Elias, the shop owner, sighed and set down his ledger. "The short answer, Leo, is that in this state, yes—with a Class III permit, six months of facility inspections, and about five thousand dollars for the initial 'acquisition.' The long answer? You don’t buy an otter. You sign up for a lifetime of chaos."
Leo took one last look at the sleek, wet head bobbing in the water. He reached out, and this time, Barnaby didn't chirp. He simply bumped Leo’s finger with a cold, wet nose before diving down to retrieve his stapler. can you buy an otter
The shop went quiet, save for the rhythmic clack-clack of the stapler hitting the side of the metal tub. Leo looked at Barnaby , who was now floating on his back, looking up with dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to hold a world of mischief. Elias, the shop owner, sighed and set down his ledger
"He’s incredible," Leo whispered. "I have a pool. I have the time." You sign up for a lifetime of chaos
"Good choice," Elias called out. "And Leo? If you see a guy selling 'pet' otters out of a van? Run. Because nobody who actually loves an otter would ever try to sell you one."
"Do you have a fish budget that rivals a five-star sushi bar?" Elias asked, leaning against the counter. "Barnaby eats twenty-five percent of his body weight every day. And he doesn't like the cheap stuff. If the trout isn't fresh, he’ll scream. Not a 'cute' scream, mind you. A scream that sounds like a tea kettle being murdered." Leo faltered. "I mean, I can buy fish."