By Sophie Sim (27S05A)

The Visitor: An Adventure Log

24 FEB 3:23PM: An unexpected guest had made a splashy entrance at our Biodiversity Pond: An otter. 

A real, whiskered, fish-in-mouth otter.

Nothing stood between it and an evening buffet of all the fattest koi our school had to offer. It was otter-ly villainous, chasing the fish playfully before grabbing an unfortunate koi in its paws and, rather unceremoniously, tearing off its head.

26 FEB 5:10PM: He was back. Again garnering a huge audience. Those who missed him 2 days earlier squealed as if he had returned just for them. Meanwhile, I was just surprised there were still koi big enough to incentivise him to visit again. Perhaps the otter’s return was less about the otter itself, and more about the sudden disruption it created. It injected fun and drama into what would otherwise be an ordinary school day. 

4 MAR 3:14PM: Our resident otter was no longer such a hot shot. The crowd had visibly shrunk, even though he still occupied a non-negligible corner of my Whatsapp. He was in a less photogenic spot to catch the remaining survivors, much to the disappointment of our resident photography enthusiasts. The novelty was wearing off, but its hunt still continued. 

The Return: Thriving Nature

Our frequent visitor is a smooth-coated otter. While they are celebrities today, otters had initially disappeared from Singapore during the 60s-70s due to our polluted water conditions. Now, they are everywhere, even in our dear school campus, a living testimony to the success of rewilding efforts done here at RI. 

In recent years, however, our Bishan neighbourhood has seen many instances of otters showing their authentic predatorial nature. 

Looks can be deceiving. Even the cutest of mammals can turn into ferocious, heartless beasts, when it comes to fighting to protect their home turf. Countless showdowns between the largest otter clans in Singapore, namely the 11 Marina and the 15 Bishan otters, have turned brutal, becoming more than a mere scuffle but a high-stakes territorial siege. 

Amidst the cacophony of frantic squeaks and guttural growls, the weaker ones suffer major injuries, and otter pups die in the crossfire. 

This is nature. 

You fight to live, and you live to fight. Beneath the surface of every thriving ecosystem lies a quiet competition for survival. 

To let nature take its course is to accept this cycle of life as it is, rather than as we wish it to be. It means recognising that the same creatures we celebrate for their charm and playfulness are also capable of bloody gang fights in the pursuit of survival.

Perhaps living in harmony with nature is not about sanitising it, but about learning to hold both truths at once: to admire its beauty while acknowledging its brutality. To feel empathy, even when the outcome is uncomfortable.

And maybe, every now and then, secretly call them naughty villains.

Cuteness, Charm, and the “Naughty Villain”

Could naughtiness be redeemed just by being cute?

Our otter could be named a heinous thief, yet ironically is welcomed by the eager students of RI, most responding with amusement rather than anger.

This is the power of charm. Charm softens judgement, reducing the perceived severity of the act. It influences how people assign blame, and since otters are widely perceived as playful adorable animals — their small size and energetic behaviour make them seem nothing but harmless — humans tend not to attribute any moral responsibility to them. 

Pandas, for example, are living proof that cuteness is an evolutionary advantage. With no form of self-defence or camouflage to protect themselves, coupled with a strictly bamboo-based diet, it’s a wonder that they survived through the ages. Many are also mischievous, tearing down equipment during play. This is the power of the “baby schema” effect, an evolutionary mechanism where infant-like traits trigger protective responses. 

Despite all, real blame depends on the actual impact of the behaviour, not just how adorable the offender appears. Compare this to when a terrapin came up from the pond, walking on our pathway, when it “wanted to be where the people are”. 

No one really squealed. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. Or perhaps a terrapin simply lacks the star power of an otter with a fish in its mouth.

Moments like these are a quiet reminder of how close we really are to nature. How we never notice the quiet dramas around our school, from Teddy, our previous celebrity kitty, to the clusters of chickens and hens, a constant on our scenic walks to school from Marymount.

Other than the apex predators who nonchalantly swam into our school on a typical Tuesday, most just went about their simple business of living, while nature’s hierarchy took its course, every single day. 

To understand and appreciate nature, perhaps the most we can do is react with a little restraint: observe, respect the moment, and allow it to play out, no matter how cute or unsettling it may seem.

As of the publishing of this article, the otter has not issued a statement. The koi population, however, has noticeably declined.

As the excitement gradually fades and concrete steps are taken to protect the expensive ornamental koi, our impatient apex predator moves on to check out greener (and fishier) pastures, exploring our roads, windy benches and even climbing up to our level 2 classrooms. 

The pond is a little quieter now, and other more pressing events will inevitably displace our recollections of our aquatic celebrity. But it’s ok. Nature always has a way of reminding us of its presence, through moments that are beautiful, brutal, and sometimes involve the disappearance of your favourite koi. We shall wait and see in bated breath who —or what— decides to make a splash next Tuesday.