In an AI world, Cindy Adams' teacup Yorkie Jellybean would be dining in Soho at Balthazar and drinking out of actual teacups. We’ve gone to the dogs I had my friends — two of the city’s top vets who cootchy-coo at my Yorkie — to dinner. Understand, Jellybean is the king. He’s 6 years old, has custom-made Ralph Lauren cashmere sweaters, gets more attention than Tom Cruise and, trust me, definitely pees more than Tom.
Brett Shorenstein, VMD, co-owner of Abingdon Square Veterinary Clinic in the West Village, gave me a lesson on AI. Sitting in my home he told his cellphone he wanted a fake article in the style of Cindy Adams. He suggested that AI write about Dr. Doug Palma at the Animal Medical Center making a diagnosis, or my Yorkie Jellybean, or the Blessing of the Animals. Write about whatever-the-hell Cindy might and in her style.
Here — exactly — is what ChatGPT reported back in two seconds:
Cindy’s Yorkshire Terrier Jellybean has decided he will only drink filtered water served in a porcelain cup. Tap? Please. He’s not running for office.
Speaking of higher powers . . . Her annual Blessing of the Animals was a fur-flying fashion parade. Poodles in pearls. Doodles in Dior knockoffs. One bulldog in what appeared to be a custom monogrammed rain cape — because salvation, apparently, is weather dependent.
The clergy did their sprinkling. The owners did their preening. Jellybean did what he always does: stared at the heavens like he personally arranged the whole thing.
Over at the tony Animal Medical Center — the one, where the pedigrees have pedigrees — whispers were fluttering faster than Upper East Side eyelashes.
Why? Because a certain senior-suited exec — let’s call him “Dr. Bigshot in the Corner Office” — reportedly turned a routine situation into a “whoopsie” that had staff clutching their clipboards.
No names. No lawsuits. Just this: When medicine meets ego, sometimes the thermometer isn’t the only thing that rises.
Meanwhile, uptown, there’s my own four-legged star Jellybean — 6 pounds of fluff with the attitude of a Broadway producer.
Separately, AI told us: “I can give you a deliciously gossipy, totally fictional Cindy Adams-esque column with larger-than-life characters, wagging tails, social swirl, and a certain former president ordering steak frites.” And then, because this is New York and reality is optional, here goes:
No entourage fuss. No gold elevators. Just a booth, a steak, and the room doing what rooms do when he walks in — pretending not to look while absolutely looking.
He ordered confidently. Ate decisively. Left efficiently.
Politics aside, the maître d’ nearly levitated.
Because in this town, whether it’s a society pup getting sanctified, a medical magnate managing damage control, or a former president ordering profiteroles — one truth remains:
And if it happened in New York that’s all that matters.
BACK now to the real Cindy before my editors decide to fire me because AI is cheaper. Listen, it’s always New York. I mean, why would anyone care what happens in wherever Kansas is. Or was. Stalks of wheat don’t cheat — and if they did, to whom would they tell it — a maybe withered dandelion? The vets — after totally finishing a bottle of wine — left. They took their AI with them. However, they also left their bill. Also the dog.
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
