Why Snoopy and Woodstock Never Made it to Tibet

Tibet's dogs are somewhat legendary, this I knew before coming here. The most famed is the Tibetan mastiff - huge and black, with a head and mane somewhat resembling a lion. Most of them wear a red, furry neck ornament, which aims to drive the lion point home. Buying one is not cheap - it takes thousands, sometimes tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars to install one as the household guard dog. (Yes, that amount is in US dollars.)

Most of them are filthy, with long, unkempt dreadlocks. Many have mange or other pussy sores on their bodies. Tibet is one of the only travel destinations where pre-travel rabies vaccination is suggested, as these dogs will not hesitate to attack and even kill any person or animal that crosses their path. The only person safe from a dog’s clutches is the one who brings it its daily, sometimes not even daily, meal of boiled flour and water paste.

Tibetans think of dogs as wild animals not different from lions, tigers, leopards or bears. A dog’s entire existence is spent on a 3 foot rope or chain with no human affection, no daily walks, usually no shelter from the intense high-altitude sun, nothing to do except bark ferociously when strangers approach. Many Tibetan lamas have given teachings on the importance of treating dogs with some semblance of decency - at least providing them a small spot of shade and feeding them daily - the kind of care we might consider common sense in the west. Conditions for all living beings are arduous in Tibet, but the treatment of dogs leaves an especially painful thorn in my heart.

OK. That's the intro.

One early spring afternoon at the end of March, I borrowed a horse and went for a solo ride into the mountains. The sun was warm, I felt happy - that kind of exhilaration that can only come from being on horseback, riding alone into the mountains and open sky. I kept my eyes open for the obvious dangers of dogs, drunk and careless motorcyclists (that’s another entry), dangerous precipices, sharp rocks - that sort of thing. My horse was a bit stubborn, and kept trying to steer me towards any horse pen we encountered, but I managed to keep us both on track.

Suddenly, there were dogs everywhere - maybe six or eight - several mastiffs and some slightly smaller, but no less vicious, mixed breeds. They all charged right at my horse with a somewhat shocking bravado. My naiveté reared its head in that moment, “We’ll be alright. A dog wouldn’t be so stupid as to attack a huge horse!” Gulp.

One absolutely giant mastiff, complete with matted fur, skin lesions and dripping saliva, charged. It didn’t hesitate for even a moment, jumping into the air, barking and biting. At first, the horse, spooked but not out of my control, trotted along, paying little mind to the hideous animal. Horses here must be somewhat accustomed to encounters like this. In a single moment, as the dog’s enormous fangs broke the horse’s skin, everything changed.

So picture this - I am mounted atop a horse that is now bucking wildly in obvious pain, its long, powerful legs kicking into the sky, and the dog STILL does not retreat. I know I am in serious danger and have few options. If I take my feet out of the stirrups to be further from the dog’s mouth, then I lose contact with the bucking horse, increasing my chances of being thrown. At this point, I’m not sure which would be worse - being torn apart by the dog or being bucked off of the horse and thrown into a mountain, a boulder, a rocky ravine.

A few seconds later, though it was one of those times where seconds feel like whole minutes, the dog pulled back slightly and then ran about 20 feet away. I thought the attack might be over, though the horse was still bucking furiously. I was wrong; the dog re-approached and again attacked. Possessed by some sort of insanity, I lowered myself off of the horse, and for some reason the dog retreated. I found my horse’s reins and led it about 50 feet away, talking soothingly, all the while keeping an eye on the still barking dog that was not far behind. Once we’d reached an actual road, I remounted and the horse galloped all the way to its home, taking no signal from me.

When we reached the horse pen, I found the wound site, which was just three inches from where my ankle was seated within the stirrup. The bite drew blood so if the dog was rabid, I knew the horse was in danger. (Fortunately, this was not the case.)

Later I found out that this was not a random stray dog, but a watchdog that had escaped his post. Its owners were horrified that this had happened to me, the guest of the village Lama. They couldn’t believe I hadn’t been attacked. Osel Drolma, Lama Yonten’s wife, offered the only explanation: around my neck I wore a “dupa,” a special protection cord that the Lama had given me weeks earlier. Among other things, Lama Yonten’s dupa are known to ward off dog attacks and gunshots.

These days, I mostly stay in the yard.

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