Agay Nakho on his porch, Pangsho 2004

I wake in the middle of the night, bladder ready to burst from homebrew and beer. Leaving Agay Nakho’s candle-lit altar room where I’m camped, I feel my way through the dark house and step onto the starlit porch. The big yellow watchdog stands ridged at the top of the notched log stairs, growls, and bares his teeth into the dark. I grab a piece of firewood and try to drive the dog down the stairs, but he becomes frenzied, barks, and stands his ground. I force my way by him and take a piss in the yard. Back in the altar room, I fall asleep as the dog barks himself out. I suddenly wake to a sharp-pitched yelp. Looking out the window, I see the beam of Nakho’s flashlight shining into the yard below. A tiger runs through the faint light—the big yellow dog dangles from its mouth like a rat carried by a house cat. “This is the second dog I’ve lost this year and the second pig,” recalls Nakao at breakfast. “Last month, the leopard took a pig. In Thamji this year, they lost seven ‘jatsa’ oxen