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Added the story!

There is the now familiar creak of leather, a peculiarly healthy sounding noise that makes me feel more at home under that saddle than without it on. It serves as a reminder of its presence in my back, calling not for recognition but as a warning; don't bolt off or roll, remember I'm up here; don't try anything too risky, for you have a passenger. In that way, I felt that I had a bond with this shaped piece of leather and cloth. It sounds ridiculous, but when Ramiro hoists that saddle onto my back and I feel the weight of it challenging my back to stay strong, and the tightening of the cinch underneath me securing it, I feel at one with it. The cold metal of the bridle is already sitting on top of my tongue, slowly (too slowly for my liking) warming up until I begin to forget its presence. I have barely been tacked up for two minutes when Ramiro takes my reins over my head and leads me the short distance to the round pen. I like this sense of urgency, but his movements are stiff and jerky; I can tell he's anxious about something. He talks soothingly to me, but I can tell that his words are as much to calm himself as me.
By now I am very much used to this process, he has taken me and walked, trotted and cantered me around the arena before, put some dead weights on my back to see how I react, and I don't think I've done too badly. I fell much more on par with Nikki now, he can almost call us equals. Almost. The one thing he hasn't done yet, the one key thing, is sit atop my back in that saddle and take in the world from a higher viewpoint. I can only imagine how it feels to climb upon your willing mount, squeeze your legs and then have them gallop off into the sunset wit you. Nikki has told me many tales of her adventures with Ramiro, and I am more than ready to step up to this new level and fulfil his needs as my rider. I am his, yet we are one. I break fluidly from walk to trot to his gentle voice asking, but there really never was a question to it. This reminds me of the first time we trotted together, my steps unsure and fumbling, my gait short and choppy. How far we had come together since that very first day, though, when he was just a figure in the distance, a figure that piqued my curiosity. Now it was the other way round. I often wonder about thundertruck man, I've seen him around, be it riding, driving, leading or even mucking out, but he'd never approached me, and I kept out of his way. Somehow, we'd reached a mutual agreement to stay out of each other's way, like two separate territorial dogs they kept out of the other's business and expected the same in return. Ramiro brought me back to walk gently, and I looked at him curiously, wondering why we hadn't cantered. "Muy bien, mis amigo." He'd begun to talk to me in this other language, his native language as far as I understood. I nuzzled his face with my nose, snorting and casing little wisps of his hair to dance. He hold out his hand and I press my nose into is, inhaling his scent. Instead of beginning an exercise, this time he leads me over to the block in the centre of the pen. It had been a new addition in our last couple of sessions, but by now I was used to it. We walk together down the side of the block, and he climbs the few stairs until he reaches the plateau at the top. I stop obediently, shifting one of my hind legs so that I am square, and await his next command. What comes next surprises me, but I stand my ground as I feel him transfer some of his weight to my back. He steps back onto the block, and then repeats, and this time I feel some weight in the stirrup on the side closest to the block. My instincts tell me to skitter away, but I force myself to stand as he transfers his weight once more over to my back. For a moment he hovers in between me and the block, as if unsure, but then he goes for it.
I feel the full weight of his body gently come down into the saddle, and for a moment I struggle to take the weight. I panic, tossing my head, and I feel his weight shift to the side again - he's going to get off! Struggling to control my nerves, I force my head to still and try and get my heart to quieten its thumping to no avail. He shifts his weight back to the centre as I settle, and relief floods me as if a giant dam has just burst. "Fantastico, Rico, Fantastico." The other language has a more pleasant ring to it, I think to myself as he slides off and hands me a carrot from his jacket pocket. "You're such a good boy, Rico." He strokes my nose and pats my neck appreciatively, before leading me back to the paddock, my days work over. I never knew whether he would come back again in the evening, so I always made sure I was there, if he needed me.

See, I can write under 1000 words! C:

Kaimanawa-Challenge

Reference from google, saddle traced (because I can't draw Western saddles -_-)

See here for other stories in this series (they are listed in order): Acorn's Ricochet: Kaimanawa Point Tally
I highly recommend reading them in order, guys!

Description
Added the story!

There is the now familiar creak of leather, a peculiarly healthy sounding noise that makes me feel more at home under that saddle than without it on. It serves as a reminder of its presence in my back, calling not for recognition but as a warning; don't bolt off or roll, remember I'm up here; don't try anything too risky, for you have a passenger. In that way, I felt that I had a bond with this shaped piece of leather and cloth. It sounds ridiculous, but when Ramiro hoists that saddle onto my back and I feel the weight of it challenging my back to stay strong, and the tightening of the cinch underneath me securing it, I feel at one with it. The cold metal of the bridle is already sitting on top of my tongue, slowly (too slowly for my liking) warming up until I begin to forget its presence. I have barely been tacked up for two minutes when Ramiro takes my reins over my head and leads me the short distance to the round pen. I like this sense of urgency, but his movements are stiff and jerky; I can tell he's anxious about something. He talks soothingly to me, but I can tell that his words are as much to calm himself as me.
By now I am very much used to this process, he has taken me and walked, trotted and cantered me around the arena before, put some dead weights on my back to see how I react, and I don't think I've done too badly. I fell much more on par with Nikki now, he can almost call us equals. Almost. The one thing he hasn't done yet, the one key thing, is sit atop my back in that saddle and take in the world from a higher viewpoint. I can only imagine how it feels to climb upon your willing mount, squeeze your legs and then have them gallop off into the sunset wit you. Nikki has told me many tales of her adventures with Ramiro, and I am more than ready to step up to this new level and fulfil his needs as my rider. I am his, yet we are one. I break fluidly from walk to trot to his gentle voice asking, but there really never was a question to it. This reminds me of the first time we trotted together, my steps unsure and fumbling, my gait short and choppy. How far we had come together since that very first day, though, when he was just a figure in the distance, a figure that piqued my curiosity. Now it was the other way round. I often wonder about thundertruck man, I've seen him around, be it riding, driving, leading or even mucking out, but he'd never approached me, and I kept out of his way. Somehow, we'd reached a mutual agreement to stay out of each other's way, like two separate territorial dogs they kept out of the other's business and expected the same in return. Ramiro brought me back to walk gently, and I looked at him curiously, wondering why we hadn't cantered. "Muy bien, mis amigo." He'd begun to talk to me in this other language, his native language as far as I understood. I nuzzled his face with my nose, snorting and casing little wisps of his hair to dance. He hold out his hand and I press my nose into is, inhaling his scent. Instead of beginning an exercise, this time he leads me over to the block in the centre of the pen. It had been a new addition in our last couple of sessions, but by now I was used to it. We walk together down the side of the block, and he climbs the few stairs until he reaches the plateau at the top. I stop obediently, shifting one of my hind legs so that I am square, and await his next command. What comes next surprises me, but I stand my ground as I feel him transfer some of his weight to my back. He steps back onto the block, and then repeats, and this time I feel some weight in the stirrup on the side closest to the block. My instincts tell me to skitter away, but I force myself to stand as he transfers his weight once more over to my back. For a moment he hovers in between me and the block, as if unsure, but then he goes for it.
I feel the full weight of his body gently come down into the saddle, and for a moment I struggle to take the weight. I panic, tossing my head, and I feel his weight shift to the side again - he's going to get off! Struggling to control my nerves, I force my head to still and try and get my heart to quieten its thumping to no avail. He shifts his weight back to the centre as I settle, and relief floods me as if a giant dam has just burst. "Fantastico, Rico, Fantastico." The other language has a more pleasant ring to it, I think to myself as he slides off and hands me a carrot from his jacket pocket. "You're such a good boy, Rico." He strokes my nose and pats my neck appreciatively, before leading me back to the paddock, my days work over. I never knew whether he would come back again in the evening, so I always made sure I was there, if he needed me.

See, I can write under 1000 words! C:

Kaimanawa-Challenge

Reference from google, saddle traced (because I can't draw Western saddles -_-)

See here for other stories in this series (they are listed in order): Acorn's Ricochet: Kaimanawa Point Tally
I highly recommend reading them in order, guys!