The morning is cool and crisp, and the sun is warm on my fur as I step out of the burrow. I walk to my mailbox and open the lid. "Welcome". It says. "You've got mail!"

I shout in alarm at this. I never will get used to these talking mailboxes. I pull out a notice that my rent is late. Since I live in a mound of dirt, I throw it away. There is a letter, as well. Opening it, I read:

     Dear Mr. Otter,

          My name is Melissa, and I am an otter. I 
     have a problem.  My brothers and sisters don't 
     like me very much because I don't like the same 
     things they do.  They like to play in the water.  
     I hate the water.  They like to eat fish.  I 
     like bugs. 

          They also keep saying that I smell funny. 
     They also make fun of my fur because I wear 
     stripes in mine and my tail is fluffier than 
     theirs.  They say I look like a punk.

          Mr. Otter, I'm really confused.  What 
     should I do?

                                        Signed, 
                                        Melissa

What could I say....
Pen in hand, I scribble back ...

     Dear Melissa,

          Well, Melissa, your problem is a very 
     simple one.  From what I can tell, you're not 
     an otter.  You're a skunk. There's nothing 
     wrong with being a skunk.  As a skunk, you are 
     a member of one of the most noble and proud 
     races on the continent. However, you might not 
     want to let on that you know you're adopted 
     just yet.

          As for your situation with your siblings, 
     your tastes are always going to be different as 
     long as they are otters and you are a skunk.  I 
     strongly suggest saving up your fish skins and 
     oyster shells and then going to see your local 
     transmogrifier.

          Until then, you can always try wading in 
     the shallows and putting beetle sauce on your 
     fish.

          Hope this helps.

                                       Sincerely,
                                      Oren the Otter

As I finish my response to Melissa's letter, my thoughts turn to breakfast. Then again, my thoughts always turn to breakfast. I remember that I have a bottle of bug sauce someone sent me for my birthday and I have never had the courage to try it.

What was her address again?

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