New York
How a Sheep-Herding Cardiologist Spends His Sundays
Five mornings a week, Dr. David Slotwiner, the chief of cardiology at NewYork-Presbyterian Queens hospital, can be found tending to human hearts.
But on Sunday mornings, he is on a grass-covered field at a rural farm in Hackettstown, N.J., standing among half a dozen sheep, whistle in hand, teaching his Border collies Cosmo and Luna to herd.
“It helps me think about what it takes to be an effective leader, though doctors don’t respond to whistles very well,” said Dr. Slotwiner, 58, who specializes in cardiac electrophysiology.
He started coming to the farm during the coronavirus pandemic, after Cosmo began showing aggression and bit his wife, Anne Slotwiner, 60. A trainer recommended a small sheep farm in New Jersey, Wayside Farm, that trains Border collies — and, once he herded with Cosmo for the first time, he was hooked.
Dr. Slotwiner shares a three-bedroom house in Pelham, the oldest town in Westchester County, with his wife, Cosmo, Luna and a 15-year-old American Eskimo rescue, George. (He has two adult sons, Harry, 28, and Peter, 25.)
SLEEPING IN, KIND OF During the week, I get up around 5 a.m., but on Sundays, I’ll sleep until 6:30 a.m. I’m not a morning person, but I’ve been forced to be a morning person. I’ll start the day by reading The New York Times on my iPhone in bed.
RISE AND RIDE I go to a 7:30 a.m. SoulCycle class in Bronxville. It’s always timed to the rhythm of the music, which makes it different from other spin classes. Before the pandemic, I was often taking six classes a week, which was not healthy.
MORNING MEET-UP Around 9 a.m., I meet my wife for breakfast at Caffè Ammi in Pelham. She’ll have the dogs in her car, because my car isn’t quite big enough to take them out to the farm in. I’ll get a large whole milk latte with one sugar and a warmed-up cranberry scone and — if I’m feeling decadent — an almond croissant.
OUT TO THE FARM I drive about an hour and 15 minutes to Wayside Farm. I’ll listen to a podcast on the way — I love “Hard Fork” and the NewYork-Presbyterian podcast “Health Matters.” And I really enjoy John Mandrola’s “This Week in Cardiology.” He’s a bit of a curmudgeon and always is slow to adopt new technology, and so I like to hear his critical perspectives. I tend to be a little bit of an earlier adopter, but I like to hear the science of both sides.
WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK We arrive at the farm around 11 a.m., and I grab my whistle and put on my headset — the distances are very great across the field, so this is how I can hear the people training me — and head out on the field with Cosmo and Luna.
Gene Sheninger and Teri Rhodes, who own the farm, train people to the highest level of competition internationally, but they’ll also take novices. There are other herding breeds, but Border collies tend to be the most common and tend to be the best for sheep.
BABY STEPS The first thing you teach them is to go clockwise, which is called “come by,” or counterclockwise, “away.” And then you teach them to drive the sheep to you in a straight line, in a controlled way, so they don’t push the sheep so quickly that they scatter. And then you teach them to push the sheep beyond you, which is one of the hardest things to get them to do, because Border collies want order — they don’t want the sheep to escape.
The ultimate challenge is to teach the dog how to separate the sheep into two groups, because the sheep instinctually want to stay together as a herd.
TOOLS OF THE TRADE Once you’re a certain distance away, you have to give commands using a whistle. In competitions, sometimes you do this over 800 or 900 yards, where you can’t even see the sheep. But the dogs learn to trust you so much that they know that if you give them the command to go clockwise, even if they don’t see the sheep, they will go clockwise to the edge of the field and keep running and running and running until they find those sheep, and then they will bring them to you.
NEWBIE NOSTALGIA It’s great to be a novice at my age, because I’m teaching medical students and residents every day. I’m teaching attending cardiologists how to do invasive procedures. It’s refreshing to be a beginner at something, to remember how it is to learn as I’m teaching people.
GETTING IN THE ZONE I’ll pack up around 12:30 p.m. or 1 p.m., then hop into the car and finish my medical podcast on the way back to Pelham. It helps me get in the mind-set for work.
DUMPLING DETOUR If I’m on call at the hospital, which I am every fourth weekend, I’ll head to downtown Flushing to grab a bite to eat before my shift. I love the soup dumplings at Juqi.
DR. BOW-TIE WILL SEE YOU NOW I arrive around 2 p.m. and change into scrubs. I’ll usually have four or five patients to check up on, and then I’ll take care of some paperwork or review a manuscript or two.
I’m typically rocking a bow tie. Fifteen years ago, a patient gave me one, and I decided I’d give it a try. It took me a while to figure out how to tie them — it was a lot of YouTube videos — but then I would wear it occasionally, and my patients really liked it. So then I went all in on bow ties. I have more than 50.
DINNER DATE Around 5 or 6 p.m., I’ll head back to Pelham to pick up my wife, and we’ll meet our son Harry and our daughter-in-law for dinner in Williamsburg. One of our go-to places is Ringolevio. If I’m splurging, I’ll have a skirt steak and a glass of red wine. Or I might meet my parents, who live in Battery Park, at a Greek restaurant down the block from them, Anassa Taverna. I love the grilled branzino, with white wine.
FUN WITH FRISBEES You can’t just come home to Border collies and say, “OK, it’s time to go to bed.” They’ve been herding for an hour and a half to two hours, and they’re working hard. So I’ll come home and play Frisbee with Cosmo and Luna for around half an hour. Cosmo is very toy motivated. Luna mostly wants affection and interaction.
KINDLE TIME I’ll climb into bed around 11:30 p.m. and read for half an hour on my Kindle. Right now I’m reading a Tana French novel, “Faithful Place,” which I’m enjoying. It’s a book to clear my brain. I’ve also finished another book that I really love, Barbara Kingsolver’s “Demon Copperhead.” I love the feature where you can switch between reading on the Kindle and listening to it, because that way, when I commute, whether it’s to work or to the farm, I can continue it.
OUT LIKE A LIGHT I usually fall asleep close to midnight. I’m a night owl. But I don’t go to SoulCycle on Monday morning, since I’ve had the whole weekend to exercise, so I don’t have to get up until 6.
intentionally and knowingly combined, conspired, confederated, and agreed together and with each other to violate Title 18, United States Code, Section 924(c).
35. It was a part and an object of the conspiracy that NICOLÁS MADURO MOROS, DIOSDADO CABELLO RONDÓN, RAMÓN RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, CILIA ADELA FLORES DE MADURO, NICOLÁS ERNESTO MADURO GUERRA, a/k/a “Nicolasito,” a/k/a “The Prince,” and HECTOR RUSTHENFORD GUERRERO FLORES, a/k/a “Niño Guerrero,” the defendants, and others known and unknown, during and in relation to a drug trafficking crime for which they may be prosecuted in a court of the United States, to wit, for MADURO MOROS, CABELLO RONDÓN, and RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, the controlled substance offenses charged in Counts One and Two of this Superseding Indictment, and for FLORES DE MADURO, MADURO GUERRA, and GUERRERO FLORES, the controlled substance offense charged in Count Two of this Superseding Indictment, knowingly used and carried firearms, and, in furtherance of such crimes, knowingly possessed firearms, and aided and abetted the use, carrying, and possession of firearms, to wit, machineguns that were capable of automatically shooting more than one shot, without manual reloading, by a single function of the trigger, as well as destructive devices, in violation of Title 18, United States Code, Sections 924(c)(1)(A) and 924(c)(1)(B)(ii). (Title 18, United States Code, Sections 924(o) and 3238.)
36.
FORFEITURE ALLEGATIONS
As a result of committing the controlled substance offense charged in Count One of this Superseding Indictment, NICOLÁS MADURO MOROS, DIOSDADO CABELLO RONDÓN, RAMÓN RODRÍGUEZ CHACÍN, the defendants, shall forfeit to the United States, pursuant to Title 21, United States Code, Sections 853 and 970, any and all property constituting, or derived from, any proceeds the defendants obtained, directly or indirectly, as a result of the offenses, and any and all property used, or intended to be used, in any manner or part, to commit,
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new video loaded: New York City Hit With Heaviest Snowfall in Years
transcript
transcript
New York City Hit With Heaviest Snowfall in Years
A winter storm blanketed the Greater New York area, leading to more than 400 flight cancellations across the region’s major airports. Parts of Long Island saw up to nine inches of snow.
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I think it was absolutely beautiful. We’re from North Carolina, so it was great to come up to New York and see the snow.
By Jorge Mitssunaga
December 27, 2025
Every week since 1976, Metropolitan Diary has published stories by, and for, New Yorkers of all ages and eras (no matter where they live now): anecdotes and memories, quirky encounters and overheard snippets that reveal the city’s spirit and heart.
For the past four years, we’ve asked for your help picking the best Diary entry of the year. Now we’re asking again.
We’ve narrowed the field to the five finalists here. Read them and vote for your favorite. The author of the item that gets the most votes will receive a print of the illustration that accompanied it, signed by the artist, Agnes Lee.
The voting closes at 11:59 p.m. on Sunday, Dec. 21. You can change your vote as many times as you’d like until then, but you may only pick one. Choose wisely.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Two Stops
Dear Diary:
It was a drizzly June night in 2001. I was a young magazine editor and had just enjoyed what I thought was a very blissful second date — dinner, drinks, fabulous conversation — with our technology consultant at a restaurant in Manhattan.
I lived in Williamsburg at the time, and my date lived near Murray Hill, so we grabbed a cab and headed south on Second Avenue.
“Just let me out here,” my date said to the cabby at the corner of 25th Street.
We said our goodbyes, quick and shy, knowing that we would see each other at work the next day. I was giddy and probably grinning with happiness and hope.
“Oh boy,” the cabby said, shaking his head as we drove toward Brooklyn. “Very bad.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in horror.
“He doesn’t want you to know exactly where he lives,” the cabby said. “Not a good sign.”
I spent the rest of the cab ride in shock, revisiting every moment of the date.
Happily, it turned out that my instinct about it being a great date was right, and the cabby was wrong. Twenty-four years later, my date that night is my husband, and I know that if your stop is first, it’s polite to get out so the cab can continue in a straight line to the next stop.
Ferry Farewell
Dear Diary:
On a February afternoon, I met my cousins at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Their spouses and several of our very-grown children were there too. I brought Prosecco, a candle, a small speaker to play music, photos and a poem.
We were there to recreate the wedding cruise of my mother, Monica, and my stepfather, Peter. They had gotten married at City Hall in August 1984. She was 61, and he, 71. It was her first marriage, and his fourth.
I was my mother’s witness that day. It was a late-in-life love story, and they were very happy. Peter died in 1996, at 82. My mother died last year. She was 100.
Peter’s ashes had waited a long time, but finally they were mingled with Monica’s. The two of them would ride the ferry a last time and then swirl together in the harbor forever. Cue the candles, bubbly, bagpipes and poems.
Two ferry workers approached us. We knew we were in trouble: Open containers and open flames were not allowed on the ferry.
My cousin’s husband, whispering, told the workers what we were doing and said we would be finished soon.
They walked off, and then returned. They said they had spoken to the captain, and they ushered us to the stern for some privacy. As the cup of ashes flew into the water, the ferry horn sounded two long blasts.
Unacceptable
Dear Diary:
I went to a new bagel store in Brooklyn Heights with my son.
When it was my turn to order, I asked for a cinnamon raisin bagel with whitefish salad and a slice of red onion.
The man behind the counter looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do that.”
Teresa
Dear Diary:
It was February 2013. With a foot of snow expected, I left work early and drove from New Jersey warily as my wipers squeaked and snow and ice stuck to my windows.
I drove east on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was tied up worse than usual. Trucks groaned on either side of my rattling Toyota. My fingers were cold. My toes were colder. Got to get home before it really comes down, I thought to myself.
By the time I got home to my little red bungalow a stone’s throw from the Throgs Neck Bridge, the snow was already up to my ankles.
Inside, I took off my gloves, hat, scarf, coat, sweater, pants and snow boots. The bed, still unmade, was inviting me. But first, I checked my messages.
There was one from Teresa, the 92-year-old widow on the corner.
“Call me,” she said, sounding desperate.
I looked toward the warm bed, but … Teresa. There was a storm outside, and she was alone.
On went the pants, the sweater, the coat, the scarf, the boots and the gloves, and then I went out the door.
The snow was six inches deep on the sidewalks, so I tottered on tire tracks in the middle of the street. The wind stung my face. When I got to the end of the block, I pounded on her door.
“Teresa!” I called. No answer. “Teresa!” I called again. I heard the TV blaring. Was she sprawled on the floor?
I went next door and called for Kathy.
“Teresa can’t answer the door,” I said. “Probably fell.”
Kathy had a key. In the corner of her neat living room, Teresa, in pink sweatpants and sweaters, was sitting curled in her armchair, head bent down and The Daily News in her lap.
I snapped off the TV.
Startled, she looked up.
“Kathy! Neal!” she said. “What’s a five-letter word for cabbage?”
Nice Place
Dear Diary:
When I lived in Park Slope over 20 years ago, I once had to call an ambulance because of a sudden, violent case of food poisoning.
Two paramedics, a man and a woman, entered our third-floor walk-up with a portable chair. Strapping me in, the male medic quickly inserted an IV line into my arm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his partner circling around and admiring the apartment.
“Nice place you’ve got here.” she said. “Do you own it?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, all but unconscious.
Once I was in the ambulance, she returned to her line of inquiry.
“Do you mind me asking how much you paid for your apartment?”
“$155,000,” I croaked.
“Wow! You must have bought during the recession.”
“Yeah” I said.
They dropped me off at Methodist Hospital, where I was tended to by a nurse as I struggled to stay lucid.
At some point, the same medic poked her head into the room with one last question:
“You wouldn’t be wanting to sell any time soon, would you?”
Illustrations by Agnes Lee.
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