I’ve been home now for 72 hours. Three days ago, our plane from Lima landed in Portland, and ever since, I’ve been trying to adjust.

In a way, it’s good to be home. The trees are gorgeous this fall. I’ve enjoyed eating at some of my favorite haunts, and it’s been good to be back to the gym and back to Spanish lessons. At the same time, though, I miss Peru. I don’t want to be here — I want to be there. (Although perhaps while transplanting some of my favorite things about the Pacific Northwest…)

There’s still lots to write about my six-week trip. I have many photos and stories to share. Today, though, I want to talk about one small part of Peru that I miss most: the animals. One of my favorite differences between Peru and the United States is the way that people treat animals. (And children, but that’s another story.)

I’m an animal lover. I have a (near-dormant) blog about animal intelligence in which I’ve written some about my respect for the emotional and intellectual lives of the creatures around us. But one thing I regret about animals in the U.S. is how removed they are from our lives.

Animals need love, too.

Yes, many people keep animals as pets. (I have five cats!) But often these pets are indoor-only, and when they go outside, they do so on a leash. Our animals don’t lead very natural lives, even on farms. Instead, it’s like we’ve created a pocket universe where they’re insulated from us and we’re insulated from them. I’m not sure why this is the case.

The marketplace in Ollantaytambo is a fine place to eat and sleep. (Photo by Laura Bullock.)

In Peru, however, it’s different — at least outside of Lima. In Peru (and in Bolivia), animals are everywhere. Cats and dogs roam the streets, as do llamas and burros and more. In the countryside, the livestock is unfenced. It’s herded or allowed to roam free. The net effect is that people and animals have integrated each other into their lives.

In rural areas, it’s not uncommon to have farm animals for pets. Julisa has Laurita, her lamb.

This means you might stay in a hotel where the cats wander freely from room-to-room, including the lobby and the kitchen. Or you might encounter llamas wandering in the streets. And everywhere you go, you find dogs of all shapes and sizes. These animals all interact with each other, and with the people, and with the traffic. It’s like a parallel world.

Dogs go about their business, which often includes sleep, on the streets of Cusco.

I think the most prominent example of this is the way dogs roam the streets of Cusco (and other cities in the Sacred Valley). Dogs run free in Cusco, without leashes or collars. They respect the people and the traffic, and the people and traffic respect them. Everyone — man and beast — follows certain rules, and everyone is happy. It’s fun to see a dog (or a group of dogs) trotting along on some sort of canine agenda. It’s also fun to see the animals sitting or sleeping on the sidewalks and steps around town.

Though the dogs roam the streets freely, they know and respect their limits.

I love seeing a society that allows the animals to create their own network of social interactions, one that lets them eat, sleep, and go about their business. To me, this is vastly preferable to the way we treat animals in the U.S.

This old Quechua woman outside Ollantaytambo had a cat and a dog for companionship.

My wife and I have always allowed our cats to go inside and outside at will, which has drawn criticism from some friends and readers. We’re unfazed. The cats are clearly happier when they can roam freely, just as you would be too. Visiting Peru has only reinforced my belief that it’s healthiest for the animal live an unfettered life (or at least as unfettered as possible).

In Parque Kennedy (Miraflores, Lima), cats roam free.

I’ll leave you with a few more photos of the animals I met in Peru. And then I’ll walk home along empty streets — streets that could contain cats and dogs and horses and burros and lambs and llamas…but don’t.

Puppies need to learn the rules and sometimes are wary of strangers.

People take their dogs with them everywhere — here on a ferry in Bolivia.

Cats aren’t as common as dogs (or not as visible, anyhow), but they’re around.

This old dog felt it was his duty to keep Aguas Calientes safe from pigeons.

Even in rural areas, dogs are common — especially where there’s food. (Photo by Laura Bullock.)

This cat (and his brother) roamed freely at our hotel in Ollantaytambo. Even into the kitchen.

Most homes seem to have at least one dog and sometimes several.

With just one day to explore Lima, there’s no hope to see everything. I don’t even try. I spend the first part of the day around Plaza de Armas with a local guide and then return to the hotel in Miraflores. I’ll explore more of Lima at the end of my trip.

After a nap, I put on my jacket and head outside to explore Miraflores. I’m actually looking for dinner — and probably at a KFC. But instead of eating, I walk.

I walk down past the taxistand where the minivans packed with people stop to pick up more passengers. (As they stop, a man leans out the door — or walks alongside the van — announcing destinations and asking people to climb aboard.)

I walk past Iglesia de la Virgen Milagrosa (the Church of the Miraculous Virgin) and see that folks are flocking to the doors. I go inside too. Because I know little of Catholicism, I can’t tell if it’s the start or the end of Mass — or if it’s Mass at all — but I stand for five or ten minutes to listen. I’m not at all religious, but I’m moved by the prayer and the song, the strange familiarity of the ritual. I look at the people in the pews and, for a moment, I wish I could trade places with them.

Instead, I leave. I walk toward Kennedy Park to see the cats. Miraflores apparently has a cat problem. People dump their unwanted animals here, and they roam the streets begging for food. As a Crazy Cat Man, this makes me happy. But the local government doesn’t like it.

I smile at the teenage girls who stroll past. They’re talking and laughing and having a good time. One girl in braces is struggling to ride her skateboard on the cobblestone sidewalk. And there’s un niño, a boy about three years old who is chasing one of the cats into the street. (There’s no traffic here; it’s like a pedestrian mall.)

At the park, I sit on a bench and write. Just like I used to! It’s been too long since I’ve done this: sitting still, watching the details of life as it flows around me, writing it all down. I’ve been too busy, which is a lousy excuse. Because this! This is what I love.

And so I spend half an hour watching the people. And the cats. And the people with the cats. The city may not want the cats here, but it’s clear that the people do. They smile when they see them. Every few minutes, somebody stops to call to them. Sometimes one or two cats come closer. They want food, I think, but they settle for being patted and petted. (One cat tries to enter the church but is quickly rebuked.)

There are cats on benches. There are cats on the lawn. There are cats on the sidewalk, and there are cats standing still as stone statues in the middle of the flower beds.

I know this isn’t all of Lima. In fact, it’s completely unrepresentative of the city as a whole. But in this moment, in this place, I love the town.

As I’m preparing to leave, a little tortoise-shell cat comes up to me and meows. I pet her and she rubs her face against my hand. She talks to me. When I stop petting her, she stands on her hind legs and paw-paws me, asking for more.

For a moment, this feels like home.