The otter's greatest joy is a slide which ends at the water. 

 One summer George Heinold watched a family belly-flopping 

 into a river near his home. As their dripping bodies slicked the 

 earth, the slide got faster and faster. They kept at it tirelessly, 

 yipping like kids on a playground. 



The only otter I have seen in winter was using a slide, a 

 steeply pitched affair worn to glassy smoothness on a snowbank 

 overlooking a pool. Man and beast saw each other at about the 

 same moment. The otter made a couple of awkward bounds 

 through the snow to the top of his chute, folded his front legs 

 and launched himself head first. 



He was a big fellow, almost four feet long. He fairly shot 

 down the slide, caromed swiftly across a patch of ice, and 

 smacked the water with a mighty splash. He didn't have to 

 splash, of course, but I think he wanted to, for the otter's year- 

 round motto is, "Come on in, the water's fine!" 



