“Could I safely kiss you, metaphorically of course?” I ask the banana slug during our Tuesday appointment.

The slug stops eating, and both upper tentacles retract into their head.

We have been speaking for nearly 20 minutes, and up until this point, I believe the interview had been going well. Very well.

My initial correspondence with Augustus Spleenwort—the slug—was more than pleasant. Both of our species’ pleasing traits shone through our emails.

They had insisted, despite the slime, that we meet at Serious Coffee. I told them that was preposterous. It was a Tuesday morning—we’d never get a table on the patio.

Obviously, as an enthusiastic student journalist, I want to do my due diligence and give the interview the setting it deserves.

So, that’s how I find myself—with my thermos of coffee brewed at home—lying chest-down on the forest floor beside a 7.6-inch Pacific banana slug.

To the world, they’re Augustus Spleenwort. Only Mom and Dad can call them Augustus. For you and me, dear reader, as friends, they are Gus.

Gus is native to Nanaimo. They did consider applying to Vancouver Island University, but they ultimately determined that the campus’s accessibility—mainly just the stairs—does not suit their capabilities.

“I move approximately six and a half inches per minute,” Gus explains.

“I would need to leave for an 8 am class sometime in July.”

Instead, they chose to take a gap year to test out parenthood. Last winter, Gus laid 29 eggs. After one unfortunate encounter with a human child and a Croc, only 24 of their offspring remain in Bowen Park.

“I don’t interfere,” Gus says. “I believe in parenting from afar and giving them room to develop their own slime trails.”

I ask how it feels belonging to the second-largest terrestrial slug species in the world.

“I don’t make comparisons,” Gus says, while moving slowly toward a bulbous red and white spotted Amanita muscaria. “Although my uncle measured 25 centimetres.”

All four tentacles extend upwards as they speak. The two longer tentacles on the top detect light and movement, whereas the shorter pair below are used to smell and feel.

All four can retract when Gus feels threatened, or apparently, when asked overtly personal questions.

I place my notebook beside the poisonous mushroom and ask whether their nearly 27,000 teeth intimidate people.

“Only people with fewer.”

Banana slug teeth are microscopic and sit on a tongue-like structure, called a radula. They use them to scrape through fungi, dead leaves, and other decomposing matter.

This makes banana slugs important decomposers. As they move and eat their way across the forest floor, they recycle nutrients to the soil and help spread fungal spores and seeds.

Gus prefers the title, “ecosystem maintenance professional.”

In my research prior to this interview, I found differing accounts of whether humans could kiss banana slugs. As a student journalist committed to education and public awareness, and not acting on any personal desire, I felt it was my duty to bring clarity.

Gus stops eating. Their upper tentacles withdraw.

I immediately begin to explain that human mouths carry bacteria that may cause harm to slugs, and that I want to protect Nanaimo’s banana slug population from all potential endangerments, even if danger looks like good-intentioned affection.

“Our mucus contains defensive chemicals capable of numbing the human tongue or mouth,” Gus shares.

“For the protection of both parties, and preservation of professional boundaries, I strongly recommend a strict no-kissing policy.”

After this clarification, Gus informs me that they have another appointment at the base of a cedar tree.

I finish my coffee and watch them disappear beneath a sword fern.

At their present speed, they should arrive by Thursday.