The stable's pony, Zipper, was anything but good-natured. When I spoke to her, she never responded with an answering whicker, as the other horses did. She took my services: shovelling hay, delivering oats, cleaning her stall, as a matter of course, and showed no interest or appreciation.
She didn't appreciate being groomed either. Zipper was a wide plump little pony whose shoulder rose no higher than my waist. After I'd curried one side of her, and combed her mane, she would deliberately wedge herself against the stall or fence to prevent me from getting to her other side.
The customary signals used to get horses to move over, clicks of the tongue and taps on the rump, had absolutely no effect on Zipper, except to get her to dig in her heels. Once, when I did manage to wedge myself in place and began to brush her back, she retaliated by planting her hoof, with her considerable weight behind it, firmly on my foot.
Strangely, this ornery creature was the animal that children were expected to ride. I never worked on the kids' rides, so I don't know how Zipper behaved with them.
Maybe she used her limited patience with the kids and then took out her ire on me.
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