Gusto. That’s the word I’ve been trying to think of to describe Acey’s approach to life.
She tears down the trail with abandon, dives into beet pulp like Scrooge McDuck into gold, and stretches a wriggling upper lip when scratched. Fun and daring bubble around her.
But when Acey gets mad, her black eyes smoulder and roll. She isn’t above sitting down and backing 100 feet with her muzzle in the air. Impatient when tied, her hoof slashes graffiti in the earth. Her spooks are brief but dramatic.
The pony tantrums are growing rarer with training, of course, but I imagine there will always be a part of her that reminds me of the old nursery rhyme: When she was good, she was very, very good…and when she was bad, she was horrid!
Maybe I should call her Curly.