We saved a pretty pony from certain doom!
We were nearing the end of a short and uneventful summer, so my girlfriends and I decided to take a ladies’ trip to the Hamptons, just like the Kennedys. Luckily, my friend Roxy’s parents have a place there, so we made a last-minute decision to pile on the train and head east for the weekend.
We arrived last Friday as the remnants of Tropical Storm Danny made for a gray afternoon of sipping some shitty Long Island iced teas because we felt it was what rich people did when they arrived in rich-people land. We went to bed early.
The next morning we woke up late, borrowed Roxy’s dad’s car, and paid a visit to a Himalayan crystal store where they sold those yuppie salt crystals that are supposed to give you good luck and clean your biorhythm and make you have babies with large genitals. The creepy, flamboyant employee elaborated on how they are a source of vitamins if you lick them like some hippy cow.
After being healed, we left the store and headed out of Sag Harbor to Montauk. We came around a corner shortly and all of us started screaming – off to the side of the rode was a miniature Arabian pony who had escaped from its home and was wandering about. We delicately approached the pony so as not to scare it away. It was a nice pony (as all ponies are) and we stopped for a few minutes to take some photos with it before deciding how we were going to transport the tiny thing back to its rightful home.
A few minutes later a woman pulled over in an attempt to help us and came barreling out of the car in a prissy little raincoat and joined our pony party. It turned out her definition of “helping” was panicking, asking a bunch of questions we didn’t know the answers to, and being a giant pain in the ass. Once she felt she'd sufficiently bothered us, the lady got into her car to get more “help” and we never saw her again.
We ran to the closest house to watch the people inside ignore our noisy knocking, (they were too busy watching television and inserting digits into their assholes to assist us in our pony-saving adventure. Thanks a lot, fuckfaces!).
Eventually a cop showed up. He was much more friendly than most police officers we’ve met. He said something into his radio, and less than a minute later the owner of the pony appeared. Which was kind of undramatic.
We were thanked for saving the pony, who we now know as Botchi. We kissed our little friend goodbye. Kay’s eyes were watering, but it wasn’t from sadness; she was majorly allergic to Botchi. That aside, we miss you, Botchi.
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