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The Havasupai people in northwest Arizona are notable for being the only Native Americans residing inside Grand Canyon. They’ve lived there for more than 800 years.

The word Havasupai means people of the blue-green waters. The name refers to the beautiful turquoise water of Havasu Creek.

Today, 400-odd members of the tribe live in the tiny village of Supai, at the bottom of the canyon on Havasu Creek.

They support themselves largely through tourism. Every year, 12,000 hikers and campers make reservations and venture down the eight-mile Havasupai Trail to see Supai, Havasu Creek, and the series of spectacular waterfalls just downstream from the village.

For years, a trip to the Havasupai reservation was on my to-do list. I finally made the journey in spring 2007, and it didn’t disappoint.

The hike to the village was delightful. The creek and the waterfalls, beautiful as advertised. Supai itself was threadbare and poor, but the people were friendly.

I chose the tribal motel over the campground. My room was simple, neat, and clean. The food, like food everywhere in Northern Arizona except Flagstaff, was forgettable.

All in all, everything was as I expected — except for the dogs.

In Supai, dogs are everywhere.

Like the temple monkeys of Sri Lanka, the mutts of Supai — and mutts they assuredly are — wander free and unfettered. They are as much a part of daily life as the pigeons in Central Park.

Some of the dogs are family pets. Those you can spot by their collars and tags. But the majority appear to be strays, living at large — de facto wards of the village.

Very informally, the residents simply feed and care for them, the way people take it upon themselves to stock backyard bird feeders.

Starving and bedraggled curs may exist in Supai, but I never saw any. The dogs I saw were healthy, content, and seemingly well-cared-for by the community.

You would expect dogs to operate in packs, but these don’t. Each one seemed to have its own canine and human circles. Like the human members of the tribe, the dogs went through the day tending to the mundane rituals of their lives.

Toward the tourists, they were neither friendly nor aggressive. If you sat down for a snack, a few would join you. Otherwise, they tune you out.

At the start of my trip, two miles down the eight-mile trail to Supai, I got a preview of the fascinating dog situation I would discover down below.

It was hot, maybe 85 degrees. I rounded a bend, and ahead of me, coming in my direction, was a dog.

He was alone, just another hiker. He was focused on going wherever he was going, and he paid me no heed.

As we passed, I said, “Hey, big dude.” He didn’t respond.

The dog continued on his way, and I continued on mine.

Sharing French fries with the pooches.

A dog’s life, Supai style.