It was in some rat-infested flophouse in Calcutta if my memory serves me correctly. I was lying in a dirty, sweat-soaked bed, dimed on opium, when there came a knock at the door. I got up and went over to see who it was. It’s not like I hadn’t met talking animals before that night. There was that time in Shanghai when I had a four-hour conversation with two mice and what appeared to be a badger. I later convinced myself that it was all just a dream because it was unlikely that a badger would be on vacation in China with two mice. And then there was that time with Todd in Vegas when we were held captive by a porn star and two strippers. They had a snake. And I’m pretty sure that it could talk. But there again I can’t be 100 percent sure that it actually could. A lot of weird things happened that night and a talking snake wouldn’t have been the weirdest.

I got out of bed, went over to the door, opened it, and stood there gazing down at a mongoose wearing a safari get-up and tinted glasses. And that’s how I know it wasn’t a dream: none of the other talking animals I’ve come across ever had luggage.

His name was Basle. Basle Montcliff the Third. And he was passing through to Southeast Asia on a hunting expedition. Basle was a professional tracker and killer of snakes. The kind of expert that had spent a lifetime doing his job meticulously.

Now I’ll admit that I had my doubts about the entire thing at first. After all, I was so high on opium at the time that my own mother could have come to the door and I probably wouldn’t have recognized her. Then again, there was the off chance that the mongoose was my mother.

The strangest thing about the incident was that Basle seemed like the kind of fellow that commonly lodged at far better establishments than the one in which our conversation took place. His refinement dictated better surroundings. I, on the other hand, am at my best whilst doused with shit.

There have been stranger times I’m told. I’ve been assured by some of my closer friends that, on occasion, I have indulged in far more perplexing behaviour than speaking with animals. As one might suspect, I really have no recollection of such activities and can therefore not comment. But I’m convinced that half of what they tell me is accurate and the other half is crap. But that doesn’t mean to say that talking with animals is an irregular thing for me to do. Since my encounter with Basle I talk to them all the time. Like the night I spent in Hanoi with a tiger named Henbob and his elephant friend, Dalafoo. Excellent characters both. Dalafoo, for example, spent most of his life serving the indigenous mountain folk of the interior before escaping into the wilds. An elder statesman of the wilderness community in Southeast Asia, he was a survivor of both the French and American wars. Sadly, he was hit by a vegetable truck some months after our meeting and left lame. Henbob, in an attempt to save his friend, tried in vain to rescue the ailing Dalafoo from the clutches of the poorly equipped Vietnamese Veterinarian Society. But alas, too little too late I’m afraid. Dalafoo died some weeks later, leaving Henbob no choice but to attack some field workers out of frustration and face certain death at the hands of professional wild-game hunters such as Mr. Montcliff. Is it just coincidence that I am able to speak with animals whilst on opium? Maybe. But I firmly believe that if I were to give it up long enough to spend a handful of hours sober I would still have the ability, and privilege, of conversing with my animal friends. Rather, it is the ability that causes the opium. Therein lies the strange balancing act that is my life. Not all things are as easily explained as VCR instructions.