Olivia Holborn | Otter Envy
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Otter Envy

Otter Envy

Some days my otter envy meter runs high. I’d make the trade with any willing lady otter, as long as our mates and offspring also made the switch.

Otters have it good. They hang out in friend groups, and all it takes to keep from drifting apart is to hold hands. When they aren’t grooming themselves and each other, nuzzling their babies and smacking shells open with a rock, they frolic in the bull kelp. Sure, they eat nothing but seafood, but I’d happily give up risotto, wine, and cheese puffs to achieve bliss.

Otters live worry-free lives. If you need scientific proof of this claim, check out my Facebook feed with its endless cycle of otters-being-adorable videos. These animals are mini-Buddhas, contented and disconnected to the foibles of existence. They don’t get the winter blues, ruin friendships with one unintentional word, or make foolish decisions in their idealistic youth that puts their old age survival in jeopardy.

Sure, otters get eaten by Killer Whales, coated in oil, and brutally harvested for their soft and luxurious pelts, but they don’t see it coming. Not until the last possible moment.

As an otter, I wouldn’t spend decades obsessing over Killer Whales or oil spills. I wouldn’t worry that these dangers would get my snuggly baby or hand-holding friends before they got me. I wouldn’t second guess my comforting conviction that it’s all oblivion after the Killer Whale feed/oil spill drowning/painful pelt harvesting.

I would bob along on the currents, my belly full of abalone, surrounded by adorable friends. And, on otter-envy days, I know that would be enough.

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