This morning I sat in our cultural broker’s house, on her daughter’s bed, looking at her son still asleep under the neon green mosquito net and sipping on the scalding mate she passed me. The house began to wake up: the front door was left ajar, the towel on it grabbed to dry off a freshly-washed face. Chickens and children wandered by, visible through the missing chunks of mud-paste wall. Though the line between human and animal living space is generally far from distinct (or consistent) here, I did witness some limits. Cats were allowed to hide in the house, but chickens were yelled at when their beaks crossed the doorstep. A laughably tiny dog suddenly scurried out from under the bed. I looked closely at its face. It looked like a minuscule fox! The wiry red and black fur on its back alone was evidence enough for me that some secret cross-breeding must have occurred. I watched as it exerted a great effort to make it over the slightly elevated threshold. No one paid it much attention, but come on, where the heck did this moving stuffed animal come from?