February 6, 2021

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It’s below zero and I’ve covered my pajamas in many layers of wool and down in order to await this frigid dawn. I’ve come to accept my human shortcomings for dealing with this kind of weather-bald head, fur that has been logged over or completely clear cut, fat stored in useless cubicles providing insulation to long abandoned areas of the factory, fingers made to flash freeze like packages of Sheboygan brats, and implausibly impractical toes that fight any sock or other packing I’ve ever tried to warm them in. As if to mock all this, out of the wet, cold water, water that would make such an ill-conceived animal as myself die on the spot if so much as more than a few drops landed on my defenseless shell, saunters this group of otters to lounge on the ice like it’s a beach in Tulum, lollygagging with one another, telling human jokes under their icy breath, to await the sunrise with me.