Meade's Ball
Well-known member
I was born in an otter sanctuary in the 1970s, or flahem deprst as my father, Dennis, an otter, called them when reminiscing through his somewhat blunted fangs during the 1980s - gklath depru. Mother, Margot, known locally as the bear resister, even to humans who'd made fliers of our existence and her might, barely spoke. Her hiss, though, was both loving and punishing, the latter when I broke the rules. My siblings, Thora and Burt, never took to me, and I was awash with scars and scratches and internal doubts formed by their nighttime whisper of me not being one of them, of holding my breath for a measly 90 seconds, of just about paddling at a river snail's pace and having to be fed each night by Margot as she gently tore at the trout liver which was soft enough for me to crush and swallow with my developing gums. I suppose they were like regular siblings in many ways, teasing and taunting, with me very much the black otter of the family. I was 11 - zarg - when I left, was found, if you will, and was adopted by a couple from Aberdeen who had me speak in an ancient Scottish language that wasn't entirely different to the otter tongue I spoke in. I go back, sometimes, and see what would be Dennis and Margot's great, great, great, great, great, great grandchildren. I roll and splash naked in the reeds, yapping and snarling in reply to the chants of f*ck off and alien that I sort of work out being given to me, just as Thora and Burt used to, the cheeky c*nts.