We hiked into town from the West. The trail turned into road on the outskirts of this hamlet; so, in some sense, we were at the bleak edge of civilization. At first the sights were Third World classics. Litter lined the trenches along the rutted clayey road. Roosters crowed. Goats loitered in the solitary barren street. Drying clothes snapped on a line in the breeze. Hand-packed adobe houses with corrugated tin roofs yawned open with vague shapes of mamas and mamacitas in long skirts doing their dance of domestication in the dark. Then I found myself looking at a dog in a polo shirt. I bent my mind on it.