I ate my dinner in the hotel’s Gaststübli with the kind of enthusiasm that only a day’s walk in the mountains can inspire. Rich local cheeses, a broth flecked with small dumplings, and an aromatic loaf of bread comprised a filling, if simple, meal. All washed down with a bottle of Melser Federweiss, a locally produced white.

Joschi sat on the floor at my feet, his head resting between outstretched paws in that particular way that dogs do. From time to time, as the man and the woman busied themselves in the kitchen, Joschi would enjoy a clandestine bit of cheese that miraculously fell from above.

I wasn’t ready for him to go.

Joschi’s guardian arrived promptly at 7. He was mess of a man, wild, unkempt, and disheveled. When he entered the room, Joschi leaped from his spot on the floor and ran to him. The man knelt down to embrace his dog, a poignant and warming reunion which I resented very much.

The dog man sat down at the table next to mine, and the hotel man soon joined him. As they spoke to each other in their own particular, guttural way, I glanced down at Joschi.

Taking the last sip of my wine, the woman approached me.

“Are you ready for another bottle?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “Long walk tomorrow.”

“But the man has bought you a second,” she said.

At this, I looked over at him. He glanced back at me, smiled briefly, and patted his dog on the head.

Travel, for all its potential to broaden one’s point of view, can encourage primal fears that we desperately try to rationalize away. Incomprehensible tongues fall upon our ears, and we assume that we must be on the outside of a very inside joke. When faced with the unfamiliar, our well-intentioned but bumbling genetic structure offers up a generous serving of mistrust, fear, and doubt.

This very biology that for millennia has exploited our basal fears to promote survival becomes, however, something of a burden when the most serious challenge to one’s personal endurance is determining which of fourteen possible entrées might best complement a Cabernet. Becoming an engaged, mature adult, therefore, requires that one learn to disarm instinct and look beyond differences and unfamiliarity. This ability to trust marks the most enlightened of persons.

Or the most basic of dogs.

I couldn’t be certain of Joschi’s particular destination, but mine would be the village of Weisstannen, by virtue of having earlier booked a room for the night.

My new friend and I walked together the entire day. The path contoured high above the Seez, a charming river whose waters would eventually reach the Lake of Zürich. The belvedere offered commanding views to the head of the valley and the rugged peaks separating the cantons of St. Gallen and Glarus. A thin, ribbon of a waterfall hugged the opposite valley wall, its fragile appearance belying the roaring crash into the Seez below.

Joschi never strayed more than a few paces from my side. He instinctively knew which branch to choose when the path forked, and I imagined that he must frequent this valley. He walked with determination and displayed great enthusiasm when I offered him bites of my lunch.

We’re not so different after all.

On reaching Weisstannen, I located my hotel and introduced myself to the proprietors, an older couple who had been relaxing outside the hotel beneath a canopy. The man’s rough appearance suggested a life spent mostly outside performing difficult labor, while his considerably gentler wife smiled in the sort of way that often heralds the arrival of cookies.

“Is he yours?” asked the man, motioning to Joschi, who sat down next to my feet.

It occurred to me that bringing a dusty pet into the foyer of a hotel might not be the best way to present myself as a guest.

“No,” I said, “he joined me a few kilometers back. I think he might belong to someone here.”

I pointed to the tags dangling from the dog’s collar. The scruffy man looked down and in an instant of recognition approached for a closer look.

“Flums,” he muttered, referring to a town lying a handful of steep miles to the north.

The man invited me to have a seat and then picked up the phone. He launched into his own particular flavor of Swiss German, a collection of dialects whose enunciation, even to native speakers of High German, resembles an unfortunate throat condition. He nodded with a vigor completely out of proportion to the quantity of words that actually issued from his mouth, but after a time, he placed the receiver back in its cradle.

“I contacted the authorities in Flums.  His owner will be here in a couple of hours.”