I listen to miniature horse hoof sounds at all hours of the night: little Adobe Mae pawing the floor of her stall; Chipotle Rose rolling and scrambling upright; a clickety-clack of hooves trotting up and down the ramp; the rapid staccato of a midnight run around the paddock.

It is reassuring, familiar. But wait! What is this new set of hoof beats? I do not know it. I lie in my bed and listen, trying to envision the action attached to the rhythm. I am tired. It is cold outside the covers. The winter wind is whistling up off the ocean and rattling my doors. I do not like to get up in the middle of the night to explore mysterious sounds. This one is gravelly, lively and to the left of where hoof beats should be. I yank on my boots, snap my denim jacket on over my nightie, flick on the back door light, and step into the cold.

Chipotle is on a walk-about. Her stunted black form is prancing and leaping in the driveway, dancing from ice patch to gravel. She performs. She swings her head in salute, she lifts her hooves in salutation, she pirouettes, and charges up the driveway. I panic. I command calm to my voice and emit a warbled greeting simulating cheer, up the drive toward my runaway.

And where is Adobe Mae? I dash to the barn door and a pale flash in the darkness bolts out of the stall. I grab for fur. We tussle. I am on the floor in the hay, my arms full of mini, which I herd back into the stall. I grope for the grain bin latch. It is clattery and I rattle it hard. It is like a heavenly lyre to my chubby Chipotle and it casts a spell. She is hop-scotching herself back down the icy driveway toward the lure.

"Chipotle darling," I coo, scooping up a mound of grain and letting it sprinkle seductively into a coffee can. What a sweet echo it makes as Chipotle blows a frosty charge of air through her nostrils, bids sweet good night to her freedom walk and falls prey to her unladylike appetite. I expel my breath in enormous relief as I gently sweep shut the stall gate behind her and slam the traitorous little bolt into its chamber.

I am proud of my victorious wrangle, I am charged, I am shivering, I am hungry! So, in the wee small hours, we three girls munch, as girls all over the world tend to do when there is an occasion.