Displaced by condo construction and with no where else to go, your otter has joined the growing community of displaced life who wander our countrysides and streets. Keep watch–it might show up late in the afternoon as a busker going by Otr who plays jigs on a penny whistle, his sign reading How I Play for My Food, If It Pleases (with the word Fish scratched out next to Food.) Or a sleek-haired homeless maiden slipping through crowds and asking for change, but never slowing for an answer. Or a grizzled old being slumped against a stoop, signs of life the cherry ash on his cigarette and one eye barely open. Or it’ll be the oddly familiar lithe businessman in the silk suit who insists that you step ahead of him in line at the tea shop. Otters are masters of industry and have succeeded brilliantly in the human world where they can adjust to a diurnal day and resist grooming themselves in public. (If you’ve ever visited a zoo with otters happily lazing in a pond and grooming their genitals to the titters of children and the sudden fleeing of adult spectators, you’ll know what I mean.) More than one have been President.

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