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Ellen Sheds Crocodile Tears Over Dog Drama
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
By Susan Estrich
You have to hand it to Ellen. She almost had us dog lovers crying with her
last week about those meanies at the adoption agency who swooped in and took
back her much-loved mutt just because she'd given him away to her
hairdresser.
The lady at my local dog shelter wasn't buying it for a minute. She's done
this before, she confided in me, as we chatted over new licenses for Judy
Estrich and Molly Estrich. Ellen had another dog, the true dog-loving lady
behind the counter told me, who she brought to the set every day, and
treated like a long-lost child, until one day the dog stopped coming. Turns
out that dog didn't "fit in" either, whatever that means, and she gave it to
one of her staff, like last year's ball gown.
It's OK to cry, Ellen has been telling her audiences, recounting the sad
tale of the folks at Mutts and Moms who actually thought that contracts mean
what they say, that when you agree to keep a dog for at least a year (only a
year), you're required to do just that, and not pawn him off on one of your
staff members or your hairdresser.
I feel badly for Iggy, the dog. And I feel badly for the hairdresser and her
family, who probably had no idea that the "gift" from Ellen was the
equivalent of receiving stolen goods, a gift that wasn't hers to give away.
But the last person to feel badly for is the spoiled celebrity who thinks
animals are just another toy for stars to play with and pass along when they
tire of them. Would they treat a child that way? The fact is, some of them
do.
My children have grown up in the world of spoiled celebrities. The head of
their elementary school used to say, only half in jest, that if we lived in
Detroit, we'd have car kids; we live in Los Angeles, so we have Hollywood
kids.
At first, I used to worry that my own children would be jealous of these
kids who had all the fancy toys, traveled by private plane, went between
mansions in the hills and beach houses in Malibu, got picked up by
chauffeurs, fed filets for dinner every night, asssured that no matter how
well or poorly they did, they'd be rich when they grew up.
At least that's how their lives looked to us, at first. It didn't take long
for us to know better.
Rich kids turn out to be the ones most likely to be dumped by fickle
parents, when the divorce is settled, or when they don't kiss up to dad or
mom's newest boy or girl toy. Loyalty doesn't mean much when you're talking
about people with a sense of entitlement the size of Dodger stadium.
Poor little rich kids, with few exceptions, often are just that, pawned off
on a revolving circle of nannies and tutors and paid drivers, who never last
very long either, doing the work that is the responsibility of any parent,
rich or poor. Too many of them end up like Ellen's dogs, but there is no
agency to swoop in and protect passed-off kids the way there is to protect
passed-off mutts.
And the saddest part is that the kids, instead of turning on their parents,
which is what you might expect, just become more and more desperate for
whatever crumbs of affection they're willing to toss their way.
I cried last week, but I cried for Bear, my friends' much loved Golden, one
of the best dogs in the world, a fiercely loyal and affectionate boy of only
six, who suffered a stroke for reasons no one can understand, and couldn't
be saved despite the desperate efforts of loving owners and talented and
devoted doctors.
Pam was in Washington when Bear was felled, and she flew home immediately to
Oklahoma City to be with him. I used to sleep with Bear when I visited my
friends, and I shudder to think about how empty the house will be without
him.
Maybe it was because of Ellen, or maybe because of Bear, or maybe it's just
watching all those houses in flames and people and animals who are now
homeless, but Judy and Molly now have a new brother. His name is Irving
Estrich, in memory of my father, gone 30 years now.
The last thing I need, as more than one person has pointed out to me, is a
third dog in my life, with my daughter headed for college next year, and my
son only three years away from graduating high school, and too many jobs and
too much work for the average bear.
But so what? We have plenty of love to go around, and a nice back yard to
boot, and believe me, Irving isn't going anywhere. Dogs are for keeps, or at
least they should be. If you can't get your head around that, you don't
deserve the love they give so unconditionally.
Bear is the fourth dog we've lost over the years, my friend Pam wrote to me,
enclosing a picture of that golden man at his finest, out hiking with her
husband David, high in the mountains. It doesn't get easier, she wrote about
losing a dog. Not unless you're Ellen, that is. She's turned it into a TV
special. Shame on her.
Ellen Sheds Crocodile Tears Over Dog Drama
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
By Susan Estrich
You have to hand it to Ellen. She almost had us dog lovers crying with her
last week about those meanies at the adoption agency who swooped in and took
back her much-loved mutt just because she'd given him away to her
hairdresser.
The lady at my local dog shelter wasn't buying it for a minute. She's done
this before, she confided in me, as we chatted over new licenses for Judy
Estrich and Molly Estrich. Ellen had another dog, the true dog-loving lady
behind the counter told me, who she brought to the set every day, and
treated like a long-lost child, until one day the dog stopped coming. Turns
out that dog didn't "fit in" either, whatever that means, and she gave it to
one of her staff, like last year's ball gown.
It's OK to cry, Ellen has been telling her audiences, recounting the sad
tale of the folks at Mutts and Moms who actually thought that contracts mean
what they say, that when you agree to keep a dog for at least a year (only a
year), you're required to do just that, and not pawn him off on one of your
staff members or your hairdresser.
I feel badly for Iggy, the dog. And I feel badly for the hairdresser and her
family, who probably had no idea that the "gift" from Ellen was the
equivalent of receiving stolen goods, a gift that wasn't hers to give away.
But the last person to feel badly for is the spoiled celebrity who thinks
animals are just another toy for stars to play with and pass along when they
tire of them. Would they treat a child that way? The fact is, some of them
do.
My children have grown up in the world of spoiled celebrities. The head of
their elementary school used to say, only half in jest, that if we lived in
Detroit, we'd have car kids; we live in Los Angeles, so we have Hollywood
kids.
At first, I used to worry that my own children would be jealous of these
kids who had all the fancy toys, traveled by private plane, went between
mansions in the hills and beach houses in Malibu, got picked up by
chauffeurs, fed filets for dinner every night, asssured that no matter how
well or poorly they did, they'd be rich when they grew up.
At least that's how their lives looked to us, at first. It didn't take long
for us to know better.
Rich kids turn out to be the ones most likely to be dumped by fickle
parents, when the divorce is settled, or when they don't kiss up to dad or
mom's newest boy or girl toy. Loyalty doesn't mean much when you're talking
about people with a sense of entitlement the size of Dodger stadium.
Poor little rich kids, with few exceptions, often are just that, pawned off
on a revolving circle of nannies and tutors and paid drivers, who never last
very long either, doing the work that is the responsibility of any parent,
rich or poor. Too many of them end up like Ellen's dogs, but there is no
agency to swoop in and protect passed-off kids the way there is to protect
passed-off mutts.
And the saddest part is that the kids, instead of turning on their parents,
which is what you might expect, just become more and more desperate for
whatever crumbs of affection they're willing to toss their way.
I cried last week, but I cried for Bear, my friends' much loved Golden, one
of the best dogs in the world, a fiercely loyal and affectionate boy of only
six, who suffered a stroke for reasons no one can understand, and couldn't
be saved despite the desperate efforts of loving owners and talented and
devoted doctors.
Pam was in Washington when Bear was felled, and she flew home immediately to
Oklahoma City to be with him. I used to sleep with Bear when I visited my
friends, and I shudder to think about how empty the house will be without
him.
Maybe it was because of Ellen, or maybe because of Bear, or maybe it's just
watching all those houses in flames and people and animals who are now
homeless, but Judy and Molly now have a new brother. His name is Irving
Estrich, in memory of my father, gone 30 years now.
The last thing I need, as more than one person has pointed out to me, is a
third dog in my life, with my daughter headed for college next year, and my
son only three years away from graduating high school, and too many jobs and
too much work for the average bear.
But so what? We have plenty of love to go around, and a nice back yard to
boot, and believe me, Irving isn't going anywhere. Dogs are for keeps, or at
least they should be. If you can't get your head around that, you don't
deserve the love they give so unconditionally.
Bear is the fourth dog we've lost over the years, my friend Pam wrote to me,
enclosing a picture of that golden man at his finest, out hiking with her
husband David, high in the mountains. It doesn't get easier, she wrote about
losing a dog. Not unless you're Ellen, that is. She's turned it into a TV
special. Shame on her.