Rich Dog, Poor Dog

F. Scott Fitzgerald: “The rich are different than you and me.”
Ernest Hemingway: “Yes, they have more money.”

Hemingway’s famous zinger is said to have never happened. But of the two great American writers, I have always liked the hunky Hemingway – rugged Michigander that he was – more than the fragile Fitzgerald. So, in my mind, the conversation stands.
The quote – real or not -- popped in my head as I read about Conchita, a thin, spa-loving, diamond-draped heiress that is in the middle of one of America’s most spiteful estate battles.
But Conchita isn’t your ordinary heiress. She is a Chihuahua, a dog that the late Miami Heiress Gail Posner elevated to the status of surrogate child. Once, Conchita nearly choked on a $15,000 Cartier necklace she wore as a collar. The dog also owned its own gold Cadillac Escalade.
Posner died in March and left Conchita, and her two other dogs, an $8.3 million mansion, plus $3 million in trust funds. Posner’s son, the bratty Bret Carr, who was once arrested for counterfeiting, has unsurprisingly disputed the will.
Posner’s servant, a woman named Queen Elizabeth Beckford, received $5 million to care for Conchita, and two other dogs and some turtles, at the mansion. Beckford has to do things like take care of the dogs’ four-season wardrobe and their diamond jewelry. She also takes them to their weekly spa treatments, where they get a mani-pedi on their claws. When Conchita and the other creatures die, the rest of the inheritance is supposed to go to charity.
Conchita has lots of material things, but I wonder if she is a happy dog. The servants put up with all this excessive nonsense because Conchita is the source of their huge paychecks. When Conchita dies, so does the gravy train. To Posner’s bitter son, Conchita is the symbol of his mother’s complete rejection. That’s a whole lot of human dysfunction for poor Conchita to carry on her teeny-tiny shoulders.
When I finished reading about the feud, I looked at Vito, who scratched at the window. With his paw, he batted down a fly, caught it in his mouth, and swallowed it. Satisfied with his snack, he sniffed his way to his toy tiger, which I bought for him at the dollar store. He proceeded to bite its leg.
Vito’s nails are a bit ragged. His collar is nylon. He doesn’t own a wig, but even so, he seems happy.
A fly to catch, a toy to chew, fresh water, healthy food, and a family of best friends: what more could a dog want?
Hemingway was right. The rich do have more money, but less sense.