They say I am an old horse. Seasoned, reliable, safe. I am Pride, a veteran of many miles, a seasoned traveler, a gentleman of the trail.

But imagine my ears swiveling in surprise when I heard Terra (dear Terra) say I was boring. Can you believe that? After all the miles I've done, the rivers I've forded, the riders I've carried. Do you know what it takes to do all that? Fine. The girl wants excitement, I can show her some excitement.

I was the picture of civility for nearly seven miles. We trotted and cantered. We even stopped for something called "tacos". I stood like a gentleman while she tied me to a fence in the pouring rain like a common nag. 

Then came the fields, wide and green. Lucy was beside me, kicking up her heels, challenging me to remember the speed of my youth. I accepted her challenge, but even then I kept it steady, lulling sweet, innocent Terra into a false sense of security.

Then, just as she started to laugh, I decided to remind her I am no dull relic. I let the devil in me rise as I dropped my head between my knees. I didn't do anything vicious. Not enough to hurt her. Just a few props, and one solid buck. The air was heavy. The ground was springy. And my darling Terra was caught unawares.

I felt her balance falter, the desperate grab for the reins (too little, too late!) And then I watched her sail over my head and land with a dull thud. I stood quietly, flicking my ears and waiting for the other girl to come grab my reins. I watched as Terra caught her breath, then stood stock still as she climbed back on board. 

I blinked innocently as we carried on down the trail. She was a little sore. A little humbled. I think I hurt her pride. (Get it?)

Maybe she learned a lesson. Respect your elders. And don't call me boring.