This past weekend, Monkey and I took a Metro North train out to the north shore of Long Island to visit a friend. Normally, I spend part of the two-hour journey passing judgement on other passengers: loud cell phone “tawkers;” parents who let their offspring terrorize other travelers while simultaneously spreading animal cracker debris over a ten foot radius; a group of guys in their mid-twenties heading out to a friend’s wedding, each trying to outdo the other with tales of female conquests, gross out stories that involve liquor and vomiting, or debating whose boss is the bigger douche bag. Sadly, this train ride was rather dull. Monkey and I shared some apple slices, then she napped in her carrier whilst I dove into the new Veronica Mars novel on my iPad.
My friend decided to take me to Old Westbury Gardens, which is a stately old mansion sitting on a shitload of land. I wish I could tell you more about its history but, to be honest, I was not paying attention. Why, you ask? Because I was distracted by the weird mannequins they had set up in some of the rooms. This is the first historic home tour I’ve taken where they used fake people to set the scene along with the antique furniture and decorations. We giggled nervously when we first saw them because they were simultaneously wacky and spooky. We both immediately sensed that they came to life at night and threw creepy mannequin parties. See for yourself:
The grounds were lovely though and we spent a fair amount of time strolling around snapping photos of everything. And then we saw it – a small sign along a dirt path: Dog Cemetery. WHAT. Of course the first thing that came to mind was Stephen King’s Pet Cemetery, which scared the living daylights out of me when I was younger, but this pet cemetery turned out to be very sweet. There were seven or so small headstones, some with multiple dog names (not sure what that was about…a puppy flu, perhaps?).