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He paused and spelled out some of the words I hadn’t understood. “Think about it. You hunt your nearest living relative for bush meat. Bush meat! We’re not even a delicacy.”

“But …”

He swept aside my protest and went on, signing with great emphasis. “The stink of human beings is everywhere now. The world has become one big latrine for your particular excrement, that is to say, for your chemicals, your by-products, your endless garbage, your smoke and fumes, much of which is not biodegradable.

“Think for a moment how alien and dangerous your cities are to other species. Listen to your environmentalists. They plead with humanity to save the wild places for what? To benefit humanity. To find more useful compounds. You want to clean the air and the water and the very soil from the mounting pile of civilization’s filth for the sake of what? For the sake of people …”

“But …”

“No buts. You cannot see it because you are part of it. Your museum and its collections merely add to the cacophony of human self-applause that is loud, everywhere, and unceasing. Look at your religions, your touching faith in a god. You actually believe that some omnipotent force created the whole universe just for you. Small wonder you think humans are the only living things that matter. You assume you are the only ones with the capacity to suffer. You have no regard for the other creatures that must live in your effluence. The biosphere is sick and getting sicker. It has a cancer called people.”

He paused in his emphatic signing long enough for me to say, “That’s pretty dire. You see no hope at all?”

He gave me a wicked grimace. “Your internecine conflicts were once hopeful signs for the rest of the planet. But for all their death and damage, wars have scarcely impacted the scourge of more and more people. The best hope for the real world, and by that I mean the natural world, is a sustained, recurring pandemic that will get rid of all if not most people.”

He sipped without relish his iced tea. He signed, “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Of course.”

He went on, “The great fear is that human beings will have turned the world into one big cesspool before some virus arises to wipe them out.”

I didn’t know what to say. Thank you for putting my doubts about the museum into a much larger and damning perspective? Push back? We are trying. Human life does have intrinsic value. We can and are doing something about the mess we have created.

But I would not have argued with much conviction. My own footprint — two homes, two vehicles, jet travel, decent wine, and plenty of meat — is sootier than most whatever gestures I make with new lightbulbs and recycled bits of paper and plastic.

“Alphus,” I said at length, “you should include these views in your memoir. The human world needs another voice, one like yours, to join the discussion.”

“I might mention them, but I’m already thinking about a separate book.”

“Really?”

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m writing my memoirs to make money. Bags of money, as the Irish say.”

“What will you do with it?”

“I will buy my freedom. I know I’ll always need a keeper although the word companion would be nicer. I want my own house. A really comfortable tree house. I want a decent car of my own. One of the older BMWs. They had class. I want a really good stereo. I want …”

“Be careful. People sometimes define themselves by what they have. And it’s never very satisfying. Besides, isn’t that the consumerist trap the rest of us have fallen into and which is polluting the planet?”

He thought for a moment. “You know, you’re probably right. I should do a book on the environment. From the inside.”

“You could be the voice of outraged nature,” I volunteered.

He nodded thoughtfully. He picked up and looked at his empty glass.

“More?” I offered.

He shook his head. “Time for a real drink.”

We opened a bottle of chilled white and returned to the garden. Without preamble, he signaled, “I may not be a human