Otters

a love story

Sadly, I have always loved the zoo. I was taken to the Wellington Zoo many times as a child, and I have an indistinct memory of Kamala the elephant who died the year I turned five. Her domed elephant whare persisted until 2010 when it was demolished. A great ancestor always leaves a house and inevitably people ruin it. When I was ten we had a school trip to a skeleton exhibition out in Porirua called Exposed and there was Kamala, complete with rusty shreds to her bones. I was horrified and maybe a bit excited by what was left of her.

My other favourite zoo exhibit was the otters, who had an aquamarine tunnel system enclosed by glass. They were so damn playful! Yesterday I googled why otters play. Apparently, like children learning to swim, it helps them survive the wildness of the sea.

Last week I, like many others, compiled a best of 2025 list and I forgot to mention this documentary about a man called Billy who forms an obsessive friendship with an otter he names Molly. It is set in the Shetlands and the cinematography of the purple and pink clouds reflected in the glassy water and the harsh snow is magnificent and so is their friendship. Billy’s wife and his collie Jade almost seem to get in the way, and he builds a wee whare for Molly complete with wifi so he can watch her at all times. It sounds a bit weird, and it is, and Billy’s wife laments the fact that Molly has more internet than her. But she comes to realise how essential Molly is in their lives, even when she digs up her flowers.

Last night I had a dream I was working at the rest home my grandfather died in. Again. I was baffled by their new systems and wondered what had happened to handover, that time when you arrive at work and discuss how the patients have been while you were not there. There were beds to make and people to shower and already my legs felt like lead. It reminded me of a woman called Trevena, who was so thin it was painful to touch her. For her. I wrote this poem about her years ago because I’m always trying to turn the plight of others into art, with limited success. Anyway, watch the documentary and maybe read my poem:

Trevena

One of those faces where people start talking about riverbeds, liver spots, stones and arid landscapes yet still as symmetrical as the wingspan of a moth.

The kind of face you want to sketch or bury.

It was like getting a plank dressed for nothing except she made mewling noises like a kitten because she was in a lot of pain.

Where are you going she said once, Don’t Leave. Max Merritt and the Meteors was on the radio, but she was not slipping away

Noeline said she used to be the life of the party, everyone in the complex just adored her. I imagined her much fatter holding out a tray sinful with pineapple and cheese on little sticks

Saints and animals that’s what she reminded me of, St Cuthbert up to his neck in the cold waters of the border and the otters sent from the river to lick him back into sense.