At first, I was confused. When Rachel Feintzeig’s “Help! I’ve Become a Helicopter Parent to My Dog” was released on social media (as always, prior to its Sept. 7th print date: like most publications, the Times makes you wonder about the worth of a brick-and-mortar subscription), the former Wall Street Journal columnist was pilloried by vocal conservatives, most with comments that repeated dopey cliches like “You can’t hate the media enough,” and “Since the Times always gets facts on Gaza wrong, this how they distract themselves, with the self-indulgence of a barren Brooklyn Karen who performs at tiny Mamdani rallies and then marches off to Trader Joe’s.”
I doubt many of the aggrieved took the time to read Feintzeig’s breezy column, but if they had I’m confident there would be agreement that I’m correct that the onetime (and misnamed) “paper of record” is going full-bore satire.
She writes: “Being a parent these days is kind of a lot. I recently signed my youngest up for twice-weekly swim lessons, which apparently meant signing up for a barrage of text messages chronicling her excruciatingly slow—though still exciting!—journey from floaties to doggy paddling. I coordinate play dates, prepare multiple dinners for my picky eater. I carpool to the good day care two towns over. My kids? Oh, my kids are in elementary school. This is all for my dog.”
It works, and if Feintzeig hasn’t yet reached the funny-bone apex of Jacob Bernstein, she’s about seven years younger and doesn’t have the genes passed on to Jake (his new byline is coming up!) from his parents Nora Ephron and Carl Bernstein (two gold-medal satirists; although Nora died in 2012, Carl—in Dustin Hoffman drag—does double time on TV talk shows with his crafty zingers about Trump and the existential threat to democracy). Only the most gullible, or dim-witted, take a column like Rachel’s seriously, and that probably includes many wet-behind-the-ears colleagues—whether 34 or 84—who’re confused about the undeniable and audacious direction-change of The Not Grey Anymore But Colorful and Bopping Young Lady. (Thomas Friedman and David French are self-parodists, but that sort of counts.)
Rachel isn’t so rigid (unlike Spy’s “J.J. Hunsecker” in the late-1980s) that she’s above dropping a few “bread crumbs” on the way to the Gingerbread House for readers. I liked this: “For someone like me, who considers judging others to be a top hobby,” and then mentions her family’s first dog, who was “chill,” and “happy, because she was a dog, not a preschooler gunning for admission to Dalton.” That private school is always the choice for satirists, especially in the past several years when the staff has attended 98 mandatory retreats to mull over the Mideast war and how to keep their Jewish/Muslim students safe, as well as brainstorming on how to get away with another tuition hike.
It’s possible, but not likely, that some lucky (or miserable) pooches are treated to summer camp and vegan foie gras, as inconceivable as that seems while Trump is purposely crashing the economy—for the benefit of Jared Kusher, and only Jared—and hand-picked French residents fill the ears of non-satiric Guardian scrubs that the USA is an embarrassment to the world. How do they feel about Macron? Can’t remember, it’s exhausting keeping up with a New York-based newspaper’s gender change that bats out of the park new Cheap Thrills every single day.
We have a family dog, Billy Smith, and he enjoys a comfortable life (pretty sure, but I don’t speak Dog), with a dinner of chicken, rice and broccoli, lots of on-leash walks, and a trip to the vet if, for some reason, he’s disturbingly lethargic. But no summer camp or play dates. A far cry from Scuttle, the ferocious mutt of my childhood on Long Island. Puppy Scuttle was adopted at Heckscher Park by my brother Doug in 1963, and had a bite worse than bark, except for family members, to whom she was devoted.
But her insides were scrambled, and when in 1971 she started leaving calling cards in the house, gross stools with blood, my dad (who fed Scuttle ice cream at night, just like I did at dinner with canned corned beef hash) told me it was time, and off to the pet euthanasia doc we went. It didn’t occur to me (why would it?) at the time but had I asked my mom—never a Scuttle fan—that maybe the pooch should get cancer treatment, she would’ve looked at me as if I’d come home with a report card that wasn’t all A’s. (Gym, metal shop and handwriting were exempt, since “colleges don’t even consider those Mickey Mouse classes.”)
That’s a faded Polaroid of Scuttle above, in the doggy day care also known as our back yard.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Margaret Drabble’s Jerusalem is Golden, S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, Eliz Kazan’s The Arrangement and Piri Thomas’ Down These Mean Streets are published; Charlie Chaplin’s last film, A Countess From Hong Kong, opens in London; Keith Richards’ one-year sentence for possession of drugs is overturned; UK’s Boy’s Own Paper, started in 1879, folds; The Big Mac is introduced, in Uniontown, PA; Laura Dern is born and Spencer Tracy dies; the Mantra-Rock Dance takes place in San Francisco; the Green Bay Packers win the “Ice Bowl”; Damascus wins the Preakness Stakes; The Who perform their first concert in the United States; The Rooftop Singers disband; and The Association’s Insight Out is released.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023