Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired another dust-collector, this one a miniature, unnervingly still version of one of those large, grass-eating beasts. It's a "Breyer," which apparently means a human spent a great deal of time painting it to look realistic. The craftsmanship, I must admit, is passable—it has a certain heft and the finish is smoother than the cheap plastic mice they sometimes try to placate me with. It is named after a specific pony, which suggests a level of importance that I, frankly, find insulting to my own station. However, its primary function seems to be standing perfectly still, which, while an admirable goal I often pursue in my naps, makes for a profoundly dull toy. It might serve as a decent rubbing post for my cheek, but as a source of entertainment, it’s a non-starter.
Key Features
- Made famous by Marguerite Henry’s classic tale, Misty of Chincoteague, Chincoteague Island has become a major destination for horse lovers. In July, feral ponies living on the Virginia side of Assateague Island are guided by “saltwater cowboys” and led to Chincoteague Island for the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Company’s (CVFC) foal auction, which raises funds to care for the herd.Foaled in 2009, famous wild Chincoteague stallion Surfer’s Riptide is a flaxen chestnut with flashy white markings – just like his late sire, Surfer Dude.
- 2025 marks the 100th anniversary of the pony swim and auction. A portion of the proceeds from each model’s sale supports the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Company and the Museum of Chincoteague.
- PRODUCT SPECIFICATIONS: Package contains (1) Breyer Traditional Series Horse -Surfer’s Riptide Chincoteague Pony. Traditional Series 1:9 Scale. Measures approximately 11.5" L x 8.5" H. Recommended for ages 8 years and older.
- HAND CRAFTED DETAIL: The world's 'most asked for' horses since 1950. Each individual Breyer model is prepped and finished by hand and then turned over to the painting department for hand painting and detailing. In all, some 20 artisans work on each individual model horse, creating an exquisite hand-made model horse that is as individual as the horse that inspired it.
- TRUE EQUESTRIAN ART: Breyer models begin as beautiful horse sculptures created by leading equine artists that are then cast into a copper and steel mold. Each model is created one at a time from the original mold, which is injected with a special resin selected by Breyer for its ability to capture the depth of detail, delicate feel and richness of color in our models.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The object was placed on the forbidden shelf, the one just below the mantelpiece that holds the heavy, un-knock-over-able books. It arrived in a box that smelled of cardboard and distant factories, and my human handled it with a reverence usually reserved for the can of premium tuna pâté. I watched from the arm of the sofa, tail twitching in mild irritation. It was a horse, frozen mid-trot, its painted-on eyes staring at a point somewhere above the television. A silent, golden-maned effigy. For a week, it was merely part of the landscape, an object to be ignored. Then came the storm. The sky turned the color of my own gray fur, and the wind began to howl, rattling the windows in their frames. The lights flickered once, twice, then died, plunging my kingdom into a deep and profound darkness. The human yelped and fumbled for a light source. But I am a creature of the shadows; I see what they cannot. In the gloom, the horse figurine seemed to change. The faint light from the streetlamp outside caught its polished flank, and for a fleeting moment, it was not a statue. It was a spirit. I crept closer, my tuxedo-patterned chest low to the ground. The wind howled again, a low moan that sounded like the distant call of some wild thing. I imagined the horse, this "Surfer's Riptide," wasn't in my living room at all. He was on a windswept beach, salt spray misting his flaxen coat, the roar of the ocean his only companion. He was a creature of storms, a wild thing trapped not in resin, but in a place with too many cushions and not enough wind. I could almost smell the sea, feel the damp sand beneath my paws. We were two captives, he of his stillness, and I of my comfortable domesticity. When the human finally managed to light a candle, its warm glow illuminated the scene. I was sitting an inch from the shelf, staring up at the pony. The magical illusion was broken. It was just a toy again, hand-painted and handsome, but motionless. Yet, something had shifted within me. It wasn't a plaything to be batted at or a rival to be hissed at. It was a reminder—a silent, stoic piece of art that held the ghost of a storm within its resin shell. I gave it a slow blink of understanding, a gesture of respect from one aristocrat to another, before retreating to my velvet cushion. It was unworthy of a pounce, but it had, against all odds, earned its place.
