Jennifer Saved My Dog’s Life
Jennifer saved my dog’s life. She knew about dogs. I am a dog person as well. I wasn’t always. Neither was Jennifer. We knew each other a lifetime ago. I was a young independent filmmaker in living in NYC. One day I crossed paths with a young for writer for Town & Country magazine at a gilded-age mansion turned grade-school. For those not familiar with the publication this is from their website: The trusted source of inside information on access and influence, taste, elegant living, and unpretentious fun — an irreplaceable guide to the very best. We were in the Sacred Heart chapel located in the James A. Burdon House for a memorial service celebrating a mutual friend, François-Xavier Bagnoud, a dashing young Swiss helicopter pilot who died in a crash while surveying the Paris-Dakar rally. It was not surprising that Jennifer would be a close friend of a modern day version of the Little Prince; Francois’ mother was a Countess and his father ran an air-rescue operation in the Alps.
If this all seems like a cross between a Henry James and James Bond, you have an idea of Jennifer’s world at that time. Her specific job was to survey the most exotic, exclusive resorts in the company of world-renowned photographers. It was all very glamorous and showy. Jennifer mastered the part, but that does not mean she loved to play the role. I always imaged Jennifer walking along a stone garden path in a 18th century French Chalet interviewing a pompous blue-blood. She would be unfailingly polite and did her homework knowing the pedigree and building history. She would ask the perfect question that would satisfy the ego while gleaning valuable information. But all the while I imagine her replaying in her mind that Dorthy Parker quote: “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” Jennifer didn’t hate the rich, but I believe she felt she had a front row seat to missed opportunities to uphold the truths she ALWAYS held dear.
Behind the prim and proper lady from Greenwich was a subversive who knew the golden rule and had real respect for those who sought to make the world a more equitable, beautiful place. Those who had more should do more. Choosing to simply feather your nest was, quite simply, a waste, despite the finery. Life is about community and respect. She’d NEVER preach or scold. She lived by example.
I always felt that her neighborhood in Manhattan reflected her wonderful ability to travel in different circles. She lived in a building that was on the cusp of Sutton Place, Midtown and the Upper East Side. It was near the entrance to the 59th Street Bridge, the gateway to the outer-boroughs, which was where her boyfriend at the time lived. He happened to be my film partner. We had graduated to Long Island City after doing time in Manhattan’s flower district at the height of the crack epidemic. Jennifer used to visit and I always remember her un-phased demeanor. Walking on 28th street at night was a slice of long vanished 80s NYC. You would encounter the homeless families from the Welfare Hotels, the street-walkers who lived in those same grim buildings, the crack dealers, the gay bathhouse crowd and the ever-present wholesale florists and Korean businessmen who had storefronts that sold various hats, shirts and trinkets . The small deli featured “loosies”, single cigarettes, and while online you would be badgered by people trying to bargain their food stamps for cash. Jennifer treated everyone with the same attention and politeness she would extend to her subjects in her work at Town and Country.
Over the years I was with Jennifer in many different settings and she was unflaggingly put-together and immaculate. Attending a Fifth Ave cocktail party, watching a floor show at a Russian mob restaurant in Brighton Beach Brooklyn, sunbathing on Georgica Beach in East Hampton, standing the graffiti covered subway cars….. Jennifer’s wonderful sense of style only enhanced the surroundings. I have a memory of siting with her at an Italian Restaurant on 4th Ave when none other than John Gotti himself, yes that John Gotti, walked past the table in one his famous dapper don suits. Jennifer didn’t flinch. She simply smiled and laughed. That freeze frame tableau of the rakish villain and polite society- lady sticks in my head. Except this Jennifer, unlike many of her compatriots in Greenwich, understood that the forefathers of the ruling class bear a stronger resemblance to Mr. Gotti than the polished, polite members of the Metropolitan Club.
Jennifer was an expert on New York ruling class social world. She could have written the dialogue in the Mad Men episode where the boss explains why a troublesome employee, from a NY blue-blood family, can’t be fired:
I don’t want Dorthy Dyckman Cambell standing on the dock at Fisher’s Island this summer talking about how badly Sterling Cooper treated her son. We lose him, we lose our entree to Buckley, Deke (DKE), The Maidstone Club, The Century Club, Dartmouth…. Gracie Mansion sometimes… it’s a marque issue for us.
Knowing the rules of the game meant seeing, first hand, the racism and classism of those in power. Tribalism runs deep. People in Fairfield County often say, with pointed antisemitism, “you must be from the city”, just as residents of Manhattan tag someone or someplace as very “bridge and tunnel”. There are dividing lines and an unspoken competition for mammon. Even the most privileged are not immune from the hidden savagery. One of Jennifer’s first boyfriends was the scion of a prominent “old money” family. His younger brother, a kind and gentle soul and grade-school classmate, was the first friend I knew to take their own life. Attributes such as empathy and compassion are not as prized as fierceness and dominance. Jennifer’s facade appeared as a preppy lady from Greenwich, who wrote puff pieces about the WASP establishment. In reality she was part of a different tribe, and to boot she dated a guy living in Queens whose day job was shooting film for a private investigator.
Jennifer and I were mutually gobsmacked when, after two decades of not being in touch, we ran into each other on Main Street in Montpelier:. What are YOU doing HERE?! Then she gave me her email address that featured the word “sylvan”…. WHAT? You have a DOG? In retrospect it should not have been a surprise. We were twinned in being consummate city-folk, with our fluency in the social mores of our birth-world, but a profound uneasiness about our assigned roles. It didn’t help that we both shared difficult mothers. Our travels might be seen as spiritually akin to that of a certain Beat Gernation icon. Allen Ginsberg escaped the seemingly placid New Jersey suburbs to the comfortable tumult of San Francisco and New York, where he thrived. We shared that burning desire to break from the familiar skyscraper routine and ended taking refuge in the Green Mountains. Vermont is a place where you actually know the families whose names grace the roads. A place where nature and animals are prized and ubiquitous. A place where you feel your own impact on the surroundings. A place where celebrity & power are accorded less standing than being a good neighbor. A place where winter is still… winter.
Jennifer was, of course, a flatlander, but she had found home. Always one to be professional and prepared she earned a degree in environmentalism. Jennifer cleverly combined her studies with her vast knowledge of the ruling class. She became a fundraiser for the Nature Conservancy but that didn’t keep her away from the nitty-gritty of being involved in hands-on solutions to actual problems. In my work on the local Selectboard I would use her as a resource to find the contacts for various environmental challenges. She always knew the name and department of the person in charge. Her work came home and was home. I remember her speaking to me passionately about invasive species, flooding, the changing forest and her beloved dogs.
No one could have had a better guardian than Jennifer. I remember the meticulous care which included a supervised diet of raw meat and intravenous fluids for Josie, who had a kidney problem. Jennifer was also an amazing resource in terms of finding value in products. I noted the exorbitant cost of raw dog food and she tipped me off to a way of buying chicken-back in bulk from the processor. This involved repackaging into smaller baggies, no small feat as raw chicken can be dangerous to handle. She showed me her process, which involved bleach and rubber gloves. Did I mention that Jennifer was obsessively detail oriented? :)
Her social life also flourished in the new surroundings. Jennifer always had a posse of real friend but, it is in Vermont where she found the love of her life, Paul. Jennifer wrote to me shortly before her passing about throwing her arms around him as he finished one of his runs. I can’t remember the specific words but it brought to mind that line in the a song that was popular in our youth, Never Gonna Give Ya Up: I found what the world is searching for, here, right here my dear, I don’t have to look no more. Together they built something eternal… and I’m not just speaking about their eco-friendly house in the woods. They were a real team. When I think about what it means to have a partner… that delicate balance of respect, dedication, trust and perseverance….. Paul and Jennifer set the bar high. They were formally married for a little over a year but it brought many lifetimes of joy to them and everyone around.
I have had friends pass, but not since the death of my grade-school classmate, Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend’s brother, has it felt so unjust. Obviously explanations are in the realm beyond this world. It cannot make sense otherwise. But I take comfort in the warmth I felt in seeing her on her deathbed. It was only two days till the end and she looked radiant with a strong grip. She never lost her sense of grace. In that brief encounter we talked of old friends, past times. Without the support of my spouse I would not have been able to retain my composure. I spoke many times before the visit about Jennifer’s ability to endure the unspeakable without complaint or self-pity. It was the least I could do not to go to pieces. I stand strong with the hordes of CT friends, NYC friends, Vermont friends and seek to give support and comfort…. Just as she did to me in many difficult times over the years. I think I mentioned that she saved my dog’s life.
I was heartbroken when my dog wasn’t responding to traditional veterinary treatment. Jennifer had a plan. She put my in touch with a doctor who combined Eastern and Western approaches to medicine. At the time he wasn’t taking new patients but… Jennifer always had the kind of standing that opened doors. That was a couple of years ago. He is strong. You saved him Jennifer. Thank you. Thank you for everything.
I don’t know who I’m going to call to ask advice on environmental remediation measures or why Fire Island’s Point O’Woods is so exclusive or the best place to buy incontinence blankets for the dogs or the difference between the Union Club and the Union League Club. But I know you were the master of adaptation. Who else has been born & raised in a suburb, came of age in a city and made a life in the country? All this with such elan and in every new neighborhood winning the respect of the most cherished group of people: those you respect. We take inspiration in knowing you will thrive in the new undiscovered country and give us quiet guidance as we comfort each other in our current state of shock.
You never were one for formal religion or verse poetry. Talk like this would have made you roll your eyes. But bare with me I as I bring up Shakespeare’s Sonnet #30. The English may be old, but the message isn’t. It is a timely reminder of one of her most comforting attributes in this time of mourning. It speaks to Jennifer’s ability to pull people out of the emotional ruts of regret, sulking and self-pity.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.
Jennifer had the soothing presence and knew the right gesture or word. I contacted a mutual friend from the NY days who had not seen you in four decades. She wrote the following to her which I relayed but want all to hear:
I had just arrived in NY, right after Francois’ accident, lost in youth and sadness and you were there, an angel, lovely detail after detail you dropped off magazines, you gave me a copy of Eloise (at the Plaza) which I still have.
This brings to mind the time when the NY Post astrologer Patric Walker passed away sending most of the city into a panic :). Jennifer called me to break the news and offered calm. Message to Jennifer: Say HI to Patric & Francois I’m not sure if you’ll run into Mr. Gotti, as I think he might be in a different place, but if you do I’m sure you’ll know what to say…. You always did.
