Ever since I was big enough, I’ve carried Pip. He barely weighs a thing, so he’s hardly a burden compared to the hours of joy we’ve shared. Over rooftops, over fields, once through a large window, once into an elf, and many times up, up, up to the mountaintop and down in a great sweep, riding the cool misty air rising off the waterfall, all the time whooping and cheering.
As he nears ten years of age, it seems wise for him to learn broom work. He won’t fit across my back for long, and I’m fully grown, give or take a little bulk.
I for one think he’ll take to it like a duck to water, but I suppose I am rather biased. Still, as an extra measure, he wished to tie some of my feathers around his broom, for luck, I suppose. So I plucked a few feathers from my wings and we tied them to his broom (my claws are not neat enough for knots, I held the broom and feathers in place) and we shall soon see the results of our efforts.
However well he does, I very much doubt he can do worse than his own mother allegedly did on her first flight. I don’t think the poor dragon involved ever recovered from the embarrassment.