Off The Pony

The Frigidaire tried to kill The Pony a few days ago. Oh, she's a subtle one. Humming along like we're all best buds. Shooting out ice cubes to tickle our fancy. A sly assassin is she. Her still waters run deep.

Every morning, I fill The Pony's metal water bottle with ice and a smattering of H2O. Because the top of the water bottle is too small to adequately catch half-moon ice chunks, I first harvest the cubes in a red Solo cup. From there, I hand-scoop them into the pursed mouth of the blue or red aluminum water bottle. It takes slightly less than two cups.

On the last handful of pearly crescents, I spied something whiter than the ice. I peered into the opening like Anton van Leeuwenhoek into an ocular eyepiece. He's considered the father of microscopy, you know.

I could not quite make out the offending foreign object. I shook the metal bottle. That got my hand a whole lotta cold, and the object a dive to the Davy Jones' Locker of brought-from-home beverage containers. So I poured it out into a large hot & sour soup takeout container. Aha! There it was, about the size of two dimes: a white plastic piece of Frig's cube-freezing mechanism. I made a new batch of water for The Pony.

Frig and I are at sixes and sevens. I am not inclined to perform another lifesaving coldecystectomy on Frig any time in the near future.