After New York Post columnist Cindy Adams lost her husband Joey to cancer, finding companionship again was the last thing on her mind. But one day, a visit from a friend brought just that, in the form Cindy least expected: a tiny dog.
Cindy Adams brings her famous wit, smarts, and taste for celebrity gossip to a wry and touching story of the bond between a dog and its unlikely owner.
New York Post gossip columnist Adams knows nothing about dog care, nor does she care to learn. But when her husband dies and a friend (Michael Viner, head of New Millennium Press) gives her a Yorkshire terrier as a bereavement gift, Adams is forced to confront the ins and outs of owning a pup. For a time, Jazzy (so named because of his frantic energy) is nothing but a pain in the neck, wreaking havoc on Adams's posh uptown apartment and driving the newspaperwoman insane. But after awhile, the furry little critter begins to grow on her, and Adams finds herself head over heels for Jazzy. She reads this trifle of a book with gusto, effortlessly cooing Jazzy's nicknames ("Jazzy-poo," for one) and imitating his little bark. Adams and Jazzy have run-ins with everyone from Imelda Marcos to Sylvester Stallone to Manuel Noriega (usually Jazzy does something to embarrass his owner in the presence of luminaries), and there's enough name-dropping here to choke, well, a small animal. Still, celebrity-related anecdotes aside, Adams is undeniably funny. Her voice alternates between the desperately breathless (as when she's trying to get the dog some Pepto Bismol for an upset stomach) to the angry (as when she's letting Jazzy have it for misbehaving). Yorkie lovers and gossip hounds will get a kick out of this unusual audiobook. Simultaneous release with the St. Martin's hardcover (Forecasts, Dec. 16, 2002). (Mar.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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St. Martin's Press
February 13, 2004
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Excerpt from The Gift of Jazzy by Cindy Adams
Joey and I had been together forever. I almost can't remember a time I wasn't with him. I think I came out of the womb married. Instead of a teething ring, I had a wedding ring. We were married when I was sixteen.
In his golden days he'd say, "Cindy and I became man and wife so long ago, Moses himself performed the ceremony. Our license is on a stone tablet."
My husband did everything for me. The only thing he ever did to me was grow old. And so, in the winter of his life, I did for him.
* * *
Age is a bitch. Worse than a mugger in a dark alley, because age brings a slow death. Minute by minute, inch by inch, here a little, there a little, year by year by year. Age robs you of your dignity, ability, agility, memory, self respect. It forces once-powerful somebodies to beg favors from nobodies.
It humiliates. It debilitates. It assassinates.
In the old days, comedian Joey Adams was a big-time pro headlining those Broadway movie theaters that are now long gone. Glossy palaces like the Paramount, the State, the Capitol, the Roxy. He and his friends and colleagues -- Frank Sinatra, Johnnie Ray, Guy Lombardo (all of whom are also gone) -- did six a day then. Six stage shows to go along with each showing of the movie.
I was a teenage model when Joey and I were wed. Why did I marry someone so senior? Because Joey loved me the same way my mother did. Without reservation. Some brides are motivated by passion, money, companionship. For me, the man I married was an extension of the life I'd had. If I got a cold, Joey sneezed. I felt safe.
The man who swore to take care of me was successful and, to my mind, sophisticated. Attractive in a non-pretty-boy way. Sharp looking. Beige cashmere coats. Snap-brim fedoras. Custom shirts with starched French cuffs. Diamond studs with the tux.