Sun Mote Copse there are otters in his eyes

There was nothing familiar about the inchoate form he beheld, though he recognized Otter’s touch and knew her smell as intimately as any other. Skipjack whimpered happily as they came together, two tiny heads bobbling on a collision course. It was a soft impact, though, Otter’s gums jamming harmlessly against her brother’s brow.

It tickled! He jerked his head to the side and began to scoot past her, wee nose skimming along her flank in unwitting retaliation. Some instinct told him to stop at her hindquarters and push himself upright. Only his anterior half cooperated, resulting in a wobbly variation of Upward Dog, his blue eyes now blinking in the general direction of The Taigh’s ceiling as his left elbow jabbed Otter’s ribs.