This curious way of eating is, I think, characteristic of all
otters; certainly of those that I have been fortunate enough to
see. Why they do it is more than I know; but it must be
uncomfortable for every mouthful--full of fish bones, too--to
slide uphill to one's stomach. Perhaps it is mere habit, which
shows in the arched backs of all the weasel family. Perhaps it is
to frighten any enemy that may approach unawares while Keeonekh
is eating, just as an owl, when feeding on the ground, bristles
up all his feathers so as to look as big as possible.

But my first otter was too keen-scented to remain long so near a
concealed enemy. Suddenly he stopped eating and turned his head
in my direction. I could see his nostrils twitching as the wind
gave him its message. Then he left his fish, glided into the
stream as noiselessly as the brook entered it below him, and
disappeared without leaving a single wavelet to show where he had
gone down.

When the young otters appeared, there was one of the most
interesting lessons to be seen in the woods. Though Keeonekh
loves the water and lives in it more than half the time, his
little ones are afraid of it as so many kittens. If left to
themselves they would undoubtedly go off for a hunting life,
following the old family instinct; for fishing is an acquired
habit of the otters, and so the fishing instinct cannot yet be
transmitted to the little ones. That will take many generations.
Meanwhile the little Keeonekhs must be taught to swim.

One day the mother-otter appeared on the bank among the roots of