The Sound of Otter Feet on Wet Pavement

The darkness of a spring rain night in an oceanside city. For a city it's a modest one, short on skyscrapers, long on driftwood strewn beaches and greenery. And pinkery for that matter. Spring was upon us in February. Blossoms and all. The air is soft, and damp.
There is a final walk of the night for those of us who live with dogs, a short trip around a block or two, finding grassy sidelines, a last bit of sniffery to be had. The humans as well get to breathe some of the outside air before bedtime.
We live beside the water here, from my door less than a minute trip to the salty edge of things. The wood of the trestle bridge and pavement were freshly damp this evening. Emerging from one side of the trail came the humpbacked twosome, in the dim light hard to see. Cats? Coons?
Neither. The strange slapping of compact webbed feet on manmade substrate, a loping and slightly lopsided gait showed them up for who they were. Heads raised, always. Optimistic. River Otters in transit, looking for better fisheries, or a bankside home to hole up in. Perhaps this was their pre-bedtime stroll. They looked to me and the dog for a moment before completing their sidewalk crossing and we looked back, saying nothing.
Before this evening's dark rainy dog walk, I have never known the sound of otter feet hitting wet pavement. And in the smallest ways I am stretched by it, welcomed into some tiny but significant secret that I did not even know existed.