession with her husband. (While Harry was alive, she held an annual ball to celebrate his birthday, known as the “I’m Just Wild About Harry” party.) The transfer of this kind of obsessive affection from Harry to Trouble seems apparent. The twelve-million-dollar trust for the dog is bigger than any other single bequest in the will. On the whole, the will reflects contempt for humanity as much as love of dogs.
Under the law, certainly, it was Helmsley’s right to divvy up her money any way she wanted. And she is not the first wealthy person to use a will to show a preference for dogs over humans. Rumors abound about major bequests to pets, although facts are difficult to pin down. Natalie Schafer, the actress who played Lovey, the millionaire’s wife, on Gilligan’s Island, is said to have left her estate for the care of her dog. (“It is still getting residuals,” Rachel Hirschfeld said.) Toby Rimes, a New York dog, is said to have inherited about eighty million dollars, and Kalu, a pet chimpanzee in Australia, may have received a bequest of a hundred and nine million dollars. (A widely reported story that a German dog named Gunther IV inherited more than a hundred million dollars appears to be a hoax.)
Is it right to give so much money to a dog—or to dogs generally? And what is the limit of such dispensations to pets? Will there come a time when dogs can s
ue for a new guardian—or to avoid being put to sleep? One philosopher draws a distinction between the needs of Trouble and those of dogs as a whole. Helmsley “did a disservice to the people in the dog world and to dogs generally by leaving such an enormous amount of money for her own dog,” Jeff McMahan, who teaches philosophy at Rutgers University, said. “To give even two million dollars to a single little dog is like setting the money on fire in front of a group of poor people. To bestow that amount of money is contemptuous of the poor, and that may be one reason she did it.
“But to give such a large sum of money to dogs generally is not frivolous,” McMahan went on. “I think it shows some misplaced priorities, but many bequests do. In a world where there is starvation and poverty, you can say that it’s wrong to give money to universities, or museums, or, worst of all, to divide it up for your children and heirs who are already rich. Welfare for dogs is better than more pampering of the rich. It may indicate misplaced moral priorities, but it’s not frivolous or silly. It’s disgraced by the context, but the two bequests should be separately evaluated.”
Throughout her life, Leona Helmsley demonstrated not just a lack of affection for her fellow-humans but an absence of understanding as well. The irony is that, for all that her will purports to show her love for Trouble, Leona didn’t seem to understand dogs very well, either. “What is funny about giving all this money to one dog is that it doesn’t deal with the fact that the dog is going to be sad that Leona died,” Elizabeth Harman, who teaches philosophy at Princeton, said. “What would make this dog happy is for a loving family to take it in. The dog doesn’t want the money. The money will just make everyone who deals with the dog strange.”
| 2008 |
SMALL-TOWN LIFE
GEORGE W. S. TROW
There has been a dog emporium, named Canine Styles, on the west side of Lexington Avenue between Sixty-third Street and Sixty-fourth Street since 1959. We know this for a fact. Some people used to call it Ursula’s, but now everyone calls it Canine Styles. A dog emporium is not a pet shop. You don’t buy dogs at Canine Styles—you buy things for dogs. And a few things for cats. And you pay a fairly high price to have your dog groomed and his hair cut there. Continuities and threads of tradition exist at Canine Styles. The cutting of your dog’s hair, for instance, will be undertaken by the head dog groomer, Edith Hoeltz, who has been at it on this block, at this exact spot on Lexington, for thirty years. Mrs. Hoeltz is tallish and has a strong German accent. She has short blond hair and bangs. We saw her the other day in a social atmosphere, dogless, chatting with people, acting like a friendly person. Whenever we’d seen her before, she had been in her professional posture: with scissors, grooming a dog. When Mrs. Hoeltz grooms a dog, she leans over it, and her expression is serious, devoted, and eternal. Socially, standing upright and chatting, Mrs. Hoeltz has the attractive in-transit look that human beings have at social gatherings where they feel at home. When Mrs. Hoeltz is grooming a dog, she seems to be saying to herself “Is now and ever shall be.” Something like that.
Lexington Avenue looks a little eternal here, a little like a Christmas treat. Around Canine Styles on the west side of Lexington are Albert & Sons Prime Meats & Poultry, Eastside Shoe Service, Plaza Watch & Jewelry, DiPierre Corsetry, and Phone Boutique. There are homeless people on the street, and, of course, Phone Boutique, but there’s not much we can’t deal with. Of all ideas, New York as small town is the strangest, perhaps, but it is a sustainable one right here on Lexington.
The other day, we were walking on Lexington and we ran into Mark Drendel, who is the proprietor of Canine Styles. Mr. Drendel was walking determinedly. Mr. Drendel parts his hair in the middle. He was wearing a brown plaid sports jacket. He was born in 1959, the year Ursula opened her shop.
“Who was Ursula?” we asked.
“Ursula Lehnhardt.”
“When did you buy Canine Styles?”
“I bought it eighteen months ago.”
“How did you get the idea of buying a dog store?”
“I passed somebody, this guy, on Columbus, walking a dog, and I asked where the dog was groomed, and he said Ursula’s. So I took my dog there, and it turned out to be a major career change for me. I knew I wanted to do something dog-related. They needed sales help in the front of the store, and I got the job. In two, three weeks, I knew I wanted to own the store. I knew it would be a great place and I could change my life there. That was the beginning of March. On June 27th, I closed the deal—signed the papers and bought the store. One minute, I was new sales help, and the next minute I owned the store.”
We learned that Mr. Drendel grew up in Memphis. In 1976, he began to take classes at the Ambassador Dance School in Memphis. He became obsessed with ballroom dancing and ballroom-dancing competitions. He ended up as the dance director of the school. “That’s what I tend to do everywhere,” he said.
“You go from nothing to running the place?”
“That’s right.”
To create a sense of the small town in New York, we thought, takes this kind of will to power.
Mr. Drendel looked up at the sky and said, “There’s no greater feeling in the whole world than to be dressed in a full set of tails and have a lady on your arm and you are leading her onto the dance floor,” he said. “She is dressed in the most beautiful gown, completely jewelled. You take her out on the floor and spin her and watch her twirl around, curtsy to the audience, and you take her into dance position and begin to do the most beautiful foxtrot or waltz. It’s two or three minutes of the most incredible moments of your life. It’s my first love, although I don’t do it anymore.”
“When did you first visit New York?”
“When I was eighteen.”
“What did you do after ballroom dancing?”
“I owned a place called the Car Salon, in Austin, Texas. People came to get their cars washed, and I gave them complimentary cocktails. Then the bottom fell out of the economy in Texas, so I came to New York.”
As we left Mr. Drendel, we were thinking, Well, a part of the bottom may have fallen out of the economy in New York, too. But we passed by Canine Styles later in the day and we saw a party—a Christmas party. It was all a matter of women and their dogs. We saw papillons, English bulldogs, Shih Tzus, bichons frises, Yorkshire terriers, Maltese (eleven of them), French poodles, a Jack Russell terrier, a Gordon setter (the largest dog at the party), a wire-haired fox terrier, a schnauzer, a Norwich terrier, a West Highland white terrier, a cocker spaniel. People were dressed up. It looked as if the shop had been dressed up. Someone was taking pictures. Flashbulbs went off. We moved closer. Flashbulbs were going off in what is normally the grooming area. “Alice. Look, Alice. Smile. Good girl, Alice,” a woman was saying. We saw Edith Hoeltz smiling and talking. We continued our walk down Lexington Avenue. Plaza Watch & Jewelry. Phone Boutique. DiPierre Corsetry. The image of the flashbulbs going off in the grooming area of Canine Styles stayed with us. And the idea of Mrs. Hoeltz grooming dogs on that spot for thirty years straight stayed with us, and Mr. Drendel coming into her life and her coming into his. We thought that if New York is to work as a community it will take all that—flashbulbs, a party, Mrs. Hoeltz’s dedication, and Mr. Drendel’s magical ability to walk right in and take over. Then we thought about Mr. Drendel and his various careers, and realized that what we were seeing on Lexington Avenue was the spirit of competitive ballroom dancing.
| 1991 |
TALLYHO!
E. J. KAHN, JR.
Among the things I do not ordinarily do on wintry Sunday afternoons is to take long walks. The other weekend I broke this tradition rather violently by taking a walk fourteen miles long with a group of Long Islanders who spend their Sunday afternoons following an over-conscientious pack of beagles. We covered this distance, a little more than half the length of a marathon race, over an area replete with obstacles, and for several days afterward I had difficulty walking at all, even on a Persian rug.
I was introduced to be
agling by an agile friend of mine who is known in beagling circles as Brownie. She is a member of the Buckram Beagles, an organization which has kennels at Brookville, Long Island, containing thirty hunting beagles and, at the moment, eighteen puppies, who are being trained to devote most of the rest of their lives to the demolition of jack rabbits. There are twenty-six packs of beagles in this country, and four of them, including the Buckram Beagles, are run on a joint-ownership basis. It costs about $4,500 a year to maintain the Buckram pack, and the organization’s forty members, most of whom are Long Islanders, pay annual dues of $50 each. Additional income is provided by eighty-five “subscribing” members, who are not permitted to vote at meetings but, for $15 apiece or $30 a family, are entitled to run their legs off every Wednesday and Sunday afternoon from October 1st to April 1st. Beagling is too strenuous a sport to be carried on under a hot summer sun, and even on cool August and September days it might inflict serious damage on crops growing in fields that happen to lie in its path. On Wednesdays, only a handful of women, children, and gentlemen of leisure go beagling; on Sundays, there is usually a group of from fifty to a hundred, ranging in age from children of eleven to venerable sportsmen and women whose stamina is equal to that of any rabbit. The Buckram group have been doing this sort of thing since 1934 and never miss a Sunday, being as determined to fulfill their schedules as a college football team. To avoid monotony, these beaglers change their hunting grounds almost every Sunday. In seven years they have run over most of the big Long Island estates, some of them belonging to members and some to friends. Once, last winter, desiring a change, they persuaded T.W.A. to lend them a couple of large airplanes and flew from LaGuardia Field to Camden, New Jersey, for an afternoon’s outing, ferrying the beagles in a forward compartment. The trip over was rough and many of the members, on alighting, were green; the hounds appeared to enjoy the excursion and frisked around the New Jersey countryside just as if it had been Old Westbury.
The Big New Yorker Book of Dogs Page 27
