After a few months the sheep obey his whistle, he says. They lift their heads and start moving, the dogs providing direction. He gives thanks for black sheep: There are three black lambs in his herd of two thousand white sheep, and when one of the blacks is missing he knows two or three hundred sheep are out there somewhere, needing to be brought back into the fold.

The feet of his dogs are swaddled in duct tape covering bag balm; the change in terrain from the grass of California to the rocks of Nevada has all five dogs limping. He can talk at length about the personalities of each dog: Muñeca is always trying to get the other dogs to play with her; Tejano is only for working—when he isn’t herding sheep he is in camp, asleep; Junior plays, but only by himself—sometimes Edgard sees a rock fly up in the middle of the herd of sheep and it is Junior, playing catch.

Though no dog is older than two, all look ancient when they struggle up after resting. They seem arthritic, backs curved in exhaustion, favoring paws. But in a few steps they work it off and trot over to him, ready to set out.

He gives them some of his meat—the other herders think that is crazy, but the dogs work harder than any of the herders, he says. In Peru he didn’t like dogs, but now they are his best friends. One of his dogs is so shy she circles back to his camp if he stops to visit. She is the smallest dog, fine boned and graceful. He calls her Muñeca: doll. “She will only come to me,” he says. “I don’t know what will happen to her when I go back to Peru.”

“Take her with you,” I say. He laughs.

His own shoes are worn and creased, the soles cracked and curling up. He is constantly on the move, walking the sheep through every step of their day, and if the moon is bright and they won’t sleep, through much of their night. His camp has been moved three times as they finished grazing sections of the valley. Soo