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Yesterday, I was looking in my old notes, and I found that it was exactly 10 years ago this month that I gave a certain black-furred yearling female her name. I usually wait until a young otter is 1 year old before I give it its "adult name." It can take that long to learn to recognize an individual for its appearance and behavioral idiosyncrasies, which are the two things I typically base a name on. Anyway, "Black Pup," as I originally called her, had developed one characteristic as a yearling that really made her stand out from the other otters. She swam so fast that she almost seemed to hydroplane along the water's surface. Watching her swim past the end of the pier one day, I looked down and remarked to myself, "Boy, she sure scoots!". Thus was the youngster christened.
I didn't actually call her "Scoots" often, though. I have this tendency to mangle animals' names for some reason, so more typically I'd call her "Skittles," or "Skiddeley." Or if I was feeling particularly silly, maybe "Skiddeley-Skadiddeley," or "Skiddeley-oots," or even "Skiddeley-iddeley-oots." (I know, I'm nuts - about otters!) Whatever I called her, though, she didn't usually pay me much attention. When she did, it was a noteworthy occasion. Like this time in the summer of 1998, when Scoots tentatively touched her whiskery muzzle to my outstretched hand.
In her later years, however, Scoots was a lot more aloof and unapproachable. She very much lived in her own world. And even though I was with her on the dock literally hundreds of times, I somehow doubt Scoots ever saw me as being more worthy of her attention than any of the other strange two-legged creatures that infested her domain.
But Scoots had another trait that made her stand out: her intelligence. Scoots was without a doubt the most intelligent adult female I knew over all those years. And since even the dumbest female otter is smarter than the smartest male, that made Scoots the most intelligent otter of them all. Sometimes she was scary-smart; cunning, I might even say an "evil genius." One thing for sure, Scoots proved to be too smart for her own good. I can't elaborate on that last statement right now, but it was oh so true...
I didn't actually call her "Scoots" often, though. I have this tendency to mangle animals' names for some reason, so more typically I'd call her "Skittles," or "Skiddeley." Or if I was feeling particularly silly, maybe "Skiddeley-Skadiddeley," or "Skiddeley-oots," or even "Skiddeley-iddeley-oots." (I know, I'm nuts - about otters!) Whatever I called her, though, she didn't usually pay me much attention. When she did, it was a noteworthy occasion. Like this time in the summer of 1998, when Scoots tentatively touched her whiskery muzzle to my outstretched hand.
In her later years, however, Scoots was a lot more aloof and unapproachable. She very much lived in her own world. And even though I was with her on the dock literally hundreds of times, I somehow doubt Scoots ever saw me as being more worthy of her attention than any of the other strange two-legged creatures that infested her domain.
But Scoots had another trait that made her stand out: her intelligence. Scoots was without a doubt the most intelligent adult female I knew over all those years. And since even the dumbest female otter is smarter than the smartest male, that made Scoots the most intelligent otter of them all. Sometimes she was scary-smart; cunning, I might even say an "evil genius." One thing for sure, Scoots proved to be too smart for her own good. I can't elaborate on that last statement right now, but it was oh so true...
