A broken antler pushes open my chapped, crusty lips. I feel a dirty, cracked hoof, unsteady on my moving tongue, push off the back of my throat. Stumbling onto my already drool-crusted pillow, a disheveled and disturbingly damp yak named "Drizzo" crawls out of my mouth.
He takes two steps away, headed toward the bathroom or the kitchen, I don't know yet. But he stops for an unsteady moment and looks back at me with one bloodshot eye. He says in a slurred morning voice:
"Man, you don't want to go in there."
And he turns and walks away.
It's another minute or so that I realize he was talking about my mouth.