Parakeet I love you Parakeet

This is a diary-entry styled story from the perspective of Asra Izarra, a young man from a respected family, whose fame grew due to their spectacular historical re-enactments. Amongst that and travelling, Asra is extremely passionate about his work and his hobby. 

╭──────────────.★..─╮
          𝄞₊˚⊹ ⋆.ೃ࿔˖*༄ ✦︎ Day One - Arrival
╰─..★.──────────────╯

It was a foggy morning, today. The carriages were packed full of luggage, bouncing slightly as the driver went over a pothole. It was quiet, and it was peaceful, and I could truly only hope that this was the feeling I got throughout my week-long trip. 

The weather has been rather miserable - the dreary rain, the pattering of hooves splashing in the puddles as he trots down the lane, the cracking of far-away lightening startling me rarely. I had never had a more sleepless night, for I had insisted we kept moving throughout. Now the curtains of night were being raised and the sun’s dawn light was draping over us, I could hardly wait until we arrived at the campsite. 

The site my family had found for my stay was hidden away in a small field, with the woodland stretching around in a protective stance. From what we had seen in the papers, it was beautiful, quiet, and easily navigated. Thankfully, it could also be - with luck - close to the herd of Teddy Cobs I am searching for.

The versatile breed of small pony have always fascinated me, with their furry legs, chunky necks and curly manes. I have never personally owned one myself, but I can fondly remember my grandfather speaking about his childhood Teddy as though it was yesterday. One of my friends, also, have one - Kairos, the owner of a sweet mare Anabell. He enjoys visiting the festivals, and I have forever been fond of his pony, with her delicate build and pretty face. 

My journey today was one of great enjoyment - I have been selected by my father to choose one of the wild ponies on the moors to accompany us in our performances. My family, famed for their vast range in historical re-enactments, were often on the lookout for finding new riders, horses and ponies with potential - so when a friend got word of a herd of quick-minded Cobs a while away, we were enthusiastic.

I have watched many videos and livestreams of the people who came across Teddy Cob herds, and I’ve always been fascinated at the wide range of personalities and looks in the mixes. Like any other horse, a Teddy can be anything from soft and gentle to rambunctious and biting, and it’s always a fun time trying to pick out what has which temperament. Their physical stature is often similar, described as chunky and well-rounded, but some are thinner than most, and some larger. Whilst they stick in the height range of around twelve hands, some reach fourteen, whilst some sit at ten. For our performances, we were looking for a fun pony to make the crowd excited at the prospect of seeing them - stumpy legs and adorable faces were a must. They would carry a blanket with their flag, perhaps even holding a small instrument for someone to brandish at will. Overall, a comedic performer.

As we made our way down the hillside streets of a dusty village, our journey was coming to an end - at around noon, I should be settled down in the tree side forest, a view of the town and the sound of children in awe of the ponies nearby. Whilst I am not wholly fond of children myself, the excitement on their faces when they watch the horses in our performances is something to be treasured, the pure awe that paints over their smiles a precious sight to behold.

This village is peaceful, and it is calm. I have always enjoyed the countryside life, far away from the stretches of grey land forced in stone. Whilst my family does not live close to such a busy environment, it is far busier than we once lived, and that alone is enough to unsettle someone occasionally. Perhaps I can implore that we revisit our roots, in our peace, and in our calm.

Back at home, we keep a very strict routine - we wake up, eat breakfast, turn out some of the horses whilst exercising others. Which does what is down to our planner. The ones who have worked have their hard feed and a few treats for their (hopefully) good work, get put into their fields, and then we go to have lunch, and repeat in the afternoon. It’s a very repetitive cycle, but the horses themselves never stop making it exciting, and if it’s something you enjoy doing, you can really never get tired of it.

~ Asra Izarra 

__________________

╭───────────────.★..─╮
          𝄞₊˚⊹ ⋆.ೃ࿔˖*༄ ✦︎ Day Two - The Pony
╰─..★.───────────────╯

As yesterday passed and the sun rose again, I found myself waking early under the light. The birds sang their song, and the trees rustled under their delicate feet. It was a peaceful morning, and hopefully, this continued. As I began to get ready for the first adventure of the day, however, it came to find me instead. 

Unknown to me, a small palomino gelding had taken a curious liking to my tent - though just a subtle blue tint in the grey fabric wasn’t too amazing, this little man found it absolutely fascinating. I could hear his snorting from outside, the giggles of other children in the campsite as they watched this tiny creature take one step forwards, two back, then another forwards. 

When I poked my head out from between the zipper at the front, the pony was so enthralled by the scratching sound his hoof made as he dragged it up and down the fabric that he didn’t even stop to notice me. The gelding had a pale cream coat, with a pure white mane and tail that would look even more stunning were he to have a full bubbly bath. On his back legs, the pony had two tall white markings streaking upwards, and a pale tummy, evidently flecked by pangare. His little ears quivered as he explored this new thing, but what was most important to notice was the amount of noise he was making.

This tiny gelding had the lungs of a powerhouse. His little nickers and whinnies had drawn the attention of all sorts of people, his enthusiastic, bright eyes shining with every breath. As I tied my hair up in a bun, the palomino Teddy Cob flicked his head around, staring at me imperceptibly, as though he were hoping I might just turn around as though he was never there.

Sadly for this boy, he’d already caught my eye far too much. His beautiful fur jingled with every step from bells that children had inevitably tried to tie to keep him, his little calls and snorts so frequent, it was curiously perfect. He was surprisingly similar to my friend’s Anabell, a pale beige coat and a delicate white snip, but he was far woolier and sturdier - and a whole lot more playful. The differences outweighed the similarities between the two, but even then, I knew that they’d get along were they to meet. 

I just knew I had to have him - or at least twist an ankle trying.

The latter seemed most likely.

The tiny cob snorted, shaking his head, before suddenly realising there was a jingling bell up by his forelock. In the midst of his exploration, he had not seemed to process the noise so close to him - but now, being watched by so many humans, it was closer than ever. He snorted once more and shook his head harder, twisted around and bolting off with a kick of his legs - with all of the momentum, the bell had slid straight off. I felt pity for the poor person who had just had their dream of the small pony crushed before my own eyes, but alas - it was a rather silly place to tie it.

As I stood up fully, staring off in the distance where the palomino gelding had ran off in, I put my hands on my hips and contemplated it. I haven’t even seen the rest of them - should I really make my decision so rashly? Once I get attached to the idea of one of them, I would never be able to back down. Well, unfortunately, this thought process was too late - I’d already decided. 

Later on, preparing to venture out to find the herd, I had flicked through my phone and found a video of my interaction with the pony caught by another camper - labelling the pony as ‘Parakeet’. Many people in the comments seemed to recognise this pony, marvelling at his lack of care and ridiculous attitude towards the tent, alongside his never-ending whinnying. 

Parakeet? That explains a lot. A horse often turns out how you name them, in my experience. I’ve often appreciated the irony of names, whether it be a stereotype fitting people, or a name that comes from a funny story. For example, I know of a horse named River, who got his name when he was younger for his habit in kicking over the water buckets in his stable - therefore, creating a river. 

╭──────────────────.★..─╮
          𝄞₊˚⊹ ⋆.ೃ࿔˖*༄ ✦︎ Day Two - The Pony, pt. 2
╰─..★.──────────────────╯
- Now known as ‘Parakeet’
- Evening of prior events.

As I settle down for the evening, I wish to tell you about the happenings of this day from the time I last wrote, at mid-morning, for it was a rather enjoyable experience.

Where I left off was when I had began to venture out into the woods with the help of nothing except the far-away calls of Teddies, a map pocketed in case I got lost (my father insisted I carry it despite having my phone - he’s not particularly technologically inclined, to word it politely) and a small bag of bells and berries to keep me going. I had brought spare bells in case my main one - a golden bell with a navy blue ribbon, adorned with silver stars embroidered into it - got mucky or lost, or in case I found another pony I wished to try my luck on. 

During my wandering, I had found a close acquaintance of mine, who was also attempting to capture a pony - Vyvien Cain, a handsome showman who had a lot of experience with larger horses, but not so much in the smaller ones. Cain told me that he was looking to start in the pony industry - fancy wording for what he means, being that he found a particular cob that was too cute to ignore. I asked which he was trying for, and he explained that there was a smoky black pony in the same herd as Parakeet. Cain has always been fond of darker palettes, whether it be in clothing or horses, so it wasn’t unexpected that the first he’d try for was of such nature. 

He decided to accompany me on my way to the herd, for he was having much less luck in getting directions accurate. I had been midway through explaining my navigation methods when we found the herd once more - though I’m not sure he was paying much attention at all anyway. 

Given away by the squawking and squealing of a now easily noticeable Parakeet, the herd was surrounded by various people - some patient, waiting for their chance to encourage the fluffy beasts closer, and some less so, charging straight up and getting confused as to why they would flee. 

Vyvien went on his own way, having pointed out the poof-tailed pony he was trying for, whilst I set my sight on Parakeet.

We had managed to come the backwards way, choosing to go through a forest instead of travelling through the village like many others. This meant that the ponies at the back had much less population, with the people watching hanging around the fence outside the field.

The little gelding was trotting around his family, occasionally nipping at someone playfully in an attempt to have a bit of fun. He was a young one evidently, too spritely for many people to get close. When he did settle down for some grass, however, it was a very poorly timed child to interrupt him - grasping a jingling bell, the little girl had fallen over a twig, snapping it as she did so and bursting into tears. I was about to go over to make sure she was okay, when Parakeet’s head flicked up, leaping in the air in shock and barrelling past the herd - straight in my direction. 

In his blind panic, he had no time to register that there was someone in front of him, but when he did he slid to a very messy halt, stood panting and snorting in front of me. Pocketing the bell instantly so as not to make unnecessary noise, I took a carrot from my bag and held it out from the end gingerly, trying to steady the palomino whilst also entertaining him enough to stay close. 

Hesitantly, he reached forwards, snorting once or twice before grasping the end of it with his teeth. He seemed to be all bark and no bite - whilst he was talkative as anything, Parakeet was surprisingly not so keen on the attention he seemed to gather. 

As I kept on bringing out carrots of varying size, his posture relaxed and he just enjoyed the snacks. Putting the bag of them on the floor, I took out my bell as silently as I could, braiding his mane in a tight plait with the ribbon tied in - fastening it with a plaiting band I had spare. It jingled once, and Parakeet’s head raised slightly, but the silence continued and he stuck his head back down to eat. Mission accomplished - for now. 

This seemed like a fairly successful trip to me, until I had crouched down to try and take back my bag. Parakeet glared at me out of the corner of his eye, munching on the orange vegetables without a break. I reached forwards to gently stroke his neck, the little pony’s woolly fur soft under touch. He seemed to take care of his coat well compared to some others, and his enthusiasm to keep in an invisible spotlight (without being perceived) was surely an expression of showing how he enjoyed being tidy. Though, to be fair, I’m not sure I would want mud caking my legs constantly either. 

This little exchange went on for a short while until a sudden crack of lightening sounded from above the village; and then the rain started. The small pony had flinched and shot upright at the lightening, but his expression at the rain was simply a comical sight - his ears seemed to droop, his eyelids lowered as though the rain itself was the most irritating thing he can imagine. Parakeet had resigned himself to his fate of getting soggy, though he was slightly covered under the rain. 

A few moments later, the other ponies began to trot closer to us, jingling and jangling with their bells as they did. The shelter of the woodlands we were under was just enough to stop them from getting too wet, the green leaves rustling under the raindrops but collecting it just enough. I pressed up next to a tree to avoid the little rampant hooves, watching as ponies of all shapes, sizes and colours came ambling past me. A smoky black pony with a poof-like tail and a long mane brushed past me, and I noticed a bright red ribbon - no doubt being Cain’s.

Overall, a success for both of us, and no doubt a good thing may come to at least one of us through it.

Walking back to the campsite, I was soaked through to the bone from the oncoming storm, and when I got to my destination, I was surprised to see a now familiar face in the distance - Parakeet, tucked up inside of my rather large tent. A small pony in such a tent was a shock, and also a good laugh - his tiny face dozing in the entry as he had curled up on top of the bedding I had so meticulously set up. It didn’t occur to me until after I had taken a few photographs that I had zipped up my tent. How did he..?

A camper nearby came jogging over, careful not to disturb the sleeping, snoring pony. They showed me a video of Parakeet gingerly grabbing the zip in-between his teeth, playing with it and pulling it up and down. When he realised that pulling it up meant that the tent itself opened, he was fascinated. He wandered in, sniffing around, only to realise that inside, it wasn’t raining. It was dry. The little gelding, evidently heavily opposed to the idea of getting wet, promptly snorted, sat down, and went to sleep, comfortably soaking my own things. I was pleased to see that in his fluffy mane, however, was a navy blue ribbon. For now, my bell was attached, and this pony was all the more closed to coming home with me. 

Would my father be very happy if I came home with a loud, skittish pony that would unzip tents and sleep in them himself? No, no he would not. Would I personally be very happy with myself if I went home with a beautiful palomino gelding to call my own, all dressed up in an outfit fit for a king’s messenger whilst I lead him from atop my own taller gelding? Yes, I absolutely would. He would be a showstopper in performances, a heart-warmer for many and a comfortably familiar face to see in the early mornings of preparation and practise.

~ Asra Izarra