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Lead With Your Otter
The first time I ever saw her, she was chewing on a trout. It was a freshly stocked rainbow trout, a one pounder, and by the look on its face, its last moment had been one of surprise and dismay. Otter had caught the trout smack in its middle, and now she was hauled halfway up out of the lake, enjoying her breakfast con mucho gusto.
In fact, I heard her before I saw her, she ate that trout con so much gusto. There is a particular sound a river otter makes while eating a crawdad or a trout, a clicking with the back teeth and a popping with the tongue. It’s the exact same sound your mother taught you not to make when you were eating a peanut butter sandwich. If you’re at a watercourse and you hear that sound, you’ll know there’s a happy otter right close.
I was on the lake bank about 15 feet above her, and there was no cover, neither shrub nor rock to hide me, so I just stood there with my camera and shot away, getting vicarious kicks from her successful hunt and her tasty breakfast. Then she looked up, right at me, she got me right in my eyes, soul to soul. She caught me like a trout.
Our mental connection opened, a cloud pipeline between us.
What? She wanted to know, as in what do you want, what do you intend, what are you yourself, all at once.
