The hound has gifted me a new image of hope. And it looks like an otter.
One of our regular walking routes passes over a bridge spanning a tidal bore – a reversing tidal bore I believe it’s called, meaning it surges in or out depending on the tide. It separates the marsh creek from the mill pond and at its widest is about 50 feet, with rocks along the banks on each side. At low tide, there are a few uncovered sandy areas, but at high tide, it’s deep enough that you can jump off the bridge into the water below if you keep to the center. Or so I’m told by my kids.
It’s a beautiful spot and we often see herons, kingfishers, osprey, swans, cormorants, loons, all manner of gulls, fishermen, walkers and the occasional kayaker.
One day, the hound, who mostly ignores the sights, suddenly became very interested, jumping up to put his paws on the rail and peer into the water on the creek side. He was motionless, transfixed, and when I followed his gaze down to the rocks, I saw a small round face staring up at him. It was an otter, something I’d seen there only once, several years ago, even though I’ve walked across that bridge for decades.
The hound stared. The otter stared. Then the otter popped down out of sight, leaving the hound hanging. The hound looked madly around and then, the otter’s face reappeared in the rocks – a little whack-a-mole. The hound stared. The otter stared. And then disappeared again. Now, the hound was in high gear, desperately scanning the rocks like a rotating fan on high speed. Then, surprise! The otter came back for a third time. Again, they locked eyes for a few seconds, but sadly, as quickly as he had come into the light, the otter popped down into his underwater world.
Poor, confused, sad, hound. He kept looking and looking, but, alas, the otter did not resurface.
The otters I have seen before at the bridge were young ones that frolicked on the rocks, delighting the neighbors for several evenings with their antics. But apparently otters are usually shy, and although they are surprisingly common in the Cape’s rivers and ponds, we don’t often spot them. But, based on the news and social media, they are caught on camera in our ponds or rivers in South Yarmouth, Falmouth and Mashpee, for example.
They are the largest members of the weasel family but lead a semi-aquatic life, depending on their webbed feet and thick fur. They are really smart, according to Mass Audubon, and are also clowns, known for being playful. They eat fish, crayfish, frogs, mollusks, birds, small snakes and turtles, and aquatic vegetation, so I imagine the tidal bore is like the Sunday night buffet at the country club. They can also be pesky, stealing fishermen's catches. There were otters at the southern dock where we used to vacation, and they were a menace to anyone trying to catch blue crabs.
The MSPCA says that the Massachusetts otter population was threatened in the 1970s because of hunting for their fur – although the law says you still can trap them. But since then, efforts to control pollution, conserve wetlands and reintroduce otters has encouraged them to thrive. They’ve also been aided by a growing beaver population in the state, since they like living in abandoned beaver lodges, the MSPCA says. That doesn’t seem to be an option here, because we don’t have beavers, but they also like to nest in burrows and tall grass, which we do have.
I don’t remember what season it was that we saw the otter, or the time of day, but we often walk over the bridge in the late afternoon. And you are most likely to see otters at dawn or dusk. Nor do I remember the tide, but it must have been at the low or midpoint, since the rocks were exposed.
Meanwhile, the hound, being a dog, has what’s called an associative memory, meaning he associates places with specific events – that’s why your dog is always looking for that chicken bone he scarfed down on the curb many, many walks ago. Except in our case, it was an otter.
So how long ago did we see the otter – I don’t know. Maybe 18 months back. And does the otter remember us? I don’t know that either. But each time we walk over the bridge, the hound leans through the railing, searching for his otter. Sadly we have not seen him – her? – again. But you never know. And both the hound and I are unfailingly optimistic that one day, we will look over the edge and … look! There it is!
Oh hope, thy name is otter.
