He lets out a wry chuckle, more of a huff of air than an actual laugh.
"I guess you're right about that," he answers. "It isn't Acorn, first of all -- we don't know her name. I found a mare on my way home tonight, malnourished and whipped up pretty badly."
He hesitates for a moment; that much is obvious, that there's something else he hasn't said yet. Then: