by Oren the Otter
©1999 by Eric "Otter" Vary -- all rights reserved
The morning is cool and crisp, and the sun is warm on my fur as I step out of the burrow. I walk to my mailbox and open the lid. "Welcome", it says. "You've got mail!"
I shout in alarm at this. I never will get used to these talking mailboxes. I pull out a notice that my rent is late. Since I live in a mound of dirt, I throw it away. There is a letter, as well. Opening it, I read:
|Dear Mr. Otter,
My name is Melissa, and I am an otter. I have a problem. My brothers and sisters don't like me very much because I don't like the same things they do. They like to play in the water. I hate the water. They like to eat fish. I like bugs.
They also keep saying that I smell funny. They also make fun of my fur because I wear stripes in mine and my tail is fluffier than theirs. They say I look like a punk.
Mr. Otter, I'm really confused. What should I do?
What could I say...
Pen in hand, I scribble back:
Well, Melissa, your problem is a very simple one. From what I can tell, you're not an otter. You're a skunk. There's nothing wrong with being a skunk. As a skunk, you are a member of one of the most noble and proud races on the continent. However, you might not want to let on that you know you're adopted just yet.
As for your situation with your siblings, your tastes are always going to be different as long as they are otters and you are a skunk. I strongly suggest saving up your fish skins and oyster shells and then going to see your local transmogrifier.
Until then, you can always try wading in the shallows and putting beetle sauce on your fish.
Hope this helps.
As I finish my response to Melissa's letter, my thoughts turn to breakfast. Then again, my thoughts always turn to breakfast. I remember that I have a bottle of bug sauce someone sent me for my birthday and I have never had the courage to try it.
What was her address again?